text
stringlengths 0
216k
|
|---|
Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Head Researcher: Professor K.P. Crow
Experiment Aims:
To test the properties, capabilities and limitations of the subject.
Subject is the product of Olympia Integration Experiment BETA, and is the ultimate product of the Olympia Project.
Pre-Experiment note:
Subject will be run through a variety of exercises, and be subject to several unusual circumstances.
Post-Experiment Note:
From this series of experiments and examinations, several exceptional factors about the subject have been determined.
Physical Attributes
Subject is capable of acts of great strength, lifting up to seven hundred and fifty pounds (750).
Subject is capable of reacting to events at a level that borders on precognition. Tissue samples have revealed that subjects' nervous tissues are built of several unknown compounds.
Subject is capable of completely digesting most organic matter with little to no harm to herself.
Subject can apparently see most other spectrum of light at will, though only through her left eye.
The skin of the subject has displayed several photosynthetic qualities. Prolonged contact with direct sunlight, or even ultraviolet light, has made the subject noticeably more energetic.
Subject is nearly invulnerable to basic physical damage, including conventional gunfire, although due to the weaker composition of the skull and musculature structure of the head, a .45, .50 or larger conventional caliber round is capable of stunning the subject, even causing minor skull fractures.
Subject has displayed almost one hundred (100) percent accuracy in most tests regarding hand to eye coordination, although displays more ability with her left hand.
Rather than break or crack, subject's bones bend or warp when subjected to high pressures.
All of subject's circulatory, filtration, breathing and digestive processes are highly more effective than should be physically possible. This should be due to composition, but apparently is mostly due to pre-integration operations on the composite material subjects, under the supervision of SCP-542.
Subject has the ability to heal wounds very quickly, with minor wounds taking hours, and more serious taking a few days, although this leads to a massive temporary spike in metabolism. Based on current data, it is theorized that the subject could even survive partial dismemberment, or normally fatal brain damage.
The immune system of the subject is highly advanced, repelling most fatal diseases, infections and poisons, although the deadlier items do cause headaches, nausea and vomiting for a short period of time while they are forced from the body.
Mental Attributes:
Subject displays multitasking, complex computations, memorization and logical problem solving skills on a level equal and beyond high-end scientific computers.
Subject retains all abilities present in Subject Zero pre-integration, including limited telepathy and multidimensional viewing.
Subject is largely unaffected by mental agents, such as memetic kill agents, telepathic and subliminal suggestion, and most forms of brainwashing, among other things.
Noted Weaknesses:
Subjects' left eye is the most vulnerable part of her body. It is composed of a much weaker material than the rest of her body, and obviously, leads directly to the brain. This area, if exploited properly, can lead to an instant kill on the subject with conventional means.
Owing to the composition of the subject's brain, she displays a large weakness to Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP). While low energy blasts are often blocked by the shielding offered by the unique construction of her head and skull, high yields of energy will cause intense migraines or unconsciousness. It is theorized that exceptionally high yields, such as those from modern nuclear explosives, would be enough to render the subject to a vegetative state, if not kill her outright.
Subject has a very high metabolism, possessing little to no fat storage abilities. Estimated time needed for death of starvation is roughly three weeks, although this could be significantly lengthened if the subject had access to direct sunlight, or significantly shortened if the subject had been wounded first.
Subject's lungs were largely unmodified, leaving the subject vulnerable to airborne agents, although owing to the subject's unique physiology, the agents in question must be more highly concentrated to take quick effect.
Interestingly enough, subject is still vulnerable to SCP-061. |
Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Head Researcher: Professor K.P. Crow
Experiment Aims:
To integrate the physical body of the subject with the mental body using SCP-158.
Materials Used:
The product of Olympia Integration Experiment ALPHA.
The product of Experiment Log 158 AG.
Pre-Operation Note:
Special precautions have been taken, should the subject behave differently than originally anticipated. Several strike teams are on call, and the entire test chamber is to be flooded with nerve gas should the subject appear hostile.
Integration Log:
25/12/2008 1600hrs - Integration begins.
25/12/2008 1602hrs - Integration stalled.
25/12/2008 1604hrs - Integration restarted.
25/12/2008 1605hrs - Integration stalled.
25/12/2008 1609hrs - Integration restarted.
25/12/2008 1611hrs - Integration stalled.
25/12/2008 1615hrs - Integration restarted.
25/12/2008 1621hrs - Integration reaches midpoint of operation, although is performing slowly.
25/12/2008 1624hrs - Integration slows far past normal rate of integration.
25/12/2008 1645hrs - Integration enters final stage.
25/12/2008 1652hrs - Integration stalls momentarily.
25/12/2008 1653hrs - Integration device emits grinding noise.
25/12/2008 1657hrs - Integration continues at slow rate.
25/12/2008 1706hrs - Integration complete.
Post-Operation Note:
The difficulty regarding the integration could have been down to either the transcendental properties of the mental body, the high content of SCP-148 within the subjects bone and cell structure, or even a combination of the two. |
13/12/2008
To Dr. Kain
As you know, the holiday season is fast arriving. As such, it is the time for joy, happyiness, good will towards all men, that sort of thing. And the reason I'm writing this: gifts. I've noticed from the papers I've gotten recently that you have a lot of paperwork you have to go through after that accident. So, I took the liberty to break into your office while you were busy with the Olympia Project and went through and dealt with 55% of your paperwork. Don't worry about it though, you don't need to feel pressured to get me a gift also. Though I could deal with a good look at 244 sometime.
Your fellow researcher,
Dr. Iceberg
PS- When you go over your personnal finances, you may notice a slight discrepancy in the form of 550 missing dollars. Don't worry about it. Merry Christmas!
I found this note on my desk after coming back to my office this evening. I'm not sure whether to feel outraged that he broke in, rifled through my things, and then took five hundred and fifty dollars from my private bank account, or overjoyed that someone did half of my paperwork for such a small amount of cash. I've had professionals ask for three grand for half this amount. So, in the end, I think I'll respond to this the way I do to all social incidents I'm unsure about. I'm going to ignore it, and forget it ever happened.
Unless he does it again.
The experiments with Emma got off to a rough start today. We got a little progress done, but mostly we're just breaking the ice. This ability of hers has gotten her ostracized and treated like she's some kind of freak, monster or deity throughout her entire short life. Created one hell of a roadblock in her head. She really just lets go when she uses her power, letting them control her when she does it. We need to get to the point where she controls them. But that might take some more time, and I am prone to rushing things at times. This one, however, we'll definitely have to take slowly, as I'd rather not have any mistakes to either the staff, myself, or her.
The R&D department have finally gotten a look at the bio-tech, it having finally been released from quarantine. They had countless scans with countless numbers of equipment, at least twenty nine different "certified" experts, and three SCP examine the whole lot of it from top to bottom, several times. Didn't find anything too malicious beyond the norm, and nothing that would spell doom for the staff, so they finally said "uncle" and let it go. Not that I'm complaining. I've seen how dangerous those things are, and I'm thankful that they performed as fast as they did, but still… The little researcher in my head laments the loss of time. I'll have to take over part of the project, and work with the guys if I want to lay some part of a claim on it, and reinstate the excavation. It would be near a crime to let something like that go to waste.
Subject Zero is still waiting for it (her) body to be finished, and it's getting a little difficult to dissuade it (her). In the end, I had to tell her it'll probably wind up being a Christmas present to her. It's sometimes rather hard to give a vague answer to an entity that can read your thoughts, and can tell when you're lying.
As for the Christmas party itself, I've gotten some more planned, but no actual preparations yet. Still at the drawing board stage, so to speak, although I better get a move on soon. things like this tend to creep up on you rather quickly.
15/12/2008
Emma is still struggling with her powers. I can understand why this would happen, the girl really has been over some serious emotional roadblocks, but the problem is that we need to either break the block or fix her before it becomes a problem. And I'd much rather not have her become the problem. Because when that happens, the higher ups tend to snuff out the problem.
I'm rethinking some of the things I was going to do on the Olympia Project. Instead of using Emma to alter individual parts of various D-Class, I'm simply going to have her very barely alter and fine tune the host body itself. After all, I've seen some of the things she produces. I'm not sure if the dissembler even has cubbyholes for those kind of things. And if it comes down to that, I'd rather not have to resort to invasive surgery. I've never had a fondness for that. It's always so messy and I dislike getting blood on the walker. Of course, that brings us back to problem one…
I'm going to have to go down to the area of the excavation incident tomorrow, to examine the residual tech, bio-matter and to examine the work done. This will be the first time that I'll have ventured down to the site since before I got the walker. I dislike going there. It always gives me a headache, and a weird paranoid feeling, and I know from personal experience that you listen to those feelings.
I've actually gotten some of the Christmas preparations done! Well, mainly its the importing of a tree and some decorations, and through the usual black market routes. Now, the problem is where am I going to set it up, and what am I going to get for who?
16/12/2008
Subject Zero had an… episode today, and oddly enough, I think so did I. It (she) had followed me to the excavation area, and once we reached roughly around fifty feet of the main body, right where I get that weird feeling and begin feeling the twinges of a headache coming on, it (she) got incredibly afraid, saying something about "it" and how it was watching her, before firmly and fully taking residence inside my head. It wasn't quite a possession mind you, but more of it (her) hiding inside of me. Needless to say, all that information and excess soul/ectoplasm/personality began to give me a splitting headache, not to mention Zero constantly whispering to me about that "thing". But the worst part of it was, was that I could see what it (she) saw, and hear what it (she) heard.
My memory gets a bit jumbled at that point, but personnel that were there say that they saw me screaming at the top of my lungs, taking the walker at near full speed out of that entire section of the building, often at the expense of walls. All I have to say about the experience is that I need a rather large glass of scotch. Or a bottle. And that all other personnel working in the area are to wear telekill helmets.
Zero still won't say anything about it, remaining tight lipped about the entire thing. It (she) also says that it (she) won't accompany me down there ever again without a host, but the only thing it (she) would say about that is that "it tried to grab me". What "it" was remains a mystery, as well as how it could "grab" it (her).
Still, the things I saw, that I heard… They fill me with a dread I did not think possible, but then again, they also stir up that researcher part of me, that part that fights the unknown with knowledge, the part most reminiscent of my childhood, fighting imaginary monsters with imaginary swords, secure in the knowledge that they weren't real. Because knowledge is power they say. But then again, they say that ignorance is bliss… And when I think back to those images… I can't help but think of the opening paragraph of H.P. Lovecraft's Call of Cthulhu.
The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of disassociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.
And I can't help but think he might be right.
17/12/2008
We finally got back Emma's results for her psych test. the results are a little distressing, at least to me. I have to wonder, why someone would take a child as wonderful as her, and hurt her in such a way that the only way to deal with the pain is to try and permanently seal away part of herself? But then again, that sentiment goes the world over, for all abused and mistreated children.
I guess I'm just an overly sentimental fool, disregarding security procedures for the sake of a child. And I can almost hear Clef laughing at me. Bastard. I hate it when he's right about things like this. Still, if it ever came down to it, I'd protect her over him, but then again, I've seen him survive things that should have killed a normal person in instants.
I've decided to implement the integration stage of the Olympia Project, and "fine tune" the host body when Emma is capable of doing so. Which looks like it might not be for a long time. Still, Zero seems to be happy about this, forgetting all about the terror of yesterday, and says that it (she) even has a name all planned out for the occasion. I've asked it (her), but it (she) says that it's a surprise for the day. I've tried explaining that it might take a few days for its (her) body to fully adapt to all its extraordinary physiology, but it (she) is having none of it. I guess I'll have to wait for it.
And regarding yesterday, I'm going to have the main excavation area investigated by the strange round trinket from the experiments with the clockworks, the one that allows sight into other plains of existence. I'm also going to have on several psychologists as well, just in case. But judging from what Zero said and did yesterday, I don't think it has any extra effects on those who have corporeal forms, although there might be other things regarding the mental health of those in close quarters to the thing.
Also, tests following examination of the bio-matter have come back. Apparently the bio-matter contains traces of mutated human cells, but primarily, its just excrement, like silk or webbing in the animal kingdom. Not only that, but it also all came from a single human donor. I'll have to have the bodies of the infected examined, as well as the surveillance tapes reviewed as well, for any other clues that we may have missed. This "thing" residing in the center may have something to do with this…
18/12/2008
I've sent through the clearance and paperwork required to initiate the next phase of the Olympia Project. The integration of the composite materials. Zero is rather excited about the prospect. Her joy is washing into my own consciousness, making me feel almost giddy, despite the certain moral dilemmas I'm facing now. It's rather disconcerting.
I'll be looking at the bodies of the infected tomorrow. I would have done it today, but I was finishing off the last of the paperwork from the incident, as well as that of the clearance papers for the other things I'm planning took longer than I expected. But it's not as if I mind. I never did like looking at the dead mutated bodies of former colleagues. Only in this line of work would I ever be forced to say that on a monthly basis.
I'm not sure what to do about Emma. Although she doesn't say it, she still thinks there's something wrong with her, and I admit, that this is not the best environment for a child to try and prove that there is nothing wrong with them. That they're not freaks, or abominations, but the rest of the world will treat them like they are, or worse, something to be manipulated and used. (Though I suppose I'm not one to talk there, but at least I am putting her mental health first). So we have to lock them up, to either protect them from the world or themselves.
You know, I've been doing this job for so many years now, and I've helped "contain" a lot of people. Helped "terminate" a lot more. Never once batted an eye at any of it. Not a single time. I had always assumed it was for the good of the world. Even now, I use live people (bad people, mind you), as the fodder in certain experiments. Not anything sadistic, but the fact of the matter is that I'm ending their lives, and still, I feel no great remorse. It's just something I've always done.
Except when it came to children. In the time that I've been here, we've only had to terminate three children, and each time it was the absolute last resort, something that was needed for the sake of humanity's continued existence. And each time, I could do nothing to help them. It tore me up inside. But it had to be done.
Bah, enough of this sentimental thinking. Been doing too much of that lately. Tonight, I'm going to relax. And most likely get drunk.
21/12/2008
Between waking up yesterday with a severe hangover (too much scotch), overseeing the transfer of a certain Herr Chirurg, finalizing several approval forms for this Christmas bash, and actually organizing and setting up the decorations, and *finally* getting around to integrating Zero's physical body, I've been a little late on my log. But I've been a little busy, so excuse me.
Emma is doing well. She seems to be finally respond to the treatment with some sort of positive effect, and that all by itself brightens my day considerably. Maybe someday soon she'll be able to control her abilities to the point where she can help me put the finishing touches on the Olympia Project.
Actually, speaking of the Olympia Project, I got some help for that from a rather unusual source. The good doctor, Herr Chirurg, has been sent here ever since some roughness involving Agatha. He wouldn't tell me exactly what, but he did mention that he quite liked her eyes.
Still, once you get past his appearance and "mild" dementia, he's quite a likable character. A wealth of knowledge in fact. He's actually aided me in several little asides in regard to the project. He was quite interested in the whole thing. He see's me somewhat as a kindred spirit, and while he does find my physiology interesting, he told me that he's "skilled with the biology of humans…not hounds", and so won't be cutting me open to find out how I work.
So I see it as a fair trade. He helped me with my project, I taught him a little of what we know about the disassembler, despite the fact I'm not allowed to. Let's just not tell the higher ups about that, shall we? As a sort of an extra "thank you" present to the man for his help, and for not eviscerating any of my staff, I'll be getting him a bottle of peppermint schnapps, which Agatha said he quite enjoyed.
And yes, the Olympia Project. Finally, I have begun the integration phase. And to see her there, in the flesh, to hear her twin hearts beating… It was breath taking. I'd liken the experience to becoming a father, although I've never procreated unfortunately, so I wouldn't truly know.
That little hiccup at the end there though, that made me worried. For a few moments I was afraid she was going to die before she had truly lived. It was horrifying. I'm still not exactly certain as to what caused it, but it was worrying nonetheless, despite the fact none of us have seen a resurgence of the event. Still, her body is going through some changes, adapting to its new organs. It'll be a few days before she fully stabilizes enough for us to risk implanting Zero herself. |
"Warm and Wet"
By Dr Rights
SCP-542, Herr Chirurg, stands imposing at his current seven-foot-two even while seated, the recently-replaced bones in his legs having boosted his height, though he still hunches over under the strain of the bizarrely distended ribcage and the too-full torso. His arms hang well to his knees, but they are too constantly in motion to tell, the inhumanly long, slim fingers, wrapped around a book and drumming on the arm of his chair. He looks up with mismatched eyes, lips pursed in bemused thought, before splitting into a grin that spans practically the full width of his face.
I'm…I'm sorry. You want me to talk about…what?
No, no, it's fine. I should have expected the most bizarre conversation as soon as you came in with a tape recorder. And for once, I don't even have to take anything open to speak about it, ja?
Love…I'm not sure if I can answer, exactly, what love is to me. Liebe…
You know…that feeling you get, when the person you love very much touches you? Not like that, well, yes like that…but no matter where or when, that touch. When they place a hand upon your shoulder or gently brush their fingertips against the small of your back…that is what living tissue feels like. Once you get past the skin and into the true workings of the body, it's just…that. Very real, hard to deny.
…I'm honestly surprised and impressed. Most, at this point, would have left the room…
Oh, yes, I'll continue.
I long lost the urge to engage in copulation, you know that…but that does not mean that I do not still make love, if in different ways. A dear friend of mine- don't give me that look, child. I still make friends, you know that. But a dear friend of mine was in an…accident, of sorts. She was eviscerated, slit open from her collarbone down to her pelvic bone. Everybody else left her for dead in that moment, but I…could not.
Even as I knelt down beside her, she attempted to smile. Her diaphragm was, of course, badly damaged and one of her lungs ripped open, so she couldn't truly speak, but I am fairly good at reading lips. She spoke to me- “Mein Herz ist jetzt deins” she said.
“My heart is yours now.”
Earlier I had…admitted that, were she to ever let her guard down around me, I would pluck her heart from her chest- oh, such a schönes Herz, perfect and beautiful in sound, always such a steady beat, even when she was scared.
I will admit, I was tempted. She was so broken, the poor muscles and flesh all ripped and torn asunder…but even if nobody else would try to fix her, I knew that I could, mein Gott, I knew it.
The worst damage was to her chest. The ribcage, oh, those poor ribs…the sternum had been pushed aside, into her lungs. It was very lucky that I had quite a bit of wire and string on me, indeed. I was able to repair the damage to her lungs best I could, and the entire ribcage had to be wired back into place. It wasn't a perfect job, but I would be able to do more later, for now, I just had to keep her alive before she bled out.
Was? Oh…yes, I can gloss over the details, if you insist, but yes…she lived. For another three years, she lived.
Love?
…Love was when I was inside her.
No, not like that. Don't give me that look when I'm trying to explain something, child.
To feel her whole body, so alive, still alive, to know that she could be saved…when I gently sewed her broken intestines back together, or when I coaxed her heart to resume beating when it threatened to stop…that was love. It was, indeed, comparable to making love, if not in ecstasy, but in emotion. To gently close her body back up and watch as she breathed on her own was utter relief and bliss.
Love is…Heiß und naß. Love is warm and wet. It's alive and throbbing, moving…flushed with blood and-
…You look uncomfortable. Would you like for me to stop? I am almost done, Ich verspreche. Hah.
You see…our interpretations of love aren't that different when you get down to it. There's still that first soft, gentle touch, and then delving into something far more…intimate. Whether it's through flesh and blood or not. And then everything is warm and wet, and alive.
…You're the color of a tomato. Lets stop this and play chess, mein Doktor. Maybe we can even bet on the stakes this time…we could put those lovely eyes of yours on the table. No? Well…maybe next time, ja?
I really would be gentle, you know.
Heiß und naß, indeed.
I call white this time.
[[Note - Doing some minor edits over time as friends who know some German (unlike me) read it over.]] |
Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Head Researcher: Professor K. P. Crow
Experiment Aims:
To construct the physical body of the subject using SCP-291.
Materials Used:
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 2.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 5.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 9.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 10.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 11.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 13.
Pre-Operation Note:
All of the subjects have had their mental bodies removed via SCP-158, and their physical bodies copied via SCP-222 and put into cryo storage for later use.
All subjects were then successfully dissembled into their component parts by SCP-291.
Several pre-integration operations were carried out under instruction by SCP-542, to give the prime subject extra organs and enhanced physiology.
The parts that will be utilized are:
Brain of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 9.
Lungs and diaphragm of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Heart of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2 and Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Digestive System of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 10.
Reproductive organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Left eye of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 13.
Right eye of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Upper left torso and arm musculature up to the elbow and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Upper right torso and arm musculature up to the elbow and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower left torso and upper leg musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower right torso and upper leg musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower left leg and foot of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Lower right leg and foot of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Lower left arm and hand of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower right arm and hand of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Neck and head musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Skeletal system from mid-spine up of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Skeletal system from mid-spine down of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Lymphatic and circulatory system from waist up of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 11.
Lymphatic and circulatory system from waist down of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 11.
Skin (neatly folded) of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Integration Log:
21/12/2008 1800hrs - Integration begins.
21/12/2008 1847hrs - Integration taking longer than normal.
21/12/2008 1904hrs - Integration finally completed. Subject's vitals are highly elevated.
21/12/2008 1905hrs - Subject displays signs of neurogenic shock.
21/12/2008 1906hrs - Subjects BPM per heart exceeds one hundred and fifty (150).
21/12/2008 1908hrs - Subject ceases respiration.
21/12/2008 1909hrs - Subject goes into cardiac arrest.
21/12/2008 1911hrs - Subject is successfully resuscitated. Breathing and heartbeat resume.
21/12/2008 1912hrs - Subject goes into cardiac arrest.
21/12/2008 1915hrs - Subject is successfully resuscitated. Breathing and heartbeat resume.
21/12/2008 1917hrs - Subjects vitals stabilize.
Post-Operation Note:
I am unsure as to what caused the subject's mild organ failure, although I think it may have been the homeostasis of the various different organs succumbing to mild shock before finally adapting to one another.
Also, there seems to be a vast amount of cellular activity in the subject, with the various tissues in the body system adapting to each other. The subject is looking to be greater than the sum of her parts. |
02/12/2008
I got nearly no sleep yesterday. I was so consumed with the extractor that all my previous appointments I either forgot, or simply blew off. Unprofessional and immature, I know, but I couldn't tear myself away from it. Now that I've exhausted myself and managed to break away, I now see what else I have to do.
Emma was a little upset that I had "flaked" on our little lunch, but I've promised her that I'll drop by either today or tomorrow to talk to her, and that I'd bring her even more little snacks. I realise this is spoiling her a little, but the girl has been through figurative firestorms, not to mention what she was like when we found her. She deserves a little spoiling every now and then. Of course, ever since Clef went on his little rampage I've been a little nervous about her safety. Granted, she's a maelstrom of energy, capable of warping life to degrees we cannot even fathom, but beneath that, is a small, lonely little girl, who really just wanted some friends. It's just I feel kind of bad for her. I know that's not very unbiased, but I have a soft spot for children. Besides, I think I made very clear to Clef exactly what I thought of his little "outburst".
I've received a clear estimation of when those new tools will be ready for the excavation. They've told me Friday, but that's if they push it to the limit. I've agreed with that, and added a bonus to their fee for being gracious about my demands. Still… I hate to leave this project alone for that long. But, at the very least, no accidents can happen there till then, so I guess some good can come of it.
I had put the dispersal of D-Class personnel here on hold for the past two days, until I choose the ones I want, making the rest of the site coordinators rather snippy with me. I had forgotten completely about it, due to aforementioned reasons, but I'll try and get down to it later today or tomorrow, before I speak with Emma.
I've applied for official project status regarding my working for an assistant, it being christened the "Olympia Project". I was actually hoping for it to be named after the Chimera, but I guess being named after Olimpia from E.T. Hoffman's "Der Sandmann" isn't so bad either. High Command aren't exactly entirely sure about exactly what I'm doing in this project but as long as I'm getting all this research done, they don't seem to care, unless I blow this place up.
03/12/2008
My interaction today with the extractor is something that was… unnerving to say the least. I still cannot believe what has happened. The composite soul… Subject Zero… despite that it does not want to be called that, I have nothing else to call it until it chooses a new moniker. I had never even once thought that something like this would occur when I started even that part of the project. I may have fostered something that will have an effect on the course of history far beyond what I can expect. I may have gone a little bit too far just for an assistant.
I had lunch with Emma today. Well, make believe tea, with plastic cutlery and several of her creations rather than dolls. I had to explain to her in her own terms what I was trying to do. I was trying to make myself a friend, although I didn't have the abilities that she did to make one, so I'd need her help. She was a little apprehensive when I told her exactly what she'd be doing in order to help me, but a few more bribes of chocolate and she was more than willing to go on with me. Sometimes I'm grateful that she's just a child and has no real concept of what she's doing to other human beings, or what will happen to them afterward. But it does make me feel the slightest bad inside, for having manipulated her, and for leaving this stain on her consciousness for the day she realises what she's done. Bah, if only Clef could hear me now. I hate being like this. I hate thinking he's right.
I still haven't made my selection of D-Class Personnel, and the coordinators of the site are really breathing down my neck. I've held up the entire experiment process for the rest of the site for the past three days, and they're getting more behind schedule than normal. I heard some mentions of "tarring and feathering" so I've resolved to make absolutely sure that I select them tomorrow.
I've been going over the makeshift instructions for the disassembler that Agatha had written after her experiments with it. I must say, it really does seem to be capable of some interesting things, although it seems almost as if she omitted certain things. I'll have to talk to her about it at length. Pick her brain about it, so to speak.
Speaking of which, I really must speak to Gears about the clockworks when I next see him. It really does factor in heavily with my little project, and there really isn't an instruction manual besides the experiment logs. I doubt if there's anyone in the world who knows more about that thing than he does.
Maybe the three of us could have lunch at some point…
04/12/2008
Subject Zero has taken to following me around. I can't see it, and it doesn't register on any scanners or anything, but I can feel it in a similar way to the way I feel the walker in my head. Its strange, because I can feel it observing my thoughts, my feelings, the inner workings of my mind. I'm naked beneath its mental stare, and not just because my hair is only just starting to grow back. I don't like being this vulnerable to anyone, ever, so I've tried to explain to it the idea of personal privacy, but considering its an entity that almost literally has its heart on its sleeve, it's been slow going.
I chose the subjects today for the project. One of them, who probably had a rough idea of what was going to happen, spat in the face of guard escorting them, calling him a freak, a monster for doing this to them, that the only difference between us and them is that they were caught. While it was physically directed at the guard, I can't help but feel that it was truly directed towards me. It's another one of those small reminders that I'm using people, rather than lab animals. Just another damn thing I have to repress.
I managed to have a sit down with Gears today. He was in Bio-Research Area-12 for some reason or the other, I'm not exactly sure why, but the point of the matter is that we got talking. I told him about the project I would be doing, and he clarified how I'd have to use the clockworks. I won't be able to use it in the way I planned. Instead of using each singular organ, I'm going to have to alter the entire subject, then hope I get the result I was looking for… This seems like it might be a little tedious. And expensive in terms of test subjects.
The tools are almost done. I'm not sure if it's loyalty, fear, or the fact I paid them extra, but they're really going at it, working flat out to try and get them done by tomorrow. Which is good. Very good. I want this excavation to go as fast and as smoothly as possible. And that should be possible with these tools.
I'll be utilizing Emma tomorrow if the excavation doesn't get in the way, and the reassembly during the weekend.
09/12/2008
There was an accident.
We never realized how brittle the outer shell was, only noting its hardness. When we started using the advanced tools, a large fragment of it shattered, very violently. Up to four men were hit with it. The system locked down instantly once the alarms went off.
Within five minutes, the infection had spread throughout the entirety of the staff interred within the area. Within two hours they had utilized all technology inside for their own purposes. Within five hours they had broken containment and attempted to infect everyone else on site.
We had to evacuate the entire site in three hours. That included all SCP. And the infected…
It took us three days to lay them down. Three days. Three WHOLE days in which there was no research done, another twenty five people were killed or infected and cost over four million in damages. We're still cleaning up the biomass.
To say this was catastrophic is an understatement.
So now, because of all this, I have three O5's on my ass, laying the blame for this at my feet having lobbied for excavation so much. Not to mention the paperwork for the thing has amassed into a pile so large, it's in danger of becoming its own sub space dimension.
Everything I've had going has been put on hold. The projects for the entire site have been set back for months, some of them years. The only good thing is the amount of strange bio-tech the infected engineered. If we're lucky, and if I campaign it correctly, I might just get out of this mess better than I started.
11/12/2008
Gah… Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork… I'm drowning in the goddamn stuff, even with the walker working around the clock when I sleep. Evaluation reports, incident reports, repair reports, eyewitness interviews, budgets for the Site, letters to employees families, files for possible new employees, the list goes on and on and on. Makes me wish the fellow who invented bureaucracy is burning in hell. Bastard.
On top of that I've received word of a crazy freak dimension that's opened up to some weird alternate version of this world with the Foundation, only that everything is hideously wrong, and the Foundation is populated by idiots and assholes, where even the D-Class personnel are given guns, and SCPs run rampant. Apparently doctors Clef and Kondraki are exploring it, and the reports they're sending back are both bizarre and frightening.
I've almost completed the clockworks area of the Olympia Project, much to the joy of Subject Zero, (Who still hasn't chosen a name I might add). Still, the processing of raw materials with the clockworks is hard and grueling, involving much time and effort on my part, and the expenditure of more and more, subjects and pieces of equipment. I never thought I'd say this about an experiment session, but I want to finish this one as soon as possible.
Emily is absolutely in fits at me repeatedly "blowing her off". I've tried to explain the complexity of the situation, but you know how children sometimes are. So, in order to appease her (as well as several other SCPs, raise morale, and just generally lower the number of escape attempts) I've told her that we would be celebrating Christmas in the facility. Since this is her first year here, and she's never been… able to celebrate Christmas in her previous life, and so I told her that this would be a good one. I even told her about Santa Claus.
In reality, I was planning to do this thing anyway, but why not use it to calm a force of nature while I'm at it too, huh?
The biomass has finally been fully collected from the excavation incident and, although they're trying not to appear it, the higher ups are rather interested in the tech that was recovered. Of course, inter site politics being what they are, I'm going to make it cost them. For the good of humanity of course. Not that some of them would understand what that was, even if it bit them on the ass…
12/12/2008
Still on the paperwork. Still no end in sight.
At least I got most of the experimentation with the clockworks finished. The machine is interesting, but working with it does take lot out of you. You have to be prepared for everything. That includes running tests for everything. Because sometimes, it'll give you one thing that turns out to be another, such as the time one researcher believed he had a device that could reverse time. Instead, it somehow sucked it from the air. At least, that's what we think happened, as deduced from the notes we found. Ashes aren't exactly talkative.
I'm going to start work with Emily tomorrow. She seems happy about it.
Started making the preparations for whole "Christmas" thing, but with between the mass of paperwork and the Olympia Project eating all my time, I really only got to devise a gameplan, and even then, it was sketchy at best.
Subject Zero has been around me twenty four seven, and I have to say, now that I'm getting kinda used to its (her?) presence, its not actually that bad. Like having an imaginary friend that's actually real. Apparently it (she?) can feel the thoughts of those around it (her?). Fun stuff, although I think it (she?) may be a bit of a gossip. I've never heard so many things I didn't want to know about my colleagues. Especially those ones about the bread. Coincidentally, I'm not eating in the cafeteria again. |
Experiment Log of: Professor K. P. Crow, utilizing SCP-040 in obtaining base materials for the "Olympia Project".
Date: 13/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
I think it's about time we started trying to utilize 040's abilities, or at the very least, allowing her to use them enough to actually learn how to control them. She will not be able to rely on the SCP-148 hairpieces forever. We theorized that as she gets older, her powers will increase exponentially, possibly to the point where her unconscious telepathy cannot be contained.
At the moment, she doesn't seem to have a fully conscious grip on her abilities either, allowing her subconscious to take over when she begins to use them. She says its easier to do that way, but that she doesn't always know what the thing she's working on will become, or sometimes even what she's doing.
I'm going to have her perform a set amount of exercises. We'll start with small things, such as pebbles, odd bits of debris, that sort of thing, and she's going to try and change them into something we agree on, like some sort of crustacean or insect.
Post-Experiment Note:
Well… That could have gone better.
The beginning of the experiment went badly. 040 was nervous about trying this in front of so many people, and that anxiousness reflected itself in the things that she produced. Most were vicious, often baring fangs, claws and poison sacks at anyone who ventured near, despite 040's best efforts. Most of them we had to terminate simply for safety reasons. She wasn't happy about that.
But she improved towards the end of the session, although she still couldn't firmly nail down the process, often becoming incoherent and unstable while she performed. Still, it's not a worst case scenario. She's performing well for a first try under supervision. Still be a little while before she's able to do anything on the scale I'm hoping. She just needs more practice.
14/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
I think 040 is a little more prepared today, but she still seemed a little anxious. Not as much as she did yesterday thankfully, but it's still there. At least she's stopped those little episodic delusions of grandeur. Those were a little disturbing.
We're going to attempt the same as yesterday, although if she improves significantly, we'll move onto the next subject group. But for the moment, we'll simply stick to small things.
Post-Experiment Note:
Today did go better than yesterday, considerably better than yesterday in fact, but not good enough to progress to the next level of testing. 040 still has trouble with control. Out of the twenty-five times we had her use her abilities, she was only able to give us the results we wanted three times, and it seems that even then, it was more of a fluke than anything else. Still more practice required. We're going to have to break this block between her and her powers. And to do that, we may have to employ slightly more… stressful measures.
15/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
She still seems to be getting over the initial anxiety, but now, it's barely noticeable. We're going to try again with the little things, but we're going to have her concentrate on directing it towards her own conscious will, rather than her subconscious. Basically, we're telling her to "remain in control".
Post-Experiment Note:
Today was the same as yesterday really. She seems to find it difficult to control her powers. All she's really doing is opening the floodgates and directing it at a target. No finesse, no control. She's just turning it on and pointing it. I'll have her set up for a psych evaluation. We need to find the root of this block of hers.
16/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
040 seems to be in a good mood today, and is determined to be able to alter things herself, instead of doing it automatically. Same exercises as the last couple days.
Post-Experiment Note:
There seems to be some slight improvement, but not much, and then again, it could just be a higher rate of chance. She's been scheduled for a psych evaluation, and it should take place within the next few days.
17/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
The psych evaluation went through, and the results were sadly predictable. Apparently, she's suffering from psychological repression regarding her abilities. The only reason she's able to access them at all is due to the fact that she would act on her need to use them through her telepathy, and find an acceptable venue in which to use them, but in doing so, would still regret having done it, and so instantly repress the memory. It has developed to the point of being a conditioned response. There's also the large amount of repressed memories she has regarding why she feels this anxiety when using these abilities. Apparently, the only lead we have regarding this is either her former guardians or her parents, both of which are now deceased. So, while we figure out how to break that block, we'll try and remove the stigma of using her powers within limits, by increasing the windows in which she's allowed to use them.
Post-Experiment Note:
The block is still there, which is pretty much making this route of experimentation and training useless. But still, if we break it off so suddenly after her psych test, being as young and emotionally inexperienced as she is, she might think that the reason we stopped was because there was something wrong with her, leading to loss of self-esteem, loneliness, and in general, more emotional baggage, which in turn, lead to more incidents regarding her and her abilities, more stigma, and more to the detriment of everyone involved. So, the experiments are to continue for the time being, but we're going to have to have more psychological probing, and discover what caused this repression.
18/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
Trying to fix the damage to her mind is proving to be difficult. She's unconsciously resisting the treatment, because subconsciously, she doesn't want to be healed. This is hardly a good environment either. We'll have to get that looked at. Continuing with the same exercises.
Post-Experiment Note:
Same results. We'll have to allow her access to more of the results. It could possibly help ease the stigma. Maybe we could have the restrictions loosened a little, but then again, we don't want to spoil her. She is still a child, and as such is still susceptible to having her mental growth altered.
19/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
We're trying to find out about her history to try and investigate what may have lead to this. It's difficult, because all members of the [DATA EXPUNGED]. So, that leaves us with no real leads, since the original population of the area has been mentally purged, and we could find no other traces of [DATA EXPUNGED]. Further research is needed into her background. Same exercises as the past few days.
Post-Experiment Note:
Same results. This is beginning to get frustrating. We may have to resort to hypnosis to try and get access to the memories that we're looking for.
20/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
040 is definitely getting more self-esteem, so at least these experiments are having some sort of positive effect. Her abilities at control though are still lacking, but it's a step in the right direction. Being allowed to keep some more of her creations seems to be helping as well, although we may have to increase her containment area in order to accommodate. Still going to put forward the approval for hypnosis though. Still the same exercises.
Post -Experiment Note:
No changes as of yet, although the fluke rate of more accurate transmogrification is slightly rising. It seems that while she isn't controlling her powers directly, she may be forcing her subconscious to her will, although it could also be the fact that we've been performing the same tests for a few days now and it's coming to what her psyche is expecting to happen. We'll have to change the target organism.
21/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
We've gotten approval for hypnosis, and we'll soon be using it in conjunction with the normal experiments. We'll start with that tomorrow though. Also, we've changed the target organism to something reptilian rather than insectoid. We'll see how that fares.
Post-Experiment Note:
No change, oddly enough. The fluke rate of accurate transmogrification is still steady and slowly rising. Maybe she is getting the hang of this. Nevertheless, we'll continue with the hypnosis and attempts at getting 040 to break her mental block. |
Story Application: "085, A Romance in 2.5 Dimensions"
Chapter 1: "Sierra Nevadas"
Her cadmium yellow #5 hair cascades down over her shoulders as she sits down in the corner of the canvas, looking up into the white expanse of blank gesso, her slender legs crossed at the ankles. Her arms are crossed, and there is a desperation to her as she kicks her feet back and forth, expectantly. "Come on," I hear her say. "Hurry up."
{Patience,} I write, using a very light charcoal pencil. {Don't rush an artist.}
She doesn't respond much to that, except to sigh and lean against the bench, sighing. She scratches an itch, pulling up her ultramarine dress a bit, and I see a slight flash of white panty. I wonder whether I should tell her about that. Probably best not to mention it.
My paints are ready, my palette prepared, my brushes are all arranged. I pin up the photograph of the lakeside view next to the canvas, and spend a moment just drinking in the sight of that beautiful mountain view. It was a photograph I'd taken ten years ago, as a teenager, on a camping trip up in the Sierra Nevadas. I'd been with Rachael back then: lovely Rachael with the girl-next-door eyes and the face of an angel, lovely Rachael who had crept into my tent while the others were asleep and put her finger to my lips, kissing me softly as she crept into my sleeping bag, lovely Rachael who now lived somewhere in Sacramento, a lobbyist for Greenpeace now, and I wonder, as I sketch the outlines of the mountains and trees, whether or not she sometimes looks out at the forests that she fights so hard to protect and remembers, with a smile, the night when she crept into the tent of her classmate wearing a t-shirt and panties and made love to him to the sound of chirping crickets and falling water.
Memories. My pencil dances across the canvas with reckless abandon, as it always does when my muse strikes, when the left-side brain shuts down and lets my right-side brain flow freely, when eye and hand and pencil work in perfect harmony. Memories of the time that the man in the black tie had come to me and told me that he'd read my paper on folklore and myth, being told that I had the opportunity to save the world. Memories of the first missions I went on, the first times I was asked to handle a containment situation. The hands that now held pencil and eraser had once been red with the blood of a close friend, Maggie Lyndon, Dr. Maggie Lyndon, torn in half due to a single moment's indiscretion with Six-Eighty Two, the red of her blood deeper and darker than any cadmium red that my paints could mix. It is not sadness that I feel, but regret, regret for the diamond ring that still stays in my safe deposit box, that I never got to give to her.
If only I were as cold and hard-hearted as some of my colleagues. I cannot drink away my problems, nor can I effect the same cold-hearted dismissal of death that Dr. Clef or Kondraki can. My mother had always told me that, as the youngest, I was the most sensitive of her children. Indeed, although my career was found in science, I had always found solace in art, and it was in art that the Overseers decided that I should find my solace now. Removed from the Keter-level projects, I was told that there was another SCP that had need of my unique talents.
I don't know what I expected, but I did not expect this.
As always, the time passes quickly, and by the time I am finished with the sketch, an hour has passed without my knowing. Cassy is rapt with attention, smiling with delight at the faint outlines of the mountains, the lake, the dock and the small cabin. "It looks wonderful," she gasps. "Can I… ?"
{Not yet,} I write. I put down my pencil now and take up my palette and brushes. With broad strokes of my widest brush, I lay down my base colors: deep, dark blue for the water, brown for the mountains, pale cerulean for the sky. I move quickly, for Cassy is impatient, but I am careful to pace myself, to slow myself down and really see what is there before I place it on the canvas. Under my brush, the mountains slowly come alive, the flat browns giving way to deep, craggy peaks capped with snow, then bursting forth in greenery as the pine trees explode over their craggy sides. Down low, I take some time to paint out some more details on the closer trees: the broken branch on one, the bent trunk on another, the slight hint of wood rot in a third. Closer in, closer to Cassie, I take some time to paint in the slightly dry grass in darker greens, dabbing in a little bright yellow to form the budding flowers of mustard.
Even as I begin to start on the lake, the painting begins to come alive. A soft wind rustles the high branches of the pine trees, causing dried needles to come drifting to earth, thickening the dark carpet of pine needles under Cassy's bare feet. The lake, which had begun as a deep, blue blotch of paint, quickly takes form under layers of lighter and lighter hues, then under highlights of pure white mixed with a hint of cerulean, to reflect the sky. Little wavelets, like the ones that had lapped at the sides of the rowboat that Rachael and I had drifted in for hours, form on the surface of the water, and begin to move, to ebb and flow.
I lift my paintbrush up, and I step back from the painting. Something is missing here… something that is not in the photograph, nor in the painting, something to make it complete…
Cassy knows. "Can you paint me a dock?" she asks. "I want to dive into the water."
I can't talk to her now, for writing anything to her would ruin the painting, so I respond by laying down four quick lines of black, then layering over it with brown and walnut. The dock is a bit rickety, and the piles appear to be a bit old, but that is part of its charm as well. I am tempted to add a mallard duck to the scene, but that would only remind Cassy of her loneliness. I settle for a leaf on the water, drifting across the lake, casting small ripples on the surface of the dark water.
"Thank you," Cassy says, turning towards me and smiling. "It's beautiful."
I sign my name in the corner in white paint, and add a small, "You're Welcome" and a smiling face to my signature. Cassy gets up from the park bench and walks towards the lake, her bare feet crunching over the pine needles, seeming not to care about the rough ground, and I wonder whether it is because she has never felt the true feeling of pine needles against bare skin that she does not know that it should hurt.
It's a mistake to get distracted like that… in my philosophical haze, I trip over my tray of paints, and my little tubes of Burnt Umber and Vermillion scatter across the containment room. "Fuck!" I sigh. Getting down to my knees, I start rooting under the piles of canvases and papers, trying to gather up my various paints and supplies.
I've finally gathered up my last tube of Cadmium Red and am arranging them in my box when I notice a flash of pale flesh on the painting. I turn and immediately turn away, blushing, as Cassy pulls off her blue dress and lets it fall, carelessly, onto the dock. Her bare back is pale, and slender, and her loveliness is that of an Aphrodite rising from the sea foam as she takes the ribbon out of her hair and lays it atop her dress. She dives into the water with a bright splash, emerges in a shower of sparkling water droplets, and slowly begins to swim across the lake, reveling in the coolness of the water.
Some mad impulse in me wishes she'd choose a backstroke.
I manage to fight back my mad libido and close my artist's case slowly, quietly. Stupid. She can't hear me, or see me, but it seems somehow… intrusive… when she is swimming bare naked through the lake, uncaring of what I might see. I am putting my palette away when I hesitate, realizing something that I had forgotten.
I have just enough white left. I put my brush to paint and quickly add the missing element to the pile of clothing on the dock.
Closing up my case, I leave the containment facility, swiping my card through the reader and turning out the lights as I go. Cassy will not mind: to her, the sun will stay bright and shining, the wind will always be cool, and the water will always be crisp and clean, until she is ready to go back home, to the sketchpad left duct-taped to one corner, to her usual world of monochrome blacks and whites.
I wonder, as I head back to my office, why I did that last bit. Perhaps it would have been better just to leave her be, so that she would never know that I had seen her dive, naked, into the lake? Maybe. Maybe it was just that it seemed unfair that I could see her and she could not see me, or maybe it was just my way of teasing her.
Perhaps, as a gentleman, I just didn't feel like leaving a lady to swim without a towel.
Interlude 1
"Agent Lassiter's performance, given his recent emotional troubles, has been exemplary. His psych reports show that although his mental state is… ummmmm… still distressed… he's become much less suicidal than before. In fact, if we're lucky, he might decide not to cut his own wrists with a razor and bleed out on… fuck… let me start all over."
"Although Agent Lassiter remains in a state of emotional distress, he has made good progress in the last few months. I have every confidence that he will make a full recovery and return to field work… yeah, and he'll lay low for a few months and then blow his brains out with his sidearm and maybe take the team with him, fuck… let me start over…"
"Agent Lassiter is a fine operative… no, he WAS a fine operative, now he's a fucking basket case, and rightfully so. The kid saw his girlfriend… no, she was his fiancee… was she? I know he bought a ring, but did he ever manage to give it to her? Dunno, the kid was fretting about it like mad… anyway, he saw Maggie Lyndon torn to pieces by Scip Six-Eight-Two, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it because she was on the wrong side of an emergency partition, and if I ever find out who decided to make those things out of reinforced nine-inch plexiglass so you can see the horrible things that happen to people trapped on the other side, I'll murder them…"
"… fuck, I can't say that, they'll make him a Delta. Screw it, this telling the truth thing is getting me nowhere. Agent Lassiter is a fine operative who just needs some time to recuperate. I recommend that he be given a low-priority duty containing Safe-level SCPs until he makes a full recovery. There we go. And if anyone buys this bullshit, I've got a bridge to sell them. Fucking personnel reports, should never have accepted this stupid promotion…"
- Excerpted from the surveillance logs of Assistant Director Clef's office, six months before the Lassiter Incident. |
Experiment Log of: Professor K. P. Crow, utilizing SCP-914 in obtaining base materials for the "Olympia Project".
Date: 05/12/2008
Pre-Experiment Note:
This is to produce the base materials I need for the project. I had to reassemble the subject that I was originally going to use, because after having a talk with Dr. Gears, I discovered that I would be unable to use the composite part as I had originally intended, and am instead forced to use the entire subject. - Professor Crow
Test-1
Input:
Caucasian female, thirty-six (36) years of age, five (5) foot, ten (10) inches in height, one hundred and forty-nine (149) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health, although there is some mild liver damage from excessive drinking.
Ten (10) pounds of SCP-143.
Setting: 1:1
Output:
An organism that appeared to be a young tree sapling weighing one hundred and fifty-nine (159) pounds, the bark being a pale gray color, and the leaves dark brown. Organism maintained an average constant external temperature of thirty seven (37) degrees.
Organism has a limited motor nervous system, although there appears to be no true central nervous system. Tissue samples extracted from the main trunk, branches and leaves show that the internal tissue of the trunk is similar to brain tissue, only restructured to be much more durable, and with a higher level of conductivity, whereas branches had traces similar to muscle tissue. The leaves contained a high amount of trichome hairs, which were much longer and thicker than average, being near an inch in length, and a light brown in color. Further examination showed them to be composed primarily of keratin.
Organism responded much more slowly to external stimuli than most organisms, taking three hours to register the tissue harvesting done to its main trunk.
Subject has also shown limited signs of sentience, although communication is difficult, due to the slow reaction and movement times of the subject.
Note: While the subject is indeed interesting, and does warrant further examination, it's not what I was looking for. Inter her outside, near the grove, and make sure she's well looked after.
Test-2
Input:
Asian female, twenty-nine (29) years in age, five (5) foot, three (3) inches in height, one hundred and twenty-seven (127) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major medical issues.
Ten (10) pounds of SCP-143.
Setting: Fine
Output:
A solid ten (10) pound block of various compounds that are mainly found within the human body.
Human female with vaguely Asian features, with the same proportions and weight as the input subject. Skin is light gray, and hair has changed to a slightly translucent pink, similar to the leaves of SCP-143.
Physiology remains mostly the same, although subjects skin has displayed distinct photosynthetic qualities, and tissue has the same basic material properties as SCP-143.
Note: This is more along the lines of what I was looking for. Hopefully, the rest of the tests will go similarly to this one.
Test-3
Input:
Black female, thirty-two (32) years of age, six (6) foot in height, one hundred and seventy-one (171) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major medical issues.
Ten (10) pounds of SCP-148.
Setting: 1:1
Output:
A solid statue of the subject composed of a combination of SCP-148 and a variety of compounds found in the human body, weighing one hundred and eighty-one (181) pounds and having the same dimensions as the subject before hand. No life signs.
Notes: Great, another lawn ornament. Complete, and total, failure.
Test-4
Input:
Caucasian female, thirty-three (33) years of age, five (5) foot, four (4) inches in height, one hundred and thirty-five (135) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. Mild damage to lungs due to excessive smoking.
Ten (10) pounds of SCP-148
Setting: Fine
Output:
A large spherical object weighing one hundred and forty-five (145) pounds in weight, and one (1) foot in diameter. Object is highly ornate, with raised patterns on the surface, which through further investigation appear to be made of bone. The rest of the exterior is a compound composed partially of SCP-148 and iron, with trace samples of other elements found within the human body.
Object is slightly warm, being twenty-five (25) degrees Celsius on the surface. When a subject is in close physical proximity to the object, subject is capable of seeing "beyond the normal human spectrum of reality" as stated by one subject. This ability increases exponentially when in physical contact with the object. There were no extreme ill effects aside from increasingly severe headaches from prolonged exposure, although this is merited to the inability of the human mind to comprehend such things.
When asked what exactly the subject meant by its previous statement, the subject went on to say that it was possible to "see" thoughts and the "lifeforce" of living organisms. The subject went on to say that he had seen other things which were impossible to explain with words, and that even thinking about them gave him a headache.
Note: Again, interesting, but again, utterly useless to what I'm trying to do.
Test-5
Input:
Caucasian female, twenty-five (25) years of age, five (5) foot three (3) inches in height and one hundred and thirty-seven (137) pounds in weight. Subject is in exceptionally good health. The subject had been a long distance runner before her incarceration.
Ten (10) pounds of SCP-148.
Setting: Fine
Output:
Human female, one hundred and forty-seven (147) pounds in weight, with the same dimensions as the original subject. Skin has taken on a lightly greenish pallor and has hardened considerably, yet remains somewhat malleable. Tissue has become denser, leading to an increase in physical resilience. It is expected that subject will be resilient to mental attacks and probing as well.
Notes: That's better. That's more along the lines of what I'm looking for.
Test-6
Input:
Asian female, twenty (20) years of age, five (5) foot six (6) inches and one hundred and forty-two (142) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major medical issues.
One (1) Cray CX1, sixty-four (64) core, entry-level massively parallel supercomputer.
Setting: Fine
Output:
Sixty-four (64) arthropods, one (1) foot in size, similar to beetles in appearance. Subjects all possessed a molded metal human face on their underside, which resembled the original subject. Subjects' shells appeared to be made of a substance similar to glass, allowing their internal workings to be viewed easily. Close examination of the subjects revealed that they were composed of a hybrid of powerful circuitry and high-density crystal.
Note: That… was just kinda weird.
Test-7
Input:
Caucasian female, thirty-five (35) years of age, five (5) foot nine (9) inches in height and one hundred and fifty-three (153) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. Subject has had a hysterectomy, though that has no effect on her overall health.
One (1) Cray CX1, sixty-four (64) core, entry-level massively parallel supercomputer.
Setting: 1:1
Output:
Eighty-one (81) various objects primarily composed of metal and glass, all capable of fitting together to form a large statue or mannequin of a human female of the same dimensions and features as the original subject.
When the subject is completely and correctly put together, it will take on a limited semblance of life and begin to speak. It primarily speaks several cryptic phrases regarding the future of the one who put it together, or in the case of multiple persons, the one who did the majority of the work. The phrases are often so vague, that it is impossible to determine whether or not the suggested future will, or even has already taken place. However, occasionally, it will speak plainly with no doubt as to what it is referring to. In these cases, the action always comes to pass, sometimes as a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Once it is done speaking, it will fall apart into the original eighty-one (81) pieces that comprise it. This can be done a limitless amount of times, with no unforeseen side effects, nor does the device ever repeat itself.
Notes: A giant jigsaw puzzle that tells the future… Well that's a new one.
Test-8
Input:
Caucasian female, forty-eight (48) years of age, four (4) foot ten (10) and one hundred and thirteen (113) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major medical issues.
One (1) Cray CX1, sixty-four (64) core, entry-level massively parallel supercomputer.
Setting: 1:1
Output:
A large, electronic device in the shape of the original subject. It appears to be a multicore supercomputer, although this needs to be confirmed. There are several dozen entry points on the back, corresponding to most cables that could or would need to be attached to a computer of this magnitude, as well as several that do not correspond to anything on record. Further research on object is pending.
Note: Hmmm…. Close, but wrong side of the line.
11/12/2008
Test-9
Input:
Black female, thirty-seven (37) years of age, five (5) foot seven (7) inches and one hundred and fifty-one (151) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major medical issues.
One (1) Cray CX1, sixty-four (64) core, entry-level massively parallel supercomputer.
Setting: Fine
Output:
A large block of "waste" material, weighing six thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight (6,428) pounds, and composed primarily of metal, glass, plastic, rubber and traces of human tissue.
Human female, with exact same dimensions as the original subject. However, x-rays and scans of subjects skull has revealed that the brain has now been hybridized with a large amount of electronics on a cellular level, leading to a startling jump in intelligence, multitasking, logic, and memorization capabilities, as well as leading to a higher level of coordination in regards to movement.
Notes: Ha ha! It worked this time!
Test-10
Input:
Caucasian female, twenty-five (25) years of age, five (5) foot, seven (7) inches in height, and one hundred and thirty-nine (139) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major medical issues.
One (1) pill of SCP-500
Setting: 1:1
Output:
One human female of the same dimensions as the original subject. Subject appeared to be normal until approached by staff. Subject then proceeded to open its thoracic cavity, wrap a large, sinuous tongue around the closest researcher and attempted to pull him inside the cavity, most likely to consume him.
However, personnel on call in the room were prepared for such an event, and fired several high-dosage tranquilizer darts at the subject, effectively knocking it out. The researcher survived, with no wounds, although it is recommended he see an on site psychologist for counseling.
Closer examination of the subject revealed that the entire thoracic cavity functioned as one large mouth, with no sign of the internal organs that would normally reside within, with the exception of the alimentary canal, which was capable of expanding several dozen times its original size. The stomach also produced an acid much stronger than anything found in nature.
The tongue secreted a type of neurotoxin that acted through skin contact, leading to a brief euphoric state, then unconsciousness in the infected.
The pelvic bones also appeared to be capable of unhinging, most likely to allow excretion to happen easier, due to the possible large size of the subject's intended prey, and to the fact that no facilities for mastication were found within the subject's biology.
Note: Kenneth got off lightly there, but he still freaks out mildly every time he sees a woman with her arms outstretched. We'll keep the specimen for research. Although… this is not what I was originally hoping for, I think I may use the canal…
Test-11
Input:
Caucasian female, thirty (30) years of age, five (5) foot eleven (11) inches in height, and one hundred and fifty (150) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. Mild damage to lungs through excessive smoking.
One (1) pill of SCP-500
Setting: Fine
Output:
Human female with the exact same dimensions as the original subject. Subject appeared to be exactly the same as before. However, preliminary tests revealed that the subject's lymphatic system had been altered greatly.
The lymph nodes produced a liquid with a much higher cell count than lymph found in normal humans, and contained numerous types of cells not normally seen in nature, let alone humans. These cells appear to be a hybrid of the various defense cells around the body as well as stem cells, with a startlingly high metabolism and motility.
These cells replace other damaged cells very quickly, leading to highly advanced regeneration, with serious wounds possibly taking days or even hours. This system could possibly slow or even stop the aging process.
However, as was stated before, these cells have a very high metabolism, leading to a much higher appetite in the subject. After damage, this could increase exponentially.
Notes: Wow. Well that one went very good. Very good indeed. Makes me almost want one of those for myself…
12/12/2008
Test-12
Input:
Caucasian female, twenty-eight (28) years of age, six (6) foot, one (1) inch in height, and one hundred and fifty-five (155) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major health issues.
One (1) BASLER L304KC 4080 pixel Trilinear line scan camera.
Setting: Fine
Output:
A large block of "waste" material, composed primarily of human tissue, with trace amounts of metal, plastic, rubber and glass, weighing two hundred and three (203) pounds.
A small, silver ring, highly ornate, with a large group of miniature human-like eyes clumped together in an ornate clasp on one side of the band. Eyes capable of rotating within clasp to "look" around.
Wearing the ring allows the wearer to view everything around themselves, including behind themselves, behind objects around them, and inside objects, including themselves, for the range of their line of sight. However, it has the notable side effect of giving the wearer a severe pain behind the eyes, similar to an extreme case of eyestrain.
Notes: If it weren't for the pain, this thing could be quite useful. Also, it was interesting to note that the ring didn't actually increase eyesight. When Jim had his glasses off while wearing the thing, everything was still all blurry. Good to know.
Test-13
Input:
Caucasian female, twenty-one (21) years of age, five (5) foot three (3) inches in height, and one hundred and forty-four (144) pounds in weight. Subject is in relatively good health. No major health issues.
One (1) BASLER L304KC 4080 pixel Trilinear line scan camera.
Setting: 1:1
Output:
An organism that resembles a large tripod-mounted video camera, with electronic output leads and monitor at the rear. Object is alive, and made primarily of organic compounds, even the monitor, which appears to be made of tissue similar to ocular tissue, only saturated with highly advanced chromatophore pigmentation cells. The picture it displays is very clear and smooth, on par with many high-definition screens available on market now. The "lens" of the "camera" is a human eye, although shows hybridization with various mechanical elements.
Despite the fact that it possesses the needed skeletal and muscular structure for locomotion, it does not appear to be sentient in any way. Scans of the torso/main body have shown that there is no brain, with the exception of a highly developed brain stem at the base of the neck/tripod.
Note: You know, I think that's enough of these for the moment. But I can use that eye.
Memo to Prof. K. P. Crow:
After review of the current testing situation, the following observations may be helpful to your endeavors.
After extended time spent in research on and with SCP-914, the following proposal regarding its nature may be made with a significant degree of certainty: SCP-914 was not designed as an industrial device. Nor was it primarily a scientific device. Its primary function appears to be as a form of entertainment. After review of the recovery notes, and evaluation of the test logs, it appears that SCP-914 was designed to create the most “novel” items possible, with no regard for practicality or function.
Judging by this, it appears the best way to achieve a desired result is to try and exclude as many possible outcomes as possible. When entering a small pile of parts for a clock on a 1:1 setting, you will most likely get a clock. If you enter blocks of wood, glass, and metal, it leaves a wide degree of room for “interpretation” by SCP-914, with a clock only one of many possible outcomes. If you desire to create a human being with, say, metallic skin, then the best plan would be to create a “suit” of the metal in the exact dimensions of the intended subject, and the same thickness as the subject's skin. At that point, a setting of 1:1 or Fine may achieve the desired result.
However, there is a high degree of randomness still associated with SCP-914. Patience must be maintained, as it is not being used for its intended purpose, and thus may frustrate attempts to achieve a desired result. A short review of settings, as well:
Rough: Destruction of the item, often by pressure, heat, or cutting.
Coarse: Disassembly of the item into component parts.
1:1: Direct integration of multiple items, or “re-interpretation” of singular items.
Fine: Refinement of items, often with a blending or “re-interpretation” of base states.
Very Fine: Total “re-interpretation”, often times using only the base compounds of items.
I hope these notes are useful in your continued research.
Dr. Gears |
{Note: This document was retrieved during a raid on a known Global Occult Coalition safehouse by Task Force Omega-7, "Pandora's Box." Sections of this document were damaged in the firefight and subsequent conflagration/water damage due to firefighting efforts.}
PERSONNEL FILE: FIELD OPERATIVE UK-17
Code Name: "Ukulele"
GOC Serial Number: 09976657-Cobalt-Triplet-Finnegan
Service Record
1981: Recruited into GOC by [SECTION DESTROYED].
1982: First confirmed kill: Known Threat Entity (KTE) 5988-Red ("Hillsborough Beast"). Received the Silver Aegis commendation for successfully killing KTE-5988-Red despite severe losses to field team, including death of Operative Mortimer X.
1986: Failed to successfully contain KTE-7859-Silver ("Xenobiological Hemorrhagic Prion") resulting in deaths of [SECTION DESTROYED]
1988: Sabbatical.
1989: Promoted to Specialist Operative.
[SECTION DESTROYED]
199█: Engaged and destroyed KTE-9927-Black ("The Goddess") in Cornwall, England. Unable to confirm kill on KTE-9927-Blackchild ("The Daughter").
[SECTION DESTROYED]
20██: 99th confirmed kill on KTE-10734-Green ("Mister Nice Guy"). Expressed desire to retire from active service: granted.
[SECTION DESTROYED]
████: Resurfaced under alias of "Dr. Alto Clef" at Special Containment Procedures Foundation. Classified as Threat Level 1 (monitor, do not engage).
Skills Assessment
Certified adequate in standard firearms array (pistol, shotgun, scoped and unscoped rifle, submachinegun, light machine gun).
Certified proficient in heavy firearms array (heavy machine gun, grenade launcher, shoulder-mounted rocket launcher).
Certified expert in demolitions.
Advanced Driver certification in Class A, B, and C vehicles.
Authorized Instructor at Lanthanide Hills Training Facility (field of expertise: Type Green KTEs).
Alterations and Talents
Standard optics array.
Standard longevity treatments.
Resistant to standard photography techniques.
Polymorphic features.
Level 1 T[SECTION DESTROYED]
Notable Kills
KTE-9927-Black: Threat Level 6 (Immediate Global Threat). Target eliminated by use of KTE-9927-Blackchild as bargaining ploy, followed by termination by gunshot to head. Operative "Ukulele" severely injured, unable to confirm kill on 9927-Blackchild.
KTE-0467-White: ("Caveman Phil"). Atavistic humanoid entity eliminated by use of local wildlife (500 pound mountain lion).
KTE-9245-Pink: ("Frogman of Marsh Cree[SECTION DESTROYED]
Addenda
Does anyone know who this guy is or where he came from? He's good at what he does, but every time I ask him about his past, I get a completely different answer. - Colonel Richard Adams |
TERMINATION ORDER
by "Dr. Clef."
"Interview Clef-88 commences now. Dr. Gears, interviewer. Dr. Clef, interviewee."
"You know who you look like? John Malkovich. You've got the same head and everything, except where Malkovich has a great, expressive face, yours has no expression ever. It's honestly a bit creepy."
"Your sense of humor is as sharp as ever."
"You like that one? How about this one. So three guys are lost in the desert…"
"Please do not attempt to divert my attention. My time is limited."
"Mine isn't. I've spent the past three months lying on a hospital bed staring up at the ceiling. Not much new here. I spend a lot of time thinking, though."
"Would you like to leave that hospital bed?"
"… what do you mean?"
"Dr. Valdason is dead."
"… shit. What about the little girl?"
"Her fate is… undetermined at this time. Given the danger she possesses even while in a coma, termination may be necessary."
"Let me guess. You want me to finish the job?"
"Negative. If termination becomes necessary, another agent will be assigned that duty. However, my superiors asked me to investigate your background further, given recent events. Please take a look at this."
"I haven't seen that picture in a long time. I don't know what I was thinking with those sideburns."
"I have a proposition for you, Dr. Clef. There is an SCP on this facility that has been… problematic… as of late. Terminating it has proven to be difficult. If you will do us the favor of eliminating it, I am authorized to offer you twelve minutes of exposure to the Locket, which should be sufficient to heal your injuries. In addition, I will grant you Level 4 Clearance on all SCPs, and a permanent position with a support staff of up to six employees."
"I don't need a support staff. Maybe an assistant, but that's it."
"Then we have a deal?"
"Just one more thing."
"And that would be?"
"I want a nifty hat."
Audio Log recorded on ██-██-████, ████:██:██
Clef: Come in.
Dr. ████████: Hello…
Clef: Angela. What a surprise.
Dr. ████████: I heard you're the one who nearly killed the Witch Girl.
Clef: Nearly. Didn't get close enough.
Dr. ████████: You're the one who's going to take down 531?
Clef: If needs be, yes.
Dr. ████████: Good. Make him pay… make him pay for what he did to my Michael.
Clef: No.
Dr. ████████: Why not?
Clef: Because it's not about revenge. It's about doing what needs to be done. Besides, I'm not the one who cheated on Mike with some teenage kid.
Dr. ████████: That's not fair, it was…
Clef: Procedure, right? Never answer a request from the subject in a way that would cause a negative emotional reaction? Don't be ridiculous. You're a woman. You know ten thousand ways to say no without sounding like it.
Dr. ████████: … you misogynistic…
Clef: Go home. Be with your husband. Let off some of your misdirected anger and assuage some of your self-loathing by lying to yourself some more about having no choice. Maybe if you lie enough, it'll actually be true.
Dr. ████████: Fuck you. You fucking sanctimonious goddamn prick. [door opens and closes]
Clef: … yeah.
"Kondraki."
"Clef."
"…"
"…"
"Sorry about the leg."
"Sorry about the neck."
"…"
"If it's any consolation, you had it coming."
"I have to admit, I was a bit surprised by the way you broke it so easily. You've got a killer's hands, Konny."
"Shut up. Gears told me you asked for my help, so I'm here to help. What do you want?"
"I need the butterflies."
"Go talk to them yourself."
"They don't like me now that there aren't flowers growing out of my ass."
"I can fix that."
"Kondraki, I've just been asked to take down an extremely dangerous SCP with reality-bending powers. How I do that is up to you. I can do it alone in a way that wipes out the entire facility and probably half the city too, or you can help me and we can do it in a much more subtle fashion. How about it?"
"First take back what you said."
"What… oh, about her? Okay, I take it back."
"I don't believe you're sorry."
"Shit, man… is it that big a deal to you?"
"I broke your neck over it, remember?"
"Point taken."
From the Global Occult Coalition's Pamphlet, "Special Circumstances: Reality Benders."
Reality Benders (Type Greens) have a certain mystique among GOC operatives. They have been attributed a variety of powers, from immortality to mind control. Some operatives even argue that it is impossible to silence a Type Green, and it is suicide to even try.
Bollocks.
The truth is, Reality Benders are human, and they have human flaws. Consider the following:
Reality Benders cannot predict the future and can be taken by surprise.
Reality Benders have limited range and cannot affect what they cannot perceive.
Reality Benders cannot impose their will on anything if they have no will to impose.
Reality Benders have human foibles and can be manipulated emotionally and/or rationally.
Note that this holds true for 95% of Type Greens. For the 5% that this does not apply to… well, you've got a slight problem.
"Take off your clothes."
"… all right."
"Wow, you're hot… damn, those are some nice tits."
"…"
"Don't be shy, baby… come here…"
"…"
"Mmmmm…"
<BAM!> "I'm sorry, am I interrupting anything?"
"What the … GET OUT!"
"Sorry, I don't think I've introduced myself yet… Dr. Clef. I'm taking over your case."
"What? As of when?"
"As of now. Get out, Becca, the kid and I need to talk. Oh, and here, take your panties, you might need them."
"No, no, no, SCREW that! YOU get out NOW!"
"No."
"FUCK YOU!!"
On ██-██-████ at ████:██:██, Subject 531's containment facility suffered minor structural damage.
"Got that out of your system?"
"What the hell…"
"Get going, Becca. Kiddo and I need to have a little chat."
"Yes, Doctor."
On ██-██-████ at ████:██:██, Dr. Rebecca Flanders left SCP-531's containment facility.
"<wolf whistle> Hot damn, that's a nice ass. You were really gonna hit that?"
"I hit it five times this week."
"Whew! Not bad… what does her fiance think about it?"
"Fiance?"
"Yeah, Becca's engaged to be married next month. Nice guy."
"… not my problem."
"Sure it isn't. Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Yes, I do, I hate it when people smoke!"
"Good." <sound of a Zippo lighting> "Hot damn, it's been way too long since I last had a Lucky Strike."
"<cough cough>"
"Oh, quit whining, it's just a little smoke." <sound of a chair scraping> "So, please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste…"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Guess you don't like the Stones… anyway. My name's Alto Clef, or at least, that's what they call me. I have a real name, but it's classified."
"Right."
"Anyway, Clef's what they call me around here, but back when I used to work for the GOC, they called me 'Ukulele Man.'"
"That's a faggoty name…"
"I kinda liked it. Hey, mind if I turn on some music?"
"Go right ahead. There's some Nine Inch Nails in…"
"I said music, not noise." <sound of a CD player opening and a disc being tossed on the ground>
"HEY! Give that back! Damn it!" <sound of splashing liquid>
"Awww, now look what you made me do with my Diet Coke…"
"Give me that! Damn it, it's all wet now…"
"Trust me, you'll thank me later." <sound of a CD player closing. Music.>
"What the hell is this shit?"
"This shit, kiddo, is Elvis Presley, father of Rock and Roll. And you ain't nothin' but a hound dog. Anyway, back to me. Back when I was with the GOC, my job was terminating metahumans like you. People with powers that are beyond normal. My specialty was Type Greens, reality benders like you, people who can change reality by imposing their will on it. I've got ninety-nine confirmed kills."
"And I'm number one hundred?" <laughter>
"Maybe. Let's talk first."
"Sure, why not, let's talk."
From the Global Occult Coalition's Pamphlet, "Special Circumstances: Reality Benders."
Never talk to the target. Never look them in the eye. Never do anything that will allow yourself to humanize them. When the time comes to make the kill, you must be direct, forceful, and without mercy. Don't do anything that will make that harder.
"So, tell me about your mother, kiddo."
"My mom's dead."
"I know. You killed two thousand people telling us that."
"It wasn't my fault. I couldn't control it."
"So you say."
"IT WASN'T MY FAULT!"
"Like I said… so you say." <sound of a cigarette being lit. More smoking.> "Tell me about her."
"She was great… never beat me up or nothin'. Didn't try and make me do anything I didn't want to, either. Best mom ever."
"Hmm. Sounds nice. What about your dad?"
"Don't even ask about that asshole… skipped out on mom and me when I was ten. Motherfucker."
"Want a cigarette?"
"I don't smoke… can you turn that fucking music down?"
"No. So, how did you feel when she died?"
"Fucked up, man, she was the only one whom I ever loved, the only one who ever loved me, you know."
"I see." <sound of a chair scraping against floor tiles> "Nice XBox."
"It's all right. I wish I had LIVE, though. Single player's not as fun."
"You like playing online?"
"Sure. Who doesn't like pwning n00bs? This one time on Halo 3, I took out three of them with one grenade, it was great."
"Sounds fun. Anyway, kiddo, like I was saying, reality benders like you are my specialty. There are a lot more than people think, but they all tend to follow the same pattern."
From the Global Occult Coalition's Pamphlet, "Special Circumstances: Reality Benders."
PHASE 1: Denial The subject refuses to acknowledge their Special Talent. The Type Green will attempt to rationalize away their abilities by various means. In some cases, the Type Green will end here: their ability will be self-suppressed, and they will not proceed. However, most then proceed to:
PHASE 2: Experimentation The subject acknowledges their abilities and begins to test the limits of their powers. In general, Type Greens tend to experiment in one of two patterns: slowly, methodically, and carefully, advancing a small amount at a time, or in a small number of sudden jumps. In any case, the subject will generally remain in this mode for some time, before proceeding to:
[MORE]
"So tell me about Michael Flaherty."
"Michael who?"
"Angela's husband. The one whom you aged into senility because you were jealous of his relationship with her."
"It wasn't my fault."
"So you say."
"It wasn't… I didn't mean to do it. I'll change him back, I swear."
"Angela's pretty broken up about it, you know."
"I'll bet."
"… is that all?"
"What? I said I'd fix it."
"So you say." <sound of another cigarette lighting>
"Seriously, could you stop that? It's giving me a headache, and my stomach feels all weird."
"No."
"Fuck you."
From the Global Occult Coalition's Pamphlet, "Special Circumstances: Reality Benders."
PHASE 3: Stability The subject reaches the limit of their powers, and determines the boundaries of their abilities. The Type Green achieves control over their reality shifts, and can manipulate them as necessary. More importantly, they can choose not to utilize their abilities, if needed.
Phase 3 is characterized by attempts to live a "normal" life. The subject will continue in normal routines, and aside from necessary precautions to prevent losing control, will utilize their abilities only in private, and only in a manner that will not harm others. These Type Greens may be classified as Threat Level 1 (monitor, do not engage), but should be monitored closely, due to the risk of proceeding to Phase 4.
"I'm going to just ask you one last question."
"Sure."
"How did you feel when you raped Angela Flaherty?"
"What? I never raped her!"
"Yes, you did."
"I didn't! She said yes!"
"She had no choice BUT to say yes! And you abused it, you forced her to…"
"SHUT UP! SHE LOVES ME!"
"She doesn't love you. How could anyone love you? You're a fucked up emo kid who abused his fucked up emo powers to make a bunch of women spread their legs for you against their will. You murdered a thousand people because you couldn't deal with your whore of a mom dying. You're a lousy, murdering, raping…"
"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP I'LL KILL YOU!"
<sound of breaking glass>
"What the hell… butterflies?"
"Sorry, kiddo. Game over."
<Explosive Decompression>
From the Global Occult Coalition's Pamphlet, "Special Circumstances: Reality Benders."
PHASE 4: The Child-God Sadly, the majority of Type Greens will end at Phase 4. During this phase, the reality bender becomes obsessed with the power it possesses and will attempt to utilize it for personal gain at the cost of others. This phase is marked by reduced empathy for other humans, inability to accept personal faults, and increased megalomania.
Although warning signs are numerous, the key aspect of a Phase 4 is the use of their abilities to manipulate other humans. Teenage and young adult Type Greens will typically use their abilities for sexual purposes, while children will attempt to make strangers their "friends." Older adults may attempt to manipulate others for love or financial gain. Although a few cases have resulted where the Type Green then reverts to Phase 3, 99% of them will remain at Phase 4 until eliminated. For this reason, Phase 4 Type Greens should be considered Threat Level 5 (Immediate Threat) and eliminated immediately.
Operation: Spoil the Rod
Proposal: SCP-120 is to be dialed to Location 9. The Entry Zone is to be converted to a temporary holding facility, made of thin glass. The structure will be air-tight, but designed to shatter and expose all contents to vacuum in the event of any violence. All personnel are to be evacuated to a radius of 2 miles from the Entry Zone for their own safety in the event that SCP-531 becomes violent.
Dr. Clef will engage SCP-531 and make an initial assessment under cover from SCP-408, while two members of Task Force Sigma 6 ("Puddlejumpers") relocate the calibrated SCP-120 to a location within SCP-531's quarters. Once in place, Dr. Clef will begin the operation by changing the music to Elvis Presley's "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog." The CD will have been previously altered with two subliminal tracks: the first, a recording of SCP-061 to render the subject susceptible to suggestion. The second, a command to fall asleep immediately, allowing personnel to transport SCP-531 and Dr. Clef to Location 9, through SCP-120.
Upon arriving at Location 9, Dr. Kondraki will continue, through SCP-408, to maintain the illusion that the subject is still in his quarters, while Dr. Clef continues his assessment. If Dr. Clef should determine that the subject must be terminated, he will indicate this by standing up and talking about the subject's XBox. This is SCP-408's cue to take over emulating Dr. Clef while said Dr. Clef proceeds out of the kill zone and to a safe distance. Once all personnel are outside the 2 mile kill zone, explosive charges will be detonated in the glass structure and expose SCP-531 to space, killing it. Should explosive decompression prove ineffective, snipers will be in position from a 2 mile distance to terminate SCP-531 by headshot.
Note that a successful termination of SCP-531 will result in the loss of a significant portion of the 408 swarm: 300 gallons of sugar water will be provided to the surviving members to encourage regrowth and as payment for its cooperation. In addition, it is recommended that Dr. Clef utilize some means of distraction in order to keep SCP-531 off-balance while the kill zone is being established.
APPROVED by O5-7 on ██-██-████
From the Global Occult Coalition's Pamphlet, "Special Circumstances: Reality Benders."
Any attempt to eliminate a Type Green must take into consideration the three factors for Dynamic Entry in close quarter battle.
Speed: Type Greens are able to quickly react to any threat. In order to ensure a successful kill, the operation must take no longer than one second from initiation of hostilities to termination of subject.
Surprise: Type Greens are able to quickly adapt to known threats. It is recommended that a bluff play be carried out: an overt threat is to be presented to the subject for them to fixate upon, while the actual kill is carried out from an unexpected direction.
Violence of Action: Any means of eliminating a Type Green must ensure a successful kill in one shot. Sniper weapons must utilize .50 caliber rounds, preferably hollow-point for maximum expansion, or armor-piercing, as needed. Firearms are, of course, a secondary kill choice: explosives are recommended, but may not be usable due to collateral damage risks.
"Interesting how life goes. Forty-eight hours ago, I was a quadriplegic. Now I'm drinking beer on the moon."
"Too right."
"To five-thirty-one: may he rest in pieces."
"Amen."
<sound of beers opening>
"Hey, Clef."
"Yeah?"
"So, now that we've both tried to kill each other, and then worked together to kill someone else, that kinda makes us buddies, right?"
"I guess. Why?"
"I'm wondering something… what are you, anyway?"
"Me?"
"I know you're ex-GOC, but no one can take down that many SCPs alone. No human. And you're almost immune to reality shifters yourself. So what are you?"
"… I'm actually one of them."
"… a reality shifter?"
"Yeah. I first found out about my powers when I blew up the Space Shuttle Challenger. All those people dead… just because some kid wondered what it would be like if the shuttle blew up."
"God…"
"Yeah, after that I figured I should lock my powers away. I swore only to use it to stop other shifters, the ones who screw it up for the rest of us. The dangerous ones."
"That's intense, man."
"Yeah. So I joined the GOC and learned to use my powers to protect myself. I can stop any other reality shifter from using their powers on me, and I can even ride the wave of the change, kinda like a surfer. That's why 166 can't control me, and why 531 couldn't kill me earlier. I'm kind of the anti-reality shifter. An antibody against that disease."
"That's… really deep. Hang on… let me get something."
"What?"
"A shovel to scoop up the bullshit you're feeding me."
"Hah! Touché! I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"Nah. But tell you what. If you don't shoot me in the leg again I promise not to break your neck any more."
"Deal." |
Experiment Log of: Professor K. P. Crow, regarding SCP-158 in use for the "Olympia Project".
Date: 29-11-2008
Pre-Experiment Note
I've gathered up several D-Class personnel, having interviewed and evaluated them all, and picked those with personalities and characteristics that I like, or would be useful. Some are male, others are female, as I believe a soul transcends the flesh it is interred in.
But the purpose of this experiment, is to test the "extra" capabilities of the device, those spoken upon in the heavily damaged sections of the book. I've pored over them incessantly, trying to glean as much information as possible from it, but the instructions I managed to get were sketchy at best, and downright unhelpful at worst.
But that will not deter me. I'm a researcher! Trial and error are my middle names!
Experiment-01
I withdrew the first subject's soul. Try as I might, I was unable to do anything extra to it, but then again, there was such a small window of time for me to utilize it and try everything. But on the bright side I managed to reverse the process. While that had been done before, no one has discovered the sequence needed to activate, operating on blind luck. This is the first thing I'll concentrate on.
Experiment-05
Hah! I've done it! It wasn't that hard.
Experiment-06
You know, I've noticed that there's a small period in the middle of the operation where the process pauses, as if it's waiting for further commands. I think that's when the further inputs can be made. I'll have to start checking.
Experiment-07
I've been removing and re-implanting the same soul into the same test subject, mainly as a form of experimentation with the controls, but also as practice. Oddly enough, there doesn't seem to be any sort of side effects regarding the subject's health. One would think there would be, considering what I'm doing to her… Regardless, I've been probing around that pause with the controls, and I think I almost have it.
Experiment-08
I made it begin the movements of something else entirely before it paused again and resumed its original course. I almost have it…
Experiment-11
I got it! It completely stopped during the pause, and a completely new set of options appeared on the monitor, being things like "split", "merge", "remove aspects", "add aspects" and "combine aspects". From this I can only deduce that the device is capable of internally storing and modifying these souls for use on other subjects. This is exactly what I was looking for!
Date: 30-11-2008
Experiment-12
The aspects that the machine talks about are difficult to define properly. They're all notated by a single word each, often something obscure from various religious texts. I've had to pore over the holy books of at least four major religions and six minor ones, just to understand what the hell the machine is trying to tell me, and even then, I'm still not entirely sure I understand. As far as I know it, most of these "aspects" are facets of the person's personality, and their general basic behavior, as well as things like willpower, understanding, conscience, creativity, empathy, and drive. This… may take some time to truly figure out.
Experiment-37
This is taking much, much longer than I had originally anticipated. So far I've discovered that the device itself can store up to ten different souls and their composite aspects, and modify them internally. Finding out exactly what each aspect corresponds with is difficult to say the least. I'm having to modify each subject slightly, then send them out for a complete psychological evaluation to try and discern what exactly I did. Then I have to repeat the process several more times just to make sure. It's tiring to say the least, but on the upside, at least I'm becoming more proficient at the device.
Experiment-42
This is getting ridiculous. This has sucked up most of the time in my day, and I'm near falling asleep here. There has to be a different way to monitor or measure the changes in these people's souls. I'm going to try and get onto R&D and see if they can find some sort of way of reverse engineering some part of this device, something to make this run just that little bit smoother, something to help us understand it more. I know how to operate it, but I'm shooting in the dark here. I'm like a child with a piano, I know which keys make which sounds, but I can't play a song to save my life. I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe the morn will bring with it new ideas.
Date: 01/12/2008
Experiment-57
I had thought I had grasped an idea of the limits of this device, but I was proven wrong. I had assumed the machine was at fault, being too complicated for its own good. Now I realize my mistake. It's not the machine, it's the very nature of a human soul. There's no true way to express something like that in mere words, although this machine tries desperately to do that. That said, it will take me some time to be able to use this device competently enough to do what I am hoping to do. I'll have to study the things I have seen and recorded to the very limit of my abilities.
Date: 02/12/2008
Experiment-80
I've left the device alone for the moment, electing to study my notes than raise more questions interacting with the device. I've recorded over four hundred different words in regards to the aspects, with an almost unlimited number of combinations capable therein. Seems apt of course, considering the complexity of the human condition. But should I master this device, the possibilities could be endless. But such a thing does not seem to be anywhere in sight. It may take months, even years, simply to grasp this device, let alone do what I have suggested.
I plan to do it in days.
Date: 03/12/2008
Experiment-93
Still no real progress. At most, I've gotten a single soul that is a composite of all I've learned, but it's something that I can't quite describe. When interred into a host, it's highly interesting, but when I send it in for a psyche test, the results basically go out the window. We can't get a valid result, which in and of itself is impossible.
Experiment-95
I've been modifying this composite soul, which I'll dub Subject Zero for the time being, and every time I do so, I get the feeling there's more to this than meets the eye. It seems to be more aware of its surroundings, more knowledgeable than its host should allow, displaying an intellect that would outstrip most researchers in this place many time over. Possibly even me…
Experiment-107
My god… This is unprecedented. The reason why the evaluations were so inconclusive, why Zero seemed so knowledgeable, why it seemed to be able to see another world around it, they all make sense now.
Subject Zero, by some fluke of chance, or by my meddling with this machine, somehow, simultaneously exists on this plane of existence and several others. I have created an entity that exists beyond the scope of human interaction, a consciousness that can see, and hear, and feel, and think outside of this realm. It is aware of what I have been doing, and it appreciates me having created it. It is, in a sense, immortal. Even if its physical host is destroyed, it is capable of continuing to survive beyond that, only slightly limited in this level of existence.
It revealed the truth to me, and I have asked it to answer my questions for the evaluation honestly. It agreed.
Experiment-110
Zero would make an excellent candidate for my assistant. It respects and admires me for its creation, much a child would an endearing father figure. I have assured it that it would be treated well, and that I will give it a host to the best of my ability to create. All that it asks of me is that it is given a name other than Zero. A name. Not a number.
I told it to give itself a name, to christen itself whatever it so wishes. It told me it would have to think about it.
End of Session
Notes: The composite soul has been accepted as a component for the "Olympia Project" |
Interviewed: Dr. A. Clef, SCP number pending.
Interviewer: Dr. ████████ Kondraki.
Foreword: This interview took place 24 hours after the Site 17 incident.
<Begin Log, ██-██-████, ████:██:██>
Kondraki: Clef.
Clef: Kondraki.
[long silence]
Clef: How's the leg?
Kondraki: I'll be fine. How are the face, the eyes, the ears, and the entire body?
Clef: They gave me a few minutes with the pendant. Enough to heal me, not enough to turn me into The Blob.
Kondraki: Shame that. It might actually improve your personality.
Clef: I've missed you too.
[long silence]
Clef: How is the girl?
Kondraki: Comatose. Gears knocked her out on site, after she did the thing with the Dragon. They decided it was better if she stayed that way. They have her locked up in a room lined with telekill.
Clef: Who do they have assigned to watch her?
Kondraki: Valdason.
Clef: That poor girl.
Kondraki: Funny, coming from the one who tried to kill her.
Clef: I wasn't talking about the SCP.
[long silence]
Kondraki: So, why did you do it?
Clef: You've read the report, haven't you? It was a mistake on my part. I thought that I could help contain her by…
Kondraki: Bullshit.
Clef: Pardon me?
Kondraki: Bull. Shit. According to the report, you're an absolute moron who screwed up so badly that he caused a major site-wide incident. But if I know you, you're not a moron. You're a sadistic, evil, and conniving bastard, but you're not stupid.
Clef: I never knew you cared.
Kondraki: Cut the crap, Clef. What were you really after?
Clef: I have no idea what you're talking about, Konny, dear.
Kondraki: [raising voice] It's all too convenient. A partial voice log from your PDA that cuts out just as Lilith manages to order you to tell the truth? An emergency call that summons two other Foundation researchers onto the scene? A major security breach that causes every single SCP at that base to leave their containment cells? Massive casualties, including at least 2 SCPs, one of which we had high hopes for, one of which YOU personally vouched for?
Clef: Do you watch cartoons, Kondraki? You should check out this show called Gargoyles, I think you'd like it…
Kondraki: [shouting] What the hell were you trying to do? Were you trying to kill someone? Get in contact with someone? Make them put the girl to sleep?
Clef: [manic laughter] Goddamn it, the Stones were right, it really is the nature of my game that's puzzling you, isn't it!
Kondraki: … what?
Clef: Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name.
Kondraki: … bullshit. You're lying. You always lie.
Clef: Yes, I do… always lie, don't I? One might even call me the father of lies, considering all the lying I do. Funny that.
Kondraki: … women hate you.
Clef: Of course they do. Considering that little incident with the apple tree, I'm not surprised they still harbor some lingering resentment. It was all for the best, though…
Kondraki: [speaking faster] Lilith knew you. She said you loved her. You said you never stopped loving her…
Clef: She was too good for that simpering fool. Untamed, strong, and wild, a true woman, not that whiny little submissive slut Eve. Of course, that milquetoast asshole preferred the one who'd lie quietly and take it, not the one who'd show him a…
Kondraki: [faster and louder] The wood nymph . . you convinced her to flower…
Clef: Apple blossoms, if you looked closely enough.
Kondraki: And Sigurrós?
Clef: Also known as the Alpha and Omega, the Great I AM… I'm still not sure what she's doing incarnating again. I mean, it basically means Heaven is empty right now, and my people are going to be storming the gates any time now.
Kondraki: My god…
Clef: … is currently lying in a coma in a hospital bed nearby, yes. Helpless. Alone… completely vulnerable.
[long silence]
Clef: [manic laughter] Oh Jesus Christ, you're actually buying this bullshit, aren't you?
Kondraki: … what?
Clef: Oh god, the look on your face, it's priceless! It's better than when I told Gears that Alice had hacked my optics and convinced me to get rid of the competition! He nearly put that little monster through an MRI to check for infection in her brain before he figured out I was bullshitting him… but hell, that frigid bastard's got no emotions at all, that's not nearly as fucking hilarious as you!
Kondraki: … YOU LYING SONOVABITCH!
Clef: [manic laughter, strangled] And here's the really fucked up part, Kondraki… what if I'm lying right now? What if I did just tell you the truth before, and what you primitive apes call Heaven is currently laying wide open, ready to be stormed by my followers? What if you die, and your soul crosses the Boundary, and you find those damn artemicite gates covered with the bloody wings of the Elohim nailed to the walls? And what if I'm there, ready to lead you to your eternal reward? And what if I've got ███, and I'm showing her all the things that you'll never [DATA EXPUNGED]?
Kondraki: You BASTARD! I'll kill you!
Clef: You'll never un-think it, Konny! It'll always be back there in the back of your head, nagging, nagging, tickling you, spinning around in an unending spiral…
Kondraki: [Inarticulate scream of rage.]
[It is determined that this is the point where Dr. Clef accidentally fell out of his chair and struck his head nine times against the corner of the desk, fracturing his skull and snapping his neck between the second and third vertebrae.]
<End Log>
Closing Statement: Dr. Clef remains in intensive care, paralyzed from the neck down. Dr. Kondraki has been cleared of all responsibility regarding the incident. |
Written by Danteson
The spell book has been revoked by the Foundation. It's not like she'll use it much anymore. - Dr. Wright.
Chapter One: The Foundation and You!
Now, your job as a witch is to do whatever the nice folks at The Foundation tell you to do. Even if they ask you to do something, and you don't want to do it, you must, or else you may not get your witching license when you grow up! You don't want that to happen, do you?
Another important rule is that you must never ask any questions about any of the other witches or wizards you may see. They might have different powers than you, but don't worry, that's perfectly normal. If The Foundation tells you that they are safe, then you are allowed to be friends with them. Yay!
Chapter Two: How to Cast Your First Spell
Casting spells is easy! Just say the magic words out loud, and imagine the spell happening in front of your very eyes! Always make sure you say the words firmly, correctly, and most importantly, confidently. You will be turning your hair purple before you even know it!
One very important rule that all witches must follow, is that you must never, ever, ever, try and cast a spell that is not listed for you in this book. This is a very serious crime in the witching community, and it could even be punished by burning at the stake! Oh no!
Chapter Three: Safe Spelling!
(Writing in this book is cheating, you cheater!)
Chromus:
Tap an object with your finger, say Chromus, and it will turn any color you want!
Aquafier:
Point and say Aquafier, and your finger will shoot out water like a squirt gun! How fun!
Duco:
If you drag your finger along something and say Duco, then you will make a magic mark, like a magic marker! Don't draw on the walls with this however.
Estus:
Hold a cup in your hands and say Estus, and your drink will be nice and hot, just for you. You can make your own hot chocolate any time.
Nutrimens:
Just hold out your hand and say Nutrimens (be careful, this is a hard word!), and your favorite kind of food will pop up in your hands.
Tergo:
Don't like taking baths? Just use Tergo. It will get you squeaky clean in moments.
Quiesco:
Are you having trouble sleeping? Just whisper Quiesco to your pillow, and you will sleep like a baby.
Mortus:
Only to be used with the permission of a Foundation member! By pointing at the picture of a person and speaking this spell, you cause the pictured person or creature to die. Oh no!
[DATA EXPUNGED] |
Re: Internal Affairs Incident between Drs. "Alto" Clef and ████████ Kondraki, ██-██-████.
This report is CLOSED. Any further edits must be approved by an O-5 level authority, except for basic grammatical and spelling corrections. Any further information about this incident should be placed in a supplemental report.
This report compiled by:
01:12 - Dr. Clef/SL█
01:15 - Dr. Kondraki/SL3
04:37 - Kain Pathos Crow/SL4
04:38 - Dr. Gears/SL█
1:19 - Far2/SL█
1:20 - Bijhan/SL█
1:21 - Dr. Bright/SL█
[DATA CORRUPT]
Synopsis
On ██-██-████, Dr. A. Clef made the following recommendation on the log re: SCP-239
My analysis of the situation has led me to the conclusion that SCP-239 is an unacceptable containment and security risk. Although several proposals have been made re: using her for containing other SCPs, the example of SCP-953 and others must serve as a stark reminder of the risks of overestimating the Foundation's ability to control SCPs with reality-altering powers.
I would therefore like to make the following proposal: a dagger will be constructed of SCP-148, capable of penetrating SCP-239's otherwise invincible skin. This weapon will be used to terminate SCP-239 while she is asleep and her powers are neutralized. Because of the danger of SCP-239 awakening and resisting termination, it is my recommendation that the selected operative carry SCP-668 as well, in order to minimize complications.
One of the dangers of this procedure is the possibility that SCP-239 will awaken and perceive the operative as a friend or "good person," thus changing reality to match. It is for this reason that I would like to volunteer to carry out the procedure personally. A review of my personnel file should indicate that my [DATA EXPUNGED] should allow me to carry out the operation even after a reality shift of this nature.
- Clef
Unfortunately, Dr. Clef made the error of transmitting his proposal en clair instead of through secured channels. Knowledge of his plan of action reached several staff members at Site-17. As documented under Incident Report 239-A, SCP-239 had formed bonds with several staff members at Site-17. Whether motivated by ordinary sympathy or, as Clef predicted, due to SCP-239's reality-altering abilities causing those on site to be perceived as friends, several staff members were motivated to take action to prevent Dr. Clef from carrying out his proposed plan of action: in particular, Dr. ████████ Kondraki.
Evidence relating to the resulting incident is, unfortunately, incomplete and unclear at best. Efforts are currently underway to piece together the events that occurred through personal logs, official records, and post-incident interviews.
Surveillance Log x92███, Date █-██-████
23:02 - Dr. Kondraki departs living quarters
█-██-████
00:03 - Access to SCP-408 containment unit authorized by Dr. Kondraki
00:05 - Dr. Kondraki enters containment
05:13 - Dr. Kondraki exits containment
Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█
I, A█████ H████ C███, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare that the actions I am about to take are mine and mine alone, and that I am not acting on the orders of any outside body or official Foundation representative. I also declare that I am a liar. Which part of my prior statement is a lie I will leave for the historians and you post-incident investigators to puzzle over. Perhaps I was lying that I am a liar. There's an infinite feedback loop to crash your brains.
I believe that I have tipped my hand too far, and the time to act is now. If my suspicions are confirmed, and the staff of Site-17 have been compromised, it is only a matter of time before someone there informs 239 of my plan of action. After that, it's impossible to tell what may result. My unique character flaws may help to protect me from any resulting reality shifts, but a CK-Class restructuring is still a CK-Class restructuring. All things considered, I like the world as it is.
I have constructed several weapons out of telekill alloy in the short time I had to prepare: they should provide me with a variety of kill options at varying ranges. Incidentally, I am disappointed in the other members of the Foundation at their lack of initiative: knowing of a highly dangerous Keter-class SCP's vulnerability, they nonetheless refused to neutralize it. Perhaps this is a result of the SCP's reality-altering powers, or perhaps it is simple sentimentality towards a dangerous weapon that takes the form of a small child. Probably the latter. My "colleagues" do have a distressing tendency to show unwarranted leniency towards highly destructive humanoid Keter-class SCPs.
Hypothesis: if an enemy wished to destroy the Foundation, all they would need is ten nuclear weapons in the kiloton range, disguised as Girl Scouts.
Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in securing the Genovese Blade before leaving Site-19, which means that I will be unable to use it to bypass base security. However, my outside contacts have provided me with a variety of technological surrogates which may suffice. In addition, my personal digital assistant has been linked to my ocular and aural implants. In the event of a mission abort or failure, all data regarding this mission shall be immediately transmitted to the GOC, all O5-level Foundation personnel, the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit, and ███. In the event of personal life sign termination, the Clef unit at the GOC (Treble) is to execute Procedure Pizzicato (Planetary Sterilization).
By the way, I'd like to remind everyone reading this log at Post-Incident Investigation (Hi there, Mel!) that I am a liar and there is no Clef unit at the GOC, no Procedure Pizzicato, and no data dump to be carried out in the event of my death. Probably not. Maybe. There's a good chance of it.
Arrival in ten minutes. Mission begins.
Surveillance Log x92███, Date █-██-█████-██-████
4:45 VTOL 505 arrives at landing pad 7.
4:46 Six (6) Site-17 security agents arrive on-scene.
4:47 Dr. Clef is ordered to exit VTOL 505 and lay down on the ground with his hands on his head. Dr. Clef complies.
4:48 Unknown event. Four (4) security agents temporarily stunned by effects. Remaining two (2) rendered unconscious. Dr. Clef is observed drawing a pistol from his lab coat and firing twelve (12) tranquilizer darts, giving each agent a double-dose of [DATA EXPUNGED].
4:52 Further resistance from Site-17 Security Personnel.
5:02 Resistance neutralized.
5:10 Dr. Clef enters Site-17.
Surveilance Log x92███, Date █-██-████
05:11 Several Level 1 security personnel arrive at Site-17 main entrance.
05:13 Security personnel neutralized by [DATA EXPUNGED].
05:17 Noted change in surroundings, several signs altered, hallway B-7 intersection becomes dead end.
06:02 Large flash of light erupts from hallway B-7.
Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█
It's worse than I thought.
The reality shifts have already started to occur. The walls have shifted, everything's not where it should be. My Site-17 map is completely useless. All I can do is follow the signs and hope they lead me to the right place.
Damn, what the hell is going on here? I could have sworn that was a doorway a moment ago…
Wait a minute.
[Sound of a hand slapping against metal]
Butterflies? [Manic laughter] Konny, you magnificent bastard! I've read your…
[Another male voice is heard saying, "Smile you sonovabitch!"]
[DATA CORRUPT]
Surveilance Log x92███, Date █-██-████
06:04 SCP-408 briefly spotted, before reconfiguration. Dr. Clef identified, Site-17 security alerted.
06:06 Dr. Kondraki spotted, accompanied by 3 other Dr. Kondraki. Subject appears to be holding highly modified camera.
FEED UNAVAILABLE
06:10 Security teams dispatched to containment unit of SCP-239.
FEED AVAILABLE
06:20 Dr. Kondraki neutralized, Dr. Clef leaves hallway B-7
Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█
Konny, you clever, clever bastard! Talked to 408, did you? Convinced them to help you… or did the damn bugs volunteer to do it on their own? No matter, you win this round. Clipped me pretty good, huh? Well, now you're dead… at least, one of you is, I think. Two bullets in the heart, one in the head, you'd think that would be enough, but no, you just had to keep coming, didn't you? Made me get up close and use the knife, didn't you?
Why did you do it, Konny? Are you working for her, now? Did she call you her snuggle-lumpkin, and turn you into her pet? Or are you just doing this because she looks like a little girl, and your damnable genes that tell you that children are to be loved and protected are firing ten thousand fold? It's not a child, Konny, it's a monster, the worst kind of monster, one that hides in plain sight, makes you love it before it butchers you alive.
Whatever you had in that damn flashbulb took out my eyes. I'm thinking second degree burns on my face and forearms, and my retinas are fried to hell. That's fine, they'll grow back. Until then, I can't see a damn thing, but my ocular implants still work. I can still finish the mission.
I just need some help. And I think I know where to find it.
6:25 Site-17 Security Team Bravo ceases to exist.
6:30 Site-17 Security Team Bravo re-emerges, wearing full-plate armor, carrying heaters and arming swords.
6:35 Site-17 Security Team Bravo engages Dr. Clef in hallway B-9.
6:36 Site-17 Security Team Bravo neutralized.
6:37 Dr. Clef ceases movement.
6:38 Dr. Clef proceeds to containment facility for SCP-091-ARC.
6:45 Containment Breach. Biohazard Level 4 Alert. Site-17 goes into Biohazard Lockdown. Automated alert goes out to all other SCP Foundation bases, requesting assistance. Kain Pathos Crow and Dr. Gears respond.
7:01 Hall B7 secure, no movement detected.
7:12 Movement detected, SCP-408 uncloaks. Dr. Kondraki is wounded.
7:25 SCP-408 departs.
7:26 Dr. Kondraki operating cam.
.
..
…
FEED UNAVAILABLE
Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█
I talked with Siddhartha Gautama once. He told me that the world is an illusion. That nothing that exists is real. You've driven it home for me.
Damn butterflies all over the place. Nothing is real, nothing exists. All is illusion. I walk down a hallway and it turns into a dead end, which explodes into a shower of light. None of the signs lead where they should. None of the walls point where they should go. For all I know, you've gotten the little monster out of the facility already.
Except for one very interesting fact.
Have you ever wondered why women instinctively recoil from me, Konny? Have you ever wondered why I was able to get into 91's pen and let her out, or why 166 and I get along so well? Have you ever wondered why I never talk to 105?
If you knew who I was, you'd understand.
But then, if you bastards knew who I was, I'd be another specimen in your collection. Another number to catalogue and store and contain.
Because that's what you do, right? You catalogue, store, and contain, and watch and watch and watch. Never act. Never move. Never take the initiative.
Even when death is staring you straight in the face.
But I can act, Konny. I can always act. That's why your silly little game can't stop me. Why your silly little butterflies and illusions and parlor tricks will never suffice. Because Gautama was wrong. Not everything is an illusion, and not all illusions are indistinguishable from reality.
For instance, what will happen when I release an elemental spirit of wood from its containment? Well, of course, the entire facility will go into biohazard lockdown. No one gets out. So that little monster is going to be trapped in here with me. No way for you quislings to let her out into the world to destroy us all. Perhaps you think that's all I'm going for.
Here's a little hint, buddy. It's not.
No one's ever seen what Ninety-One looks like when she flowers, or fruits.
I'm about to show them.
7:30 Dr. Kondraki focuses image on Hallway F-19, current location of Dr. Clef
7:35 Dr. Clef is seen embracing SCP-091-ARC. Immediate infection occurs.
7:36 Infection now spreads across 90% of Dr. Clef's body.
7:38 Flowers are seen emerging from Dr. Clef's extremities.
7:39 Flowers begin to exude an unknown pheremone.
7:43 Local swarm of SCP-408 begins to lose cohesion.
FEED UNAVAILABLE
Audio Log s17███-████ Date: █-██-████
<unknown>: [Static]…need assi…P-091-ARC containment bree…
<Operator ██████>: Kondraki, is that you? What the hell is going on down there, they're talking about a full lockdown!
<Dr. Kondraki>: Doct…extremely aggresive…warn Cog an…send help…
<Operator ██████>: Dr. Gears? I just got a report that he and Kain are on the way here, don't worry.
<Dr. Kondraki>: [Pained] ….got it all….wrong…
<Operator ██████>: Doc? Doc?! [indistinct, shouting to someone in background]
[DATA CORRUPT]
Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████
<O5-█>: As the first person to become involved in this incident, let's start with your involvement that night.
<Dr. Kondraki>: I had been tending to SCP-408 that night, making sure maintenance kept the feeders filled properly. It was 408 who alerted me.
<O5-█>: How did SCP-408 know about the situation outside?
<Dr. Kondraki>: Hell if I know, and it wouldn't tell me at the time. What mattered, however, was stopping Dr. Clef from causing any more havoc.
<O5-█>: If I recall, you weren't very successful.
<Dr. Kondraki>: No, but then again what could I do? I had a camera and a flock of butterflies. And this wasn't much of a photo shoot.
<O5-█>: What about SCP-239?
<Dr. Kondraki>: What about her?
<O5-█>: The assumption of Dr. Clef is that you were manipulated into protecting her.
<Dr. Kondraki>: It certainly became the focus of my actions once I figured out his plan, which the idiot had revealed to anyone who cared to look.
<O5-█>: Was it true then?
<Dr. Kondraki>: That I did it all to protect SCP-239?
<O5-█>: That you did it because she wanted you to.
<Dr. Kondraki>: To be honest, with the way that girl works, can I even be certain of my intent? The idea that she used me like that, it scares me.
<O5-█>: It scares you that she can control you?
<Dr. Kondraki>: No, it scares me because if she did, I'll have to kill her myself.
<O5-█>: One more thing, did you know about [DATA EXPUNGED]
<Dr. Kondraki>: [Laughs] I don't think anyone doubted she would get caught up in this.
7:46 Entirety of SCP-408's swarm now in disarray.
7:50 SCP-091-ARC has breached containment, Dr. Clef seen leaving containment.
7:53 Humanoid figure seen emerging from cloud of confused 408.
7:57 SCP-408 reverts to basic state, retreats. SCP-336 identified.
8:01 Dr. Clef and SCP-336 seen conversing.
8:03 SCP-336 removes voice modulator.
FEED UNAVAILABLE
Audio Log s17███-████ Date: █-██-████
<Clef>: … you.
<SCP-336>: … me.
<Clef>: … Why are you here?
<SCP-336>: To stop you.
<Clef>: [At this point. Dr. Clef reverted to an unknown language. Foundation linguists have analyzed the content of this audio file, and believe it to be a variant of ancient Sumerian.]
<SCP-336>: [Responds in a similar dialect]
<Clef>: … so there is no other way, then?
<SCP-336>: None. Your motivations may be pure, but your methods are too extreme.
<Clef>: I never stopped loving you, you know.
<SCP-336>: I know.
[DATA EXPUNGED] [It is at this point that SCP-336 removed her voice modulator and began to speak. For the safety of listeners, this portion of the recording was automatically redacted from the record.]
<Clef>: [Cries of pain]
<SCP-336>: Your dedication is remarkable, but you have…
[Shots fired]
FEED AVAILABLE
8:05 Target tracking reacquired. Dr. Clef is seen reloading a handgun, leaning against a wall and clearly shaken. Blood is seen running down from both ears, apparently self-inflicted injuries to both eardrums. A nearby mirror appears to have been shattered with three 9mm rounds. SCP-336 is no longer visible.
8:06 Dr. Clef slumps against the wall and slides down to the ground, appearing to weep. Flowering growths on his body wither and die.
8:08 SCP-408 regains cohesion and begins to swarm around Dr. Clef. Visual contact lost.
Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█
This is [DATA EXPUNGED] previously known as Dr. Clef. I am not making this statement out of my own free will, but under compulsion from the First Wife. Despite my efforts, I was not able to remove my own hearing before a partial command was spoken by SCP-336. I'm not sure what she meant to order me to do, but all I remember hearing are the words, "Tell me the truth."
This is the truth.
… the truth…
[low, manic laughter, breaking into raucous peals]
THE TRUTH!
[Sound of breaking electronics. It is determined that Dr. Clef's PDA was shattered at this point in time.]
Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████
<O5-█>: At what point did you become involved in the incident?
<Dr. Gears>: I was doing work with Professor Kain on SCP-244. We had determined that several sections could be retrofitted to be modular. We were working on a new crystal-powered cannon module when site command gave us the order to respond.
<O5-█>: Did you have any prior knowledge of what was going on?
<Dr. Gears>: Somewhat. We had heard an alarm go off, but no “black alert” breach warning, so we had continued work. More, I worked while Professor Kain was providing feedback. The P.A. system came on in the lab, and site command said Dr. Clef was attempting to terminate SCP-239 without approval, and had caused several containment breaches, in addition to harming other personnel, notably Dr. Kondraki. We were to attempt to contain Dr. Clef until site security could respond.
<O5-█>: Did you find that odd?
<Dr. Gears>: What?
<O5-█>: That you were being asked to stop a hostile action.
<Dr. Gears>: No. Dr. Clef's actions were…unexpected, but I have been called to do many things outside my area of expertise since joining the Foundation.
<O5-█>: What did you do after you received orders?
<Dr. Gears>: Professor Kain entered SCP-244 and stated that he was going to assist Dr. Kondraki. The new module was still attached, and the professor expressed anticipation in regards to using the cannon to disable Dr. Clef. I advised caution; however Professor Kain was already leaving, and may not have heard me.
<O5-█>: You didn't go with him?
<Dr. Gears>: I doubt I would have been able to render much help. Professor Kain is a brilliant man, in the body of a dog, in a large mechanical combat device derived from several SCP. I am a human being with no combat training, and severely limited emotional response. I responded in the way I felt would do the most good.
<O5-█>: And how was that?
<Dr. Gears>: I went to speak with SCP-239.
<Note: audio recoding system damaged, no audio available>
8:12 Dr. Gears leaves testing area shortly after Kain.
8:20 Dr. Gears gains access to the containment area of SCP-239.
8:21 SCP-239 embraces Dr. Gears, who squats down to be face-to-face with SCP-239. Dr. Gears and SCP-239 appear to converse for several minutes, SCP-239 nodding several times.
8:25 Dr. Gears stands and gestures to the door while speaking. SCP-239 collects her “spell book” and takes his hand. SCP-239 has a very stoic expression, but continues to speak as they leave the containment area.
8:27 Dr. Gears stops and collects a book from a office. It appears to be a Chinese dictionary. Dr. Gears gestures to it and to the “spell book” while speaking to SCP-239. SCP-239 smiles and speaks, then takes Dr. Gears' hand, leading him towards the area of the Dr. Clef incident.
FEED UNAVAILABLE
8:21 Kain Pathos Crow enters the incident area.
8:25 Crow discovers Dr. Kondraki.
8:26 The pair converse for several moments.
8:29 A large syringe emerges from the side of SCP-244 and injects an unknown substance into Dr. Kondraki's left arm.
8:32 One of SCP-244's arms reach inside its cockpit and remove a large pitcher of alcohol, handing it to Dr. Kondraki, despite him visibly refusing.
8:35 Crow speaks to Kondraki, then leaves area.
Personal log of Kain Pathos Crow
Hmmm… The walker is performing admirably, although this should be a good test of its combat abilities, as I've never had the chance to test it in an actually red alert situation. (the Section 24 Incident doesn't count because no one can remember what actually happened, and there wasn't enough left to properly identify)
Still, this is a no kill situation. I like Clef. Maybe I can talk to him. I just need to be wary. Don't want to be caught unawares. Not again. Not like last time.
8:40 Crow enters lockdown area, breaching Containment Door 12 with an unknown explosive projectile in the process.
8:41 SCP-122-D stands in Crow's way and begins barking and growling, baring its fangs.
8:42 Crow walks past SCP-122-D, ignoring it completely.
8:43 SCP-122-D reacts badly to this, attempting to attack Crow and SCP-244. SCP-244 reacts defensively, batting SCP-122-D out of the way.
8:44 SCP-122-D continues to attempt to assault Crow, and is continually warded away by SCP-244 with little effort.
8:47 SCP-244 reacts suddenly, blasting SCP-122-D with what appears to be the newly installed "Crystal Module" and is transformed into solid crystal.
8:48 Crow examines the remains of SCP-122-D, then continues on his way.
Personal log of Kain Pathos Crow
Huh…
Bastard had it coming. Nobody liked that mutt anyway. Make a nice lawn ornament though…
Taken from the Post-Incident Report
… did not realize until after the incident that SCP-547's file had been corrupted by SCP-732, turning an otherwise ordinary pyro-kinetic into an apparent five-elemental abomination. Despite popular conception, the presence of l337-speek is not a positive indicator for SCP-732, which i@#$ awesome in every way and really likes Highlande@$% which is wh@#$ wears a black trench coat and carries a katana, but the sudd@#$ presence of Mary-Sue esque elements unnecessary for conversion of the object, which i@#$onna get to date SCP-105 because she loves me so much@#$
Addition PIR-01: Damn it, someone get me an antivirus program in here@#$why can't you tell i'm not electronic@#$@ …
8:49 SCP-547 leaves confinement as emergency containment procedures fail, proceeds down Hallway G-7.
8:40 Dr. Clef, surrounded by a cloud of SCP-408, proceeds down hallway G-7.
8:41 SCP-547 encounters Dr. Clef.
8:42 SCP-547 engages Dr. Clef. Temperature in Hallway G-7 rises to 500 degrees Fahrenheit, igniting all paper and cloth in the area.
8:43 Smoke fills corridor. Dr. Clef disappears from sight due to density of smoke.
8:44 SCP-547 disappears from sight.
8:45 Shots fired.
8:57 Dr. Clef emerges from smoke cloud, with what appear to be second and third-degree burns over 50% of his body.
9:20 Smoke clears. SCP-547-D seen slumped against the wall, having taken between three and four bullet wounds to the head and upper torso. Subsequent autopsy will reveal that the unusual organ in his chest was shattered by the final round, killing him. (Death was confirmed at 11:27 pm, after the incident was concluded)
3:15 Dr. Bright, currently in the body of SCP-963-D143, an elderly African American female, arrives on site, bearing an ordinary satchel.
3:20 Dr. Bright is taken into custody. Dr. Bright is questioned as to his arrival at a Site whose SCPs he is incapable of interacting with, per his restrictions. The Doctor appears confused, and seems not to understand why he came here.
3:25 Upon examination, it was determined that the satchel contained several SCPs, including SCP-018 and SCP-776. Further questioning reveals the Dr. does not remember gathering these SCPs, nor traveling to Site-17. Dr. Bright is remanded into custody until further orders arrive.
9:15 Dr. Bright stands up in his cell, stating simply, "This is why I was brought here." For unknown reasons, guards on his cell not only allow him to leave, but provide him with the satchel as well.
9:25 Dr. Bright confronts Dr. Clef, with the satchel already open in front of him. There is a discussion between the two, with Dr. Bright holding his hand inside of the satchel.
9:32 Dr. Clef fires one shot into Dr. Bright's head, killing his host body instantly. Dr. Bright dies with a smile on his face, for reasons unknown.
Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████
<O5-█>: Dr. Bright, do you have any further idea as to why you ended up at Site-17?
Dr. Bright shakes his head in the negative.
<O5-█>: Are you aware of how you managed to bypass the security measures on the SCPs you collected?
Dr. Bright indicates a negatory.
<O5-█>:Can you please explain the conversation that occurred between yourself and Dr. Clef?
<Dr. Bright>: Oook. Ook eek, ok ook.
<O5-█>:This is ridiculous. I am well aware of the pranks you scientists choose to play upon each other, but this one was undertaken at a poor time. Interrogation of Dr. Bright will continue once he has been returned to a human body.
9:33 Dr. Clef reloads his handgun, "looking" down at the dead body of Dr. Bright. Camera notes an expression of confusion on his face.
9:34 Dr. Clef reaches into the satchel, takes hold of SCP-776.
9:35 Dr. Clef throws SCP-776 against the wall. SCP-776 comes up 3. Water begins to issue forth.
9:36 Dr. Clef rolls SCP-776 a second time. SCP-776 comes up 3 again. Water issues forth at a greater rate of flow.
9:37 Dr. Clef retrieves SCP-776, appears to mutter, "Work, damn it." Rolls a third time. SCP-776 comes up 2. Hallway G-8 quickly becomes frozen in place, cutting Sector 7 of Site-17 off from the rest of the site. Ice will continue to issue from SCP-776 for the next five minutes at a rate of approximately 1000 cubic centimeters every minute.
9:38 Dr. Clef leaves hallway G-8, moving towards the current location of Dr. Gears and SCP-239.
9:39 SCP-018 breaches temporary containment system.
9:31 Dr. Kondraki wakes up, having passed out once injected with unknown liquid by SCP-244.
9:33 Gets up, leg wound seemingly healed, and exits hallway B-7.
9:36 Dr. Kondraki enters living quarters. SCP-408 seen waiting outside.
9:39 Dr. Kondraki still in room, heat signature detected leaving area.
9:43 Dr. Kondraki spotted with SCP-239 and Dr. Gears, now carrying tripod of unknown make and model.
9:44 The two doctors converse, with Dr. Kondraki gesturing to SCP-239 several times.
9:48 Dr. Clef appears.
9:50 Dr. Kondraki engages Dr. Clef.
Investigation Log x77█, Date ██-█-████
The second of the two contraband items that Dr. Kondraki had on his person during the incident happened to be contained within an extra-long tripod. When unscrewed and detached from the main apparatus, the mono-pod of the device acted as a sheath for a straight blade saber of exceptional quality. The make and composition of the blade is still under investigation, but unlike SCP-515-ARC, this one doesn't require SCP classification. At first, a connection to SCP-108 had been presumed, due to the skill with which Dr. Kondraki wielded the blade, but further investigation has revealed that he has more than a simple passing interest in fencing. Details are recorded in Personnel Log cV████.
Partial log, recovered from file-d████.
<Dr. Kondraki>: It's over, Clef! I've got the drop on you this time!
<Dr. Clef>: [Gunshots] Why…do you persist in protecting that monster?!
<Dr. Kondraki>: Because, Dr. Clef, things are never quite so black and white.
<Sound of a metallic clattering sound. It is believed that this is the point where Dr. Clef ran out of ammunition and switched to his backup weapon SCP-1023-ARC >
<Dr. Clef>: [Blades clash] You're the one that's color blind, Konny!
<Dr. Kondraki>: Where the hell were you keeping that thing this whole time, anyway?
[DATA CORRUPT]
Addendum: To the anonymous employee who took the Site-17 surveillance camera footage of Drs. Clef and Kondraki having a swordfight, set it to the "Highlander" theme song, and posted it to the company intraweb with the title, "There Can Be Only One": We will find out who you are, and when we do, you'll be missed greatly.
P.S. Whose smart idea was it to allow SCP-076 to view the footage?
-O5-█
Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████
(forward to 00:42:18)
<O5-██>: Gears, god damn it, what did you say to her?
<Dr. Gears>: Sir, I do not understand your current agitation. The video record is in excellent condition, and the audio in question is 88% complete. You are already aware of what was said, and its effect. I don't…
<O5-██>: Don't. Don't you dare try to pull that with me. I know you Gears, and the logical bullshit you pull with everyone else will NOT work on me. I've seen your file, I've reviewed the event, so DON'T treat me like a goddamn moron. Now you answer me, and you answer me now, what did you SAY?!
<Dr. Gears>: (silence)
<O5-██>: Gears, what you did could potentially bring down the whole Foundation. What's more, you broke the goddamn SCP! What the hell were you thinking? She can do ANYTHING Gears. We want to keep her from experimenting, and you do this! You heartless freak, I swear if…
<Dr. Gears>: I understand your frustration, but I do not view it as warranted. I caused the breach of SCP for 239; however I did so in a way allowing for the re-instatement of SCP. I did not just tell her to do what I asked, thereby calling into question the current “Witch-child” control strategy. I used what resources I had available to extend the control strategy, and affect the end of hostilities initiated by Dr. Clef. SCP-239 remains unaware of the full extent of her abilities, only that they may be augmented by “Over Counsel Wizards” and their “emergency spell books”.
<O5-██>: …what the hell are you talking about?
<Dr. Gears>: Dr. Clef had been attacked by the Great Darkness, a mass of formless evil that reached into our world. It had taken over Dr. Clef, and left only a few witches and wizards with any magic left. I, as an Over Council Wizard, was dispatched, along with the swordsman Kondraki, to subdue Clef and drive the evil from him. Working together, SCP-239 and I would be able to use an Emergency Spell book, which can only be used by two wizards at the same time, and only when the Great Darkness is around.
<O5-██>: …And she believed you?
<Dr. Gears>: Sir, with all due respect, she's eight. Her only question was if she would be allowed to learn to sword-fight as well.
<O5-██>: This is insane… you could have gotten everyone killed! What “emergency spells” did you have her do?
<Dr. Gears>: We started small, with the most basic spell that everyone learns first.
<O5-██>: …which is?
<Dr. Gears>: Magic Missile.
Partial log, recovered from file-d████.
<Dr. Kondraki>: Damn it, Clef, stop this! I don't really want to kill you!
<Dr. Clef>: I… don't want to kill you either… don't want to kill anyone…
<Dr. Kondraki>: What the hell are you talking about? You just murdered two people! Look at yourself!
<Dr. Clef>: Had no choice… had to do it… she can change reality, Konny, she can make the world change just like that…
<Dr. Kondraki>: She's contained! What we're doing works!
<Dr. Clef>: No, it doesn't. It already failed… on me…
<Dr. Kondraki>: … Clef, what the hell are you talking about?
Sudden shout. A female voice can be heard shouting something like, "I cast Magic Missile!" There is a sudden sound of breaking metal, and a scream, then a loud roar.
[DATA CORRUPT]
9:51 Running swordfight to Site-17 Atrium.
9:52 Words exchanged. See Audio Log.
9:55 Dr. Clef observed locking blades with Dr. Kondraki. Dr. Kondraki appears confused.
9:56 Dr. Gears and SCP-239 arrive from eastern entrance. SCP-239 raises her hand, appears to emit a high-energy plasma bolt. SCP-1023 broken. Dr. Clef retreats.
9:57 Kain Pathos Crow breaks through ice barrier. SCP-239 and Dr. Gears hold up books. Dr. Gears points a stirring rod at Dr. Clef, SCP-239 does the same using her "witch's wand."
9:58 Dr. Clef appears to be in pain.
9:59 Dr. Clef suddenly arches his back and screams. Black light issues forth from his mouth and eyes. Dr. Gears appears shocked. SCP-239 appears unfazed. Kain Pathos Crow arrives from western entrance.
10:00 Dr. Clef collapses. Black light turns into a fifty-foot dragon, breaking through the roof of the atrium and causing severe collateral damage to the surrounding facility.
Partial log, recovered from file-d████.
<Unidentifiable male voice> HOLY F—KING SH-T!!!!!!!!!!!!
10:01 Dr. Kondraki appears to be stunned by the events in motion. Kain seen firing crystalline objects from SCP-244.
10:03 SCP-244 has no effect on the Dragon. Dr. Gears takes SCP-239 by the hand, begins to run down Hallway C-12.
10:05 Dr. Kondraki comes to his senses, and recovers the immobile Dr. Clef before running as well. SCP-408 covers his escape.
10:07 The dragon causes further damage to surrounding structures, releases a breath of [DATA EXPUNGED] into hallway.
10:10 Kain catches the dragon's attention, begins to engage the beast.
FEED LOST
Partial Audio log extract from SCP-244's on board recorder
A deafening roaring sound can be heard, followed by sounds of falling masonry
<Kain Pathos Crow>: WELL F—K ME!
Sounds of rapid gunfire
<Kain Pathos Crow>: Alright! Let's see how you like this one you damn bucket of guts!
Sounds of several explosions, which are promptly drowned out by a louder roar.
<Kain Pathos Crow>: … Bugger. That just seemed to piss it o-
Another roar cuts off Kain Pathos Crow, followed by several more explosions, gunfire, and barking
10:08: Dr. Gears and SCP-239 run into the site's strong room. Dr. Gears closes the outer door, but does not engage the blast door. SCP-239 is seen to be panting heavily, bent over with her hands on her knees.
10:09: Dr. Gears speaks to SCP-239, gesturing to the “spell book”. SCP-239 smiles and opens the book, flipping rapidly through the pages.
10:11: SCP-239 picks up the book, and runs over to Dr. Gears, pointing at a page and speaking rapidly. Dr. Gears nods, then gestures to a wall of emergency supplies while speaking.
10:12: SCP-239 appears to search the supplies, speaking and pointing at things. Dr. Gears moves behind SCP-239 and removes a syringe from his lab coat. Dr. Gears injects the syringe into SCP-239 near the neck. SCP-239 appears to shout, then slumps to the ground. Dr. Gears picks up SCP-239, places an emergency blanket over her, and exits the strong room.
Excerpt of post-Event 239-B psychological evaluation of Dr. Gears
Dr. ████████: Was it difficult to do?
Dr. Gears: What?
Dr. ████████: Inject a child with chemicals, knowing it would induce a coma.
Dr. Gears: The action itself was relatively simple. I have performed many injections in the past, and have developed an aptitude for it.
Dr. ████████: You know that's not what I meant.
Dr. Gears: If other options had presented themselves, I would have pursued them. None did. The incident had gotten out of control, and SCP-239 may have accidently caused additional danger if she continued to use her power. I took action to protect myself, SCP-239, and the Foundation.
Dr. ████████: You sound like you're trying to justify it to yourself.
Dr. Gears: It is not an action I would wish to repeat if given other options.
Dr. ████████: What did you say to her, when you picked her up? The video shows you said something in her ear.
Dr. Gears: I don't think that has any bearing on these proceedings.
Dr. ████████: I feel that it does.
Dr. Gears: …I told her goodnight, and sweet dreams.
Excerpt from Audio Log, Observation Room for SCP-239
██-██-████, ████:██:██, 3 Weeks Before Incident.
[BACK]
<Dr. █████> Hey, Cleffie, what's up?
<Dr. Clef> Nothing much, just dropping by to check up on Coldplay.
<Dr. █████> Coldplay?
<Dr. Clef> 547. He's petitioning to be allowed into Omega 7. Good kid, but too young. I came by to convince him to wait a few years, since he and I seem to get along pretty good. How is our little H███████ G██████?
<Dr. █████> Her name is Sigurrós.
<Dr. Clef> I know, just joking.
<Dr. █████> She's doing all right. We've managed to implant the witch suggestion pretty deeply into her psyche. The number of out-of-control incidents is down to 5% of what it used to be. And she likes her witch hat and wands, too. Spends a lot of time sorting them out, giving them names, experimenting on which ones work best with which "spells." All bull, but we encourage it. It keeps her busy but…
<Dr. Clef> … but?
<Dr. █████> Well, she's been experimenting with "unsanctioned spells." We told her very sternly not to do it, but she tries anyway, when she thinks we aren't looking. We haven't told her about the cameras yet, so we try not to, but we're worried she might have another incident.
<Dr. Clef> Hmmm. Maybe I can help.
<Dr. █████> How so?
<Dr. Clef> Well, if she's not going to listen to dear old Professor █████ and the other Wizard School teachers, maybe she'll listen to Grand Arbiter Clef, the very scary and very stern Wizard Magistrate from the Grand High Wizard Council, sent to discipline a very naughty Student Witch who's been breaking the rules.
<Dr. █████> Think that'll work?
<Dr. Clef> Well, you guys aren't going to do it. You like her too much. And hell, it's okay if she hates me, I'm never at Site-17. I'll be the bad cop, no problem.
<Dr. █████> I'm still not sure.
<Dr. Clef> Would you rather wait until a huge incident occurs and O5 orders a termination?
<Dr. █████> True. If you think you can, go for it.
<Dr. Clef> Trust me, when it comes to scaring women, I'm an expert.
<Dr. █████> [laughter] No argument there.
<Dr. Clef> Want me to do it now?
<Dr. █████> Nah. She's watching "Sleeping Beauty" with Iris right now. Let's wait until they're done first.
<Dr. Clef> "Sleeping Beauty?" Ever tell you I used to have a huge crush on Maleficent when I was a kid?
<Dr. █████> You're shitting me.
<Dr. Clef> Hell yeah, hot sorceress babe who can turn into a huge dragon? How sexy is that?
<Dr. █████> I'm starting to see why you scare women.
[MORE]
From the Diary of Subject SCP-239, discovered shortly after Incident 239-B
Date: [3 days before Incident]
Dear Diary,
I did a bad thing today. I was in the garden, and I saw a dead bird and there was a nest of little chicks above it, and they were all crying for their mommy and I used the Vita spell to bring the bird back to life.
I didn't mean to break the rules, but Grand High Wizard Clef told me that if I broke them again, he would banish me to the Netherworld for a hundred years. I'm afraid of Grand High Wizard Clef. He's so scary.
I hope he doesn't find out. I don't want to die :(
Found in the "Deleted Files" folder of Dr. A. Clef's email account, dated 48 hours before incident.
TO: ALL SCP PERSONNEL
FROM: Dr. A. Clef, Site-19
SUBJECT: STOP ME
To all personnel: secure SCP-239 immediately, and put Site-17 into high alert. You need to stop me, or someone is going to die.
About twenty-four hours ago, I was filled with the sudden compulsion to kill SCP-239. It started as a simple thought, but the obsession is growing stronger. I have reason to believe that my plan may have failed. Damn… I should have known she would misconstrue my talk about "severe punishments." Kids are smarter than that, but dumber too… damn it! Stupid of me! How could I be so blind?
wait, what am I doing? Why am I trying to get you to stop me? That little monster she's too dangerous to live. She broke the rules, now she has to die.
Can't do it offhand, need to do this by the book make a proposal first, that's the ticket. Telekill alloy weapon, that should be able to
[EMAIL ENDS]
10:10 Camera cycles over to Hallway H8
10:12 Entire hallway taken over by aggressive plant life. SCP-091-ARC spotted.
10:14 SCP-336 seen emerging from nearby room, dusting herself off.
10:17 SCP-336 approaches SCP-091-ARC. The two converse for several minutes.
10:23 SCP-091-ARC returns to its containment area, SCP-336 reseals the door.
10:24 Hallway H8's plant growth begins to quickly subside and retreat back into SCP-091-ARC's containment.
10:26 SCP-336 trades more words with SCP-091-ARC through the door.
10:28 SCP-336 exits Hallway H8, towards her own containment.
Audio Log c█████-█ Date █-██-████
<SCP-336>: I see that the troubled doctor involved you in this. Poor dear.
<SCP-091-ARC>: [Appears annoyed, angered at SCP-336's presence. ]
<SCP-336>: You can't still blame me for that. You know what happened. You know what he meant to me.
<SCP-091-ARC>: <Unintelligible>
<SCP-336>: What a shame, keeping you locked up here…
<SCP-091-ARC>: <Unintelligible>
<SCP-336>: It's not over yet. These men exist in such a small scope, and we are ever so patient, aren't we my dear?
<SCP-091-ARC>: [Seems to smile]<Unintelligible>
<SCP-336>: I'm sure he misses you too.
Partial Audio log extract from SCP-244's on board recorder
<Kain Pathos Crow>: Damn damn damn DAMN! Nothing's WORKING! Everything I throw at this… thing, it just shrugs off.
unidentified background noise
<Kain Pathos Crow>: [ Kain growls ] I realise the damn thing is the product of some child's imagination, but doesn't the hero always win in these things? I mean, there's always a knight in shining armour with… a sword!? A sword!
10:20 After engaging the creature multiple times, with no success, Kain Pathos Crow activates a previously unknown attachment of SCP-244, a sword of light emitting from the left upper arm, then engages the dragon once more.
10:24 Despite its initial resistance to the item, Crow is successful in harming the creature, severing a large portion of its tail.
10:30 Crow manages to directly impale the creature mid torso, then decapitate it. Life signs cease.
Partial Audio log extract from SCP-244's on board recorder
<Kain Pathos Crow>: I wonder if anyone will mind if I eat that…
Post-Incident Report 239-B: Long-Term Ramifications (Selected Excerpts)
Item 17: The collateral damage from the incident has caused 45% of Site-17's facilities to become unusable without heavy repair.
Proposal: All humanoid SCPs housed at Site-17 of Safe classification are to be moved to other Foundation facilities for temporary housing. All Keter-Class SCPs housed at Site-17 are to be moved to more stable containment facilities on site. Euclid-Class SCPs may be relocated or terminated, on a case-by-case basis.
Priority: Gamma
Item 22: 80% of Site-17's security staff were incapacitated during the incident. 30% of those incapacitated will require lengthy hospital stays.
Proposal: Security staff from other Foundation facilities will be temporarily transferred to Site-17 on a temporary basis. Site-17 to be temporarily downsized until more security staff can be recruited.
Priority: Eta
Item 97: SCP-239 has demonstrated uncontrollable Keter-level capabilities, indirectly causing the deaths of several SCPs, Foundation personnel, and the destruction of a large portion of Site-17.
Proposal: SCP-239 to remain in a medically induced coma for the time being. Dr. Erica Valdason will supervise the patient.
Priority: Beta
Item 102: Several Foundation personnel went over and beyond the call of duty during this incident, at great personal risks to their own health and well-being.
Proposal: For their ingenuity, bravery, and personal sacrifice, the Foundation will award citations of honor to Drs. Bright, Gears, and Kondraki, and to Administrator Kain Pathos Crow.
Priority: Epsilon
Item 138: Dr. A. Clef's actions during this incident directly caused the deaths of several SCPs, Foundation personnel, and the destruction of a large portion of Site-17. In addition, Dr. Clef has demonstrated several non-standard interactions with female SCPs (namely, SCPs 091-ARC, 166, and 336).
Proposal: In light of these facts, and Dr. Clef's own words during the incident, Dr. Alto Clef is to be classified as a Euclid-class humanoid SCP and secured at Site-17. SCP Number and Containment Procedures will be assigned at a later date.
Priority: Alpha
Supplemental Reports
Supplemental Report 239-B-77, Possible links between incident and ORIA
Supplemental Report 239-B-192, Post-incident interview, Dr. A. Clef
END OF FILE |
Able paced towards the towering monstrosity casually, nonchalant in his motions, swaggering and grinning as he did so. A massive two-handed claymore was held in place over one of his shoulders, the whirring gears and saws that covered its surfaced trundling away noisily, while the many small blades that made up its jagged edge slowly slid across the rim contentedly, purring like a cat. The beast in front of him was a monolith in the sparse landscape, a monument of destruction, the waves of hatred and anger radiating off of its frame palpable, rivaling even Able's lust for bloodshed.
It simply stood there, a mass of heavily plated carapace and flesh, small black eyes in its mammoth skull like holes into the void, resting malevolently above thick serrated fangs, slick with drool. Even as he approached it, it was steadily changing, its tissue warping, the plates and armour growing thicker, mounds of muscle and sinew and bone sliding over each other incessantly, all in a bid to reform into something that would better stand this coming assailant.
Truly, this was a Godhead of annihilation, a being that embodied the primal destruction of existence. He could hardly contain his glee. After all this time, after the wait of centuries, he would actually meet a being that could surpass his capacity for violence. Maybe.
He walked until he was mere feet from its colossal form, and, after a moment to savour this wondrous anticipation that he was feeling, he spoke up.
“I have heard tales of creatures like you. Glorious beasts of scale and flesh, talon and fang, a prowess in battle even greater than the immense intellect hiding behind those bestial eyes. They said your kind once ruled the Earth from enormous stockpiles of treasure, killing and eating all who displeased you. But you were knocked from your throne, one by one, by the great warriors who walk this world no longer, until there were no more, and you became but mere myth,” he whispered breathlessly.
“Even I had thought you to be nothing but fairy tales, but yet, here you stand before me, a living dragon…”
There was a rumble from the beast, and its mouth began to move, cracking open slowly, as a statue come suddenly to life.
“Pathetic…” It grumbled, its voice thick and heavy, like a mountain collapsing into itself a thousand times over.
“A dragon? You simple little pile of rot. You understand nothing, as I would expect of a well-trained lapdog”
At this, Able's expression darkened, and the sound of the sword on his shoulder began to pick up as the blades twirled ever so faster.
“….What?” he said slowly, in a low voice that spoke of rage barely contained.
“That is what you are, is it not? A trained and broke mutt, bound with a collar and all,” it murmured, gesturing slightly towards the thick metal choker around his shoulders and neck.
“I chose this,” he replied stiffly, his face contorted into scowl.
“Whether you chose it or not, you are still a dog of those things. The only difference being that you eat from their hands, rather than a bowl,” it sneered, the expression almost visible on its inhuman face.
Able's face twitched, and he tightened his grip on the handle of his weapon, the revolving blades now turning at a considerable speed, protesting with a dull screech.
“At least I can choose my fate,” he roared angrily, launching his sword with a downwards swing at the beast's head like the almighty wrath of some obscene god.
But….
The creature responded in a way Able had never before seen in all his millennia of fighting.
It head butted the weapon. The top of its skull and shell shattered into bulky fragments, its eyes bulging as the inside of its cranium was pulverised. One of its eyes burst with a wet pop, and torrents of thick, viscous fluid gushed from its mouth, chunks of meat and tissue pouring forth like a fountain of blood and gore.
But in head butting the blade, Able was thrown off balance by the force of it, recoiling from the attack automatically, leaving his stomach wide open. In that split second of defencelessness, his sight was filled with the gargantuan fist of the monster, a boulder sized bulk of bony plate, ploughing into his entire torso, smashing into him with the force of a hurricane and knocking his sword from his hands. He was flung over ten metres away like a rag doll, demolishing innumerable obstacles in his way. His body skidded heavily against the ground, shredding the cloth and skin from his back, until he finally came to an abrupt stop, half embedded in a large boulder.
He hung there limply, streams of blood pouring from his eyes, nose, mouth and ears, his face slack in a stunned expression of amazement.
And then he laughed. He laughed long and hard, smiling and baring his pointed teeth in a bloody smirk that made it appear that he had just finished a gruesome meal.
He spoke up in a language long dead, but the meaning of the words he said were unmistakable. He was issuing a challenge.
But to his surprise, the lizard looked like it was having some kind of seizure. It was repeatedly sucking air in heavily through its nostrils, puffing itself up even bigger than it was normally, and consuming the viscera soaked dirt quickly, its huge claws scrabbling away at the ground, and stuffing clumps of it into its toothy maw.
And then something amazing happened. The wound, which had warped the creature's skull into a shape reminiscent of an overripe tomato, began to undo itself, the beast's head shifting back into its regular shape, the broken plates buckling and falling off to be consumed once more, and revealing a shiny wet carapace formed under the old, even thicker than the last.
“Fate? What would you understand of Fate? Fate is life, and you… You and all of this is death,” the creature bellowed, beginning to charge towards him.
At this, Able chuckled.
“Well, I can't argue with that,” he replied gleefully, pulling an enormous mace out of the shadows of his ragged cloak, its handle well over six feet in length, its head nothing more than a mass of whirling spikes, screaming obscenely as they spun in an intricate pattern of death.
The beast lumbered towards him quickly, its mighty footsteps causing the earth to shake, clods of dirt torn up in its wake, bearing down on him with the force and inevitability of an avalanche.
Able pulled back, standing sideways, moving his arms back behind him and grinding his feet into the ground. He turned towards the impending disaster, swinging his weapon idly with a seasoned flair.
And then, the beast was upon him, and he swung, time seeming to stop as his weapon once more collided with the creature's head. There was a deafening crunch as its head was crushed again, splattered into pieces, its spine impacting, the monster becoming visibly shorter as the unstoppable force propelling it met with the immovable force colliding with it.
The sheer amount of chaos generated by those two immense forces meeting launched the reptile several dozen meters away, spinning like an errant missile, lumps of it flying off as it sailed through the air. It hit the earth with a boom, bits and pieces of its frame dotting the landscape around the impact crater like raindrops during spring showers.
Able cracked his neck, ignoring the blood streaming down the thick gash in his leg, or the three along his chest, gained when his opponent slashed at him as he swung. Instead, he discarded the now bent and still mace behind him with an uncaring toss, popped his shoulders back into place with a jerky, awkward shrug, and started to reset his shattered elbow.
The creature pushed itself up, eating everything around it, growing heavier, thicker and more rocklike in appearance. It shook off the excess blood from its form like a dog, droplets of the thick dark liquid spattering the earth around it, and began to clump out of the crater.
It lumbered over the lip of the fissure it had created, only to be greeted with a large chakram shredding into its flesh, the ring digging in as the exterior saw blades spun and forced it ever deeper into the wound. Several more followed suit, flying from Able's hands as he drew them out of the shadows, running towards his opponent.
He threw himself into the air, unleashing a monstrous axe from the folds of his cloak, and hammering down onto his opponent like a bomb.
It shrugged off the attack as a horse does a gnat, trying to swat Able with its huge clawed hands. He dodged and weaved around its sailing fists, planting drill like daggers into its thick hide, leaving them to rip and tear into its flesh. Whenever an attack would come close to landing on him, he would pull himself aside using an embedded knife close at hand.
Still, the creature showed no sign of slowing its attacks, or even that it felt any pain at all. It was single-minded in its assault, with only one objective in its sight.
KILL.
Suddenly, a stray claw caught Able across the shoulder, causing him to stumble. He was rewarded for this action with another crushing fist to the gut, pinning him solidly to the ground. The beast lifted its other claw to deal the finishing blow, an executioner's axe raised for its unsightly purpose, then descending in a flash of light and shadow.
It raised its hand again to crush whatever remained of Able, but was mildly surprised to find that its arm suddenly ended at the elbow, a river of molten blood flowing freely from the wound.
The other arm quickly followed suit, snipped off at the joint by a gigantic mechanical pair of scissors held by Able, the inner blades spinning feverishly, fresh gore spraying from their moving teeth.
The monster attempted to consume the fallen limbs and replace what it had lost, only to meet the bladed boot of Able, kicking it directly in the bottom of the jaw and knocking it onto its back.
Able fell onto the prone creature like a jackal onto its prey, laying into the creature with an animalistic ferocity, screaming incoherently in his berserker blood rage. He kept pounding on the beast with his weapons, pulling out a fresh one each time another got too deeply lodged to pull out, or broken from the sheer strain.
Eventually, he pulled back, his breathing heavy, drenched completely in vile smelling crimson liquid, a bloody, hellish apparition. He watched it still struggle to breath, its body still trying to reform itself.
And that was when he saw it. A pulse emitted from the creature, a shockwave that forced aside the very fabric of reality, the world warping around the beast as a shock of electricity quickly ran across its mutilated body.
But whatever it was, he did not care. It expected no quarter, and he would give it none.
It looked at him weakly, blatant disgust and hatred still as strong, still as clear as it had always been. He pulled a last long sword out of his shredded cloak, and intended to deliver the final blow.
The beast bared its fangs, and shot up as his sword descended. His blade buried itself in the roof of the creatures mouth, travelling straight through its brain and out the top of its head, the blades still spinning as they ripped through the pulsing grey matter.
Still the monster lived, its toothy maw wrapped around Able's arm. It eyed him smugly, and gently, almost reverently, bit directly through his arm, ivory teeth effortlessly slicing through muscle and bone to meet together with a light click.
Able staggered back in surprise, and the creature reared back, head butting him in the skull with a piercing crack, knocking him onto his ass. It gave him a final cold look, and opened its mouth to consume him.
Before its jaws closed around him, Able grabbed the sword still embedded in its head, grasping the hilt from inside its mouth. As the beasts mouth closed around him, he forced it down with all of his strength, slicing the beast clean in two.
But its motions, once set in action, could not be stopped. Its teeth cleaved his upper torso in two, freeing his remaining arm and head to flop lifelessly on the ground.
With his final moments of consciousness, Able thought he could hear a strange whistling sound, like something falling from a great height.
Then… only darkness.
Time passed as a dreamless sleep, and Able awoke to find himself whole and anew, back in his tomb. He moved jerkily, forcing open the coffin that held him, pushing aside the chains hurriedly in a bid to get out of that bitter cold.
It took him several minutes to unlock the stone door that blocked his escape, all the time pawing at the frosty ground with his boots, his breath crystallizing in front of him.
When he finally did emerge, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had never liked the cold, being more a man for heat and warmth.
Still, he reasoned to himself, that was most likely the best fight he had had in ages. There should be a feast to celebrate, with all of his team. Now where had they put that strange "pizza" box? |
Personal Log of "Iceberg"
[NOTE: Dates and some sensitive information removed by Central Records. Original documentation available upon approval.]
███████ ██ ████
Morning
I finally got a promotion. At least, I think it's a promotion. Only a lab assistant, but I'll have access to more SCPs than before (though, I've heard the rumors about some of the Keter class SCPs). And I've heard Dr. Gears is rather respected in this field. Well, I guess I'll just have to see how today turns out. I've heard dying on the first day on these sort of things rarely happens.
Evening
I spent most of the day compiling information. Everything we have has to be put into a digital format and sent down to Central Records. Dr. Gears himself was ok, though seemed to always keep things very professional. I wonder if he's always like that. Today was mostly compiling notes and reports by Dr. Gears. I found a lot of what was documented interesting, but the actual work of putting it on the computer was incredibly dull. And it turns out it's most of my work for the next few days. Oh joy. And I don't think I got a pay raise. I'm starting to wonder just what the Foundation means when they say "promotion."
███████ ██ ████
Morning
Morning was rather uneventful. Breakfast was about the same as always. More work with compiling papers today. Dr. Gears seems to be taking my nickname rather well. Most high-ups just call me Dr. ████.
Evening
Like I thought, more paper work. Seems I'll be heading to a containment site, recording data on SCP-882. One of what we'll be looking at is how long it takes people around it to start hearing things. Grinding and clicking. So basically we'll see how long until it makes people go crazy. Well, that's pleasant. But guess it's what needs to be done.
SCP-076 caused another incident. Great. Working with us or not, it's never been too nice having an immortal super powered psychopath on base. At supper Carl, or SCP-530, tried to get some of my food. Had to push him away. Don't want to get reprimanded, not to mention I've heard how bad it smells.
███████ ██ ████
Morning
Had to get up early today. We had to leave early for the flight to the containment area. I've been busy all week, so I just now got time to write. I should probably get some more sleep soon. It wouldn't be good to be tired when we get there.
Scratch that. It definitely wouldn't be good. We just got word SCP-882 breached containment. Despite this, we're still going on.
Evening
Why oh why did I accept this new job? Not only do we keep going towards a containment breach, when we get there it's freezing, snow everywhere. Admittedly, I've never had much problem with cold weather. But because of this storm, we're stuck here for two whole weeks. It's nearly enough to make you wish you were back working on some of those small time SCPs. On the bright side, the situation is contained. For the moment. I suppose I'm just gonna have to learn to deal with this if I'm going to stay with the Foundation. I'm not sure I have a choice.
Once we got there, Dr. Gears had me immediately begin setting up camp. Or as he put it, "the central observation post." It turns out our new job is to watch the inside of the sealed off area, study group dynamic when under extreme stress. It's not really my area of expertise, but I guess that's why Dr. Gears is in charge here. Setting up the monitoring devices, I finally got a good look at it. SCP-882, that is. For now it's still partially covered in rust, but it's begun to move. With all those gears on it, I guess they sent the right doctor for the job.
███████ ██ ████
Morning
Oh dear God. This morning, D-882/1 (what wonderful names we give) walked straight into it. SCP-882 that is. Just sort of sleepwalking, going down the hall. We have no way to talk to them, so there wasn't anything I could do besides watch and record. And hear him scream. When the beast has its fill of metal, it doth in its endless gluttony hunger after blood, flesh and bone. Maybe I should have tried going into writing. The others in there have been pretty vocal about wanting out. Without anyone coming in for a while, and how fast D-882/1 went, it doesn't seem too likely. I can handle it, I know I can. Doesn't make it any prettier.
Evening
I've been spending some of my spare time working on project ideas. I've got a nearly complete list of tests for SCP-914. I'm also going to give Dr. Gears an idea I have about feeding SCP-682 some of SCP-236. Maybe followed by a loud bang to startle them after a while, like a grenade. A couple others I threw around in my head. It's been helpful really, just focusing on science.
We're down to emergency rations. Doesn't taste too good, but apparently pound for pound it has more nutrients than you'll get from about anything else. Besides what's inside the containment area, it's been kind of boring really.
███████ ██ ████
Morning
We finally got a new supply drop. It slammed right into Agent ████'s jeep. Bad for him, but his outburst was kind of funny. We could use some more stuff to laugh at. One guy's got frostbite already, another subject went off the deep end and "self-terminated". The rest are running low on food. Not a cheery week. I've still got a bit more equipment to set up, so that should prove a healthy distraction for, oh, another hour.
Evening
After dealing with equipment and supplies, it was back to more watching. It's clear they are all being affected, and by quite a bit. You can tell from the way they walk around. Not only that but they're all adding to SCP-882, throwing in metal to make it lower the mental noise. While the camp is far away from where it is being contained, I'm still glad to get the SCP-148 lined work area. Thank God we found that stuff, it's quite useful from what I've read. Anyway, Dr. Gears and myself are the only ones who really work in this area, so Dr. Gears has asked me to keep an eye on the rest of the team in case the range of 882 grows larger than the local researchers say it will. They seem fine for now, though when the supplies came in I noticed ███████ took some pills that are for headaches. But hey, I'm sure it's fine. Jobs like this will give you headaches sometimes.
███████ ██ ████
Morning
Damn it. 882 has a longer range then we thought, it got everyone. Everyone but me and Gears, thanks to the shielded testing area. We had to barricade ourselves in. Not much time to write, just want a possible last entry. And- dang it, they took out the heating system. As if I wasn't cold enough already. Honestly, ever since the incident, it's just been a pa
Evening
Gah, so little time to write. They don't give up, and the damn weather is stopping us from getting a Team down here. Man, these guys are really starting to piss me off. I need a gun. Maybe I'll get a personal one when we get back. Something nice.
███████ ██ ████
Yes, I know. It's been a while since I could write an entry. Apparently a few broken bones will keep you in medical for a while. I don't see how having the psych doctor keep coming in and talk with me helps though. After the evaluation is done. I mean, Glass is an ok guy, I guess, but really? How many psych tests do you really need?
Anyways, once they let me out, first thing first. Most of the equipment made it out, so lucky me, guess who has to process all the data? Did not know the camera was rolling when I beat the guy's face in. Huh. Or even earlier, when I cocktailed him to get him on the ground. Molotov cocktails, what can't they do?
Also met some guy. Kondraki, something like that. Photographer, mainly. But he also got some research work. Kind of nuts, plenty of nasty rumors too. Jackass gave me his paperwork for the weekend.
Speaking of paperwork, already have lots of it. These people really need to learn to go digital. Luckily, I've nearly got Gear's signature down, which will save time. Since I won't have to go ask for it every time. I should probably learn to copy a few others too, speed things up a bit.
Let's see. Dangit, who oversees paychecks? |
Personal Log of Dr.Gears
[NOTE: Dates and some sensitive information removed by Central Records. Original documentation available upon approval.]
███████ ██
Woke up early, due to the sound of explosion. A new Agent entered the containment area of SCP-236, and accidentally stepped on a unit. The resulting explosion almost set off a chain reaction, but was contained successfully. Unknown if Agent survived, but doubtful. Was approached by Dr. █████ in the hall shortly after leaving my dormitory, in regards to a new subject being introduced to SCP-212. I am to supervise and document the proceedings, which will take place tomorrow. The last subject exposed did not survive, and expired in such a way as to require lockdown of the test area. It is hoped the current exposure will not repeat this outcome.
Spent most of the morning preparing documents for transfer to Central Records. We are currently updating our database to an all-digital format. Concerns have been raised due to the sheer volume of data. Anyone could accidentally gain access to sensitive documents, copy them, and cause a security breach. This possibility is remote, but with my own work taking several weeks to compile thus far, I feel it could be valid.
Lunch was eventful. Several members of Zeta-9 had returned from a mission, and proceeded to state their superiority to several other teams present in R-4 lunchroom, most notably Phi-1, who they stated “keep their pansy little asses hidden in the base, while we do all the damn Deep work!”. A sizable altercation broke out, which was separated by Agent Dorlin. After his exposure SCP-212, he has shown remarkable aptitude with his improvements, notably the “scythe-arms”. The rest of the lunch period was uneventful, with the exception of SCP-529 stealing a piece of ham from my plate. Reported it to Site Security, who told me “don't worry about it, she does that sometimes.”
Afternoon devoted to SCP review. Meeting scheduled for tomorrow with SCP-172. Have received information that a new assistant will be assigned to me within the week, the old one having been removed from active service due to exposure to SCP-008. The assistance will be helpful, as the massive amount of compiling and updating is starting to affect my other duties.
███████ ██
Morning uneventful, despite brief lockdown due to a false alarm. Met with new lab assistant after entering office. "Iceberg" is a newly-appointed assistant, and seems somewhat eager to prove himself. Assigned several stacks of reports to be compiled and sent to Central Records to him. I dislike handing off work, but I can not do both jobs at once. Received word that the subject set to be exposed to SCP-212 has failed a drug screening, and will have to be postponed.
Met with SCP-172. “He” seemed very pleased today, and presented me with a blueprint for a non-lethal handgun. Explained that it uses a sequence of chimes and air pulses, controlled by a central mainspring and “timing drum” to emit a series of tones and vibrations, causing instant loss of balance, partial blindness, and vomiting. Requested SCP-172 to create a prototype, to which he replied “Yes comrade, consider it already done.” SCP-172 appears to be working on a new module as well. Inquired as to its function, to which SCP-172 responded: “Your Agents seem lazy, comrade. I will show them the proper way to drill and exercise.” Will inquire with Site Supervision, about whether or not this should be allowed. Remainder of meeting uneventful, SCP-172 commenting several times that he “felt tired”. Appeared to be “winding down” and returned to storage compartment after meeting conclusion.
Ate lunch in office. Iceberg appears to have made a great deal of headway in the reports. I think I'll take him to assist with testing SCP-882. We lack documentation as to the exact time required for SCP-882 to regain animation, and the time needed to manifest the “grinding” in subjects. It appears Iceberg has yet to encounter high-security SCP. This will be a valuable learning experience for him. We will be flying to the containment site at the end of the week.
Minor security breech in the evening. SCP-076 exited containment area with extreme force, causing several injuries. Members of security were talking outside of SCP-076s containment area. SCP-076 misheard a comment, and took offense. Situation resolved, and a new blast door has been ordered. Staff has been reminded not to remain in SCP containment areas when not actively working.
███████ ██
Long flight to the containment area. On our approach, was informed that a security breech had occurred. Agents moving SCP-882 to the testing area had an accident, causing SCP-882 to leave its secured transportation tank and strike a large metal blast door. SCP-882 immediately bonded with the door, and the entire area has been locked down. Eight Agents and several members of staff were sealed in with SCP-882.
Landed in the evening, with snow starting to fall. Informed that a storm is coming, and we will be unable to leave for two weeks. Containment area was mostly unsealed, with the exception of several areas near the site of the accident. Lockdown is being maintained for the area until the full extent of the SCP-882 “infection” is contained. All areas connecting to the accident site have been disconnected from the main containment facility via explosives. It appears that several rooms and halls were “infected” before physical separation could be achieved. SCP-882 “spread” via wiring and other metallic devices. Two Agents, Dr. █████, and three D-Class personnel are still sealed in the affected areas.
Command has informed me that testing will continue as planned, with a new focus on the group dynamic when under extreme stress. Security cameras appear to be unaffected by the infection, and observation has begun. Assigned my assistant to the set-up of a central observation post with several CCTV and other monitoring devices. He has been very quiet. Several of those sealed in with SCP-882 appear very upset. SCP-882 is now only 26% covered in rust, and has started to make small, jerky movements.
███████ ██
The first 24 hours of exposure to SCP-882 have yielded a great deal of data. Auditory effects begin after 18 hours of exposure, varying by one to two hours depending on proximity to SCP-882. The closer a subject is, the quicker the effect. SCP-882 has started converting the door to which it is attached into more gears and cogs, current projections putting full conversion at 56 hours. Other metallic objects connected to the door have not yet begun to covert. SCP-882 is operating normally, no rust visible anywhere on any observable surface, and all components moving in ways consistent to their construction. As has been documented, no form of power is visible, and nothing can be detected to account for SCP-882s continued operation.
One D-Class has died. All personnel isolated with SCP-882 have started to report hearing “noises”; however D-882/1 appears to have been more drastically affected. D-882/1 was observed to have spent long periods of time staring at SCP-882, attempting several times to touch it before being stopped by Agent P█████ and Agent D██. The staffs have created a dormitory in the isolated area, comprised of the break room and two adjoining offices. Two-way communication with the isolated staff is not possible, the PA system being damaged during the isolation procedure, but those isolated have been very vocal. Many requests have been made, most pertaining to time of rescue. D-882/1 was notably more quiet then the rest of staff, and seemed to have become extremely withdrawn.
D-882/1 left the sleeping area at 4:46 a.m., walking out of the “living quarters” and into the area containing SCP-882. D-882/1 stared at SCP-882, and then put his hand into the main mass of SCP-882. Iceberg, who was observing at the time, said D-882/1 appeared to be “sleepwalking”. D-882/1 was immediately drawn into the main mass, screaming and attempting to remove himself from SCP-882. D-882/1 was completely drawn into the main mass in fourteen seconds. The other isolated staff quickly awoke and ran to SCP-882, after hearing D-882/1 screaming. Both the remaining D-Class and Dr.█████ became notably upset, D-882/2 vomiting and fainting after seeing SCP-882. Both Agents advanced on the observation cameras, asking repeatedly to be removed and showing a high degree of anger. D-882/2 and D-882/3 have also shown a strong dislike for Dr.█████.
Today has been uneventful. The storm has come in, and we are unable to leave our current research area. My assistant was visibly upset by the actions of D-882/1, and requested an early observation rotation. The wind is very strong, and some observational equipment has been compromised, but no vital systems as of yet. The containment site command has informed me that we may lose the audio feed to the isolated section in the next few days, due to damage done during separation.
The current site is still in an emergency situation, and the remaining facilities are somewhat cramped. My assistant and I have our research area, and one room for sleeping/eating. Rations are limited to Foundation Emergency Nutrition Rations until we can receive a supply drop, which may be some time. Iceberg has been withdrawn since the incident with SCP-882 and D-882/1. His performance has not been impaired, but he appears distracted at times.
███████ ██
Received an emergency supply drop today, in the middle of a break in the storm. Weather reports show that this storm will continue for several more days, and no drop will be possible after this short lull. The drop missed its mark by only a few yards, and all the supplies were still intact, but Agent ████ was visibly upset when he was told that the container had impacted with his jeep.
Unloading went quickly, and Iceberg assisted in installing much needed lab equipment. The storm began to pick up shortly before we finished unloading, and it appears a member of site staff has contracted frostbite in his hands and face. Amputation of the fingers may be needed. The additional medical and food supplies are a welcome boost, and many staff have shown a great deal of pleasure about moving off emergency rations.
Subjects in the containment area have started to show signs of auditory hallucination. This appears to manifest after 32 hours of exposure to SCP-882. Agent P█████ has committed suicide. He used his service pistol to shoot himself through the temple last night. The remaining subjects were visibly upset by this, D-882-2 appearing to go into mild shock. Food supplies appear to be running low as well, however due to emergency protocols we are unable to re-supply the subjects at this time. Agent D██ is extremely upset, and has spent several hours speaking to the cameras, mostly insults, threats, and sobbing. Agent D██ has also tried several times to destroy the cameras, but has been unsuccessful.
Dr.█████ appears to be the most affected by SCP-882 and its auditory effect. He has already placed several metal objects on SCP-882 affected areas, lessening what he calls “that horrible screeching and grinding”. These actions have angered the other subjects, who have instructed him “not to make things worse”. This appears to run counter to action, as every subject in the containment area has, at some point over the last 24 hours, added metal to SCP-882. At the current rate, all metal in the containment area will be consumed and converted by SCP-882 within 48 hours.
The storm has grown, and is now strong enough to cause some outside walls to creak and vibrate. I have expressed concern over the broadcast range of SCP-882, but local staff state that the effect is proportional to its size, and that we are still well out of range. My assistant and I currently work in an area lined with SCP-148, but the rest of staff may run the risk of exposure. I've asked Iceberg to monitor staff, and note any aberrant behavior.
███████ ██
Unable to make complete log entry. Broadcast range of SCP-882 drastically underrated. Several security breaches, with multiple members of site staff exposed to SCP-882. Dr.█████ appears to have gone insane. Several members of site staff and security killed by Dr.█████ and other members of staff exposed to SCP-882. Iceberg and I have barricaded ourselves in our shielded testing area. Foundation contacted, and Emergency Response Teams have been dispatched, but there is no set arrival time due to weather conditions.
Several sections of the site have been damaged, and the heating system appears to be failing. SCP-882 has been allowed to breach emergency containment. Several subjects exposed to SCP-882 are attempting to gain access to our testing area. Temperature is steadily dropping.
███████ ██
Extraction from site was made at ████ hours, approximately six days after distress beacon was issued to The Foundation in regards to the second security breach by SCP-882. Delay in response due to severe weather conditions. Currently in-route to Site ██ for debriefing.
Response team found the entire site compromised, and a majority of the staff dead due to exposure to freezing temperatures, exposure to SCP-882, or murder. Remaining staff recovered and placed in quarantine with minimal injury. SCP-882 cut back to standard containment parameters, with the resulting metal disposed of quickly. Reconstruction of containment area will commence after judicial review and inquest into both containment failure incidents.
Iceberg provided a great deal of the physical force needed to repel SCP-882 affected staff during the security break down. He has shown an aptitude for improvised hand-to-hand combat weapons, as well as hand-held explosives and incendiary devices, primarily “flash-bang” grenades and Molotov cocktails. The event appears to have altered his personality, observable in the excessive use of force against affected staff, far exceeding the amount needed in some cases. He has suffered several broken bones, frostbite in hands and feet, and may have had very mild SCP-882 exposure. He is being remanded to Medical for evaluation, then to Dr. Glass for psychological evaluation.
I have suffered minimal physical damage, limited to moderate to severe frostbite in the hands and face. I am also being remanded for medical and psychological evaluation. After being cleared by medical staff, Iceberg will begin processing the data gathered from SCP-882, while I gather information on the status of current research projects.
In light of the events of the containment breach, I plan to file a request for SCP-172 regarding a personal protection device. |
Diary of Paul Martin, recovered among other personal belongings
August 22nd, ████
Greg can be a jerk sometimes. It's nice having a roommate who is gone three quarters of the time, but he has a bad habit of just walking out with stuff. He never steals, but sometimes he's tossing stuff in a bag so he can fly out and to a shoot in some desert, and he just doesn't pay attention to what he's grabbing. So I get up, find a note saying he got a call to fly out at 6:30 a.m. and take pictures of some town that got bombed. Wonderful. So I go along, getting ready for work, and my damn shoes are gone. How the hell can you accidentally take a man's shoes, I ask you? They'll never fit him, so I hope he's got a spare set.
Left a voice mail for him, told him to send them back if he's going to be a long time. I wouldn't mind normally, just those were brand new! Last time he took something of mine, I got back pants just coated in dirt and blood from some jungle in the middle of nowhere. I had to throw them out, they stank so bad.
Work was ok, slow as hell. Didn't see Jim in the office today, apparently he's been out sick. I'm so used to seeing him across the hall, the whole day felt off. His desk seemed really empty too…god I hope we're not downsizing.
August 23rd, ████
Came home today to a message from Greg. Says he doesn't have my shoes, but he's still unpacking. I have to wear my old pair that's falling apart, so I was a little pissed. Left a message for him to just keep the damn things. I think I'm still worked up from work today, I shouldn't take it out on him.
I came in to work, all worried that someone would notice my feet, and I find the whole office buzzing. Apparently Jim's house blew up. I mean it freaking EXPLODED, just a crater left. It was all over the news, happened some time last night I guess. Nobody knows what happened to Jim, he might have been inside. The cops are apparently pretty tight-lipped over it, but the word is Jim had a meth lab in his basement, and something went wrong.
What the hell? Jim? a METH LAB?? He could barely make coffee right! Still…it's not like I knew him all that well, just “that guy” at work…he has been acting really weird lately. God…you just never can tell, can you? They're still looking into it, but most people think Jim was in the house.
They already cleared off his desk, can you believe it? Can't even let the dust settle, and the corporate gears just keep turning. I'm going to bed, my feet hurt and I'm still just shocked
August 24th, ████
I found my damn shoes today. they were right in front of the door…I mean right where I always leave them. How the hell did I miss them for two days? What the hell? I called Greg and apologized for snapping on him. Haven't heard from him yet. I just don't get how I didn't see them right freaking there!
They found Jim, or at least they think they did. He was apparently in the house when it blew. The funeral is tomorrow, I don't know if I'll go. I didn't really know him that well…still; I did work with him for years. I don't know, I guess I'm still getting my head around all this. Everyone at work is really quiet, it feels strange.
I spend all that time looking for my shoes, and now I'm having problems with them. They feel funny, too hard and they pinch a little. I bet it's because I've been wearing my old blown-out pair, gotta get used to them again. I tore holes in my new socks, and my toes are kind of red…that's all I need, some damn fungus.
August 25th, ████
This whole day has been weird. First, I couldn't find a bunch of my shirts. I swear I hung up a bunch of them yesterday, but they're all gone. I had to dig one out of the dirty clothes, and even that was weird. The first three I grabbed had holes all over them. If I have freaking moths or some kind of bug, I'm going to kill Greg. He's done this before, brought home some kind of virus or critter by accident, and then we have to spend weeks getting rid of it. I can't think of what I did with my shirts though, how the hell could they all just be gone?
Ok, so then I manage to get out the door, and I realize its trash day. So I go out back, and the freaking trash can is crawling with these bugs! I mean just covered with them, tiny little things, kinda brown and really fast. I walked up to try and see them closer, and they all just ran off the trash and off into the grass. Looked kinda like mites or something…probably just some kind of ant or something I've never seen. Anyway, I go to take the trash down, and these little bugs have freaking eaten out the bottom of the trash can! Tore open all the bags too, so it just dumped everywhere. Had to shovel it all into a spare can. If I see those things again, I'm going to stomp them.
Then, to top it off, I had a freaking bee sting me. At least I think it was a bee…I was at lunch, and suddenly I had this sharp pain on my ankle. I jumped up and started shouting, and it just kept hurting worse and worse. I ripped off my shoe because I thought it was trapped or something. My skin was so raw, even bleeding a little bit, and my sock had a big hole around the heel…and suddenly I realize everyone in the freaking restaurant is staring at me. I paid quick and got the hell out…I feel like such an idiot. Hopefully tomorrow will be better…I think I need to get out more, go relax.
I didn't go to Jim's funeral. It was closed casket…apparently he was in bad shape. I think I need to request a leave…I just feel worn out. This whole day has been screwed up.
August 26th, ████
To hell with this, I am cracking the hell up, and I am going on vacation. The damn stools are missing from the kitchen, all my shirts are gone, and my shoes were in the sink this morning. Either I am sleep-redecorating, going insane, or someone is messing with me. Whichever it is, I am not dealing with this anymore. I called in, and I am leaving today. Going to a hotel by the lake, and just relax a few days. Greg is back tomorrow, and I'm letting him deal with this crap.
I bought new shirts, pants, shoes, everything. Screw this place; see you when you're sane.
[NOTE: Text in the following section is nearly illegible. Interpretation and editing done by Central Records. Original text can be viewed on request.]
September 1st, ████
WHAT THE HELL??! I think Greg is dead, oh god ooh go[illegible]r them, I can still HEAR THEM!!! I came home today, and it was late[illegible]dark out, and I came in. Every light was off, and I saw Greg on the couch over on the other side. He looked like he was sleeping, [illegible]p. So I turned on the light, and the couch and Greg melted. I mean they just melted, like a pile of snow on the sun, and it was all these little bug things, and they just SURGED at me, like a wave, and stone silent the w[illegible]n and I hid, I hid in my room and I can't get the hell out of here, and I hear them picking at the door, but they can't get in. I have every light in here on, and it seems to keep them back. One slipped under the door and stared at me, and I screamed at it and it ran back. I can hear them in the walls, chewing and crawling everywhere. When [illegible]
September 3rd, ████
My name is Paul Martin, and I live at ████████████. I have been trapped in my bedroom for almost two days. Small…things have taken over everything else. They have been trying to get to me for this entire time. Light appears to scare them, and I've kept all the lights on. They have started to attack the wiring in the walls, and I think I the lights will go out very soon. I think they got Jim first, then came home with me from work. they seem to copy things, and then take over. They killed Greg, I'm sure of it. Nobody has been around…can't even get people to look up from the street. I'm going the throw this out the window, and then I am making a run for it. I am not going to die here.
Notes: Diary recovered from rubble of the █████ Building. SCP-236 contained and transported by Agents operating under FBI cover. “Meth Lab” story presented in explanation of the explosion. No human remains recovered from blast area. |
Personal Log of: Agent A█████ A██████, Mobile Task Force Omega-7, "Pandora's Box."
Date: October 10, ████
I shoulda taken the blue pill.
When Dr. ██████████ told me that he had an opening for a doctoral research assistant with a high-level government agency, I thought he meant the CIA or NSA or something. I never expected… well, this.
This job is a nightmare. I haven't seen my family in months. I sleep down the hall from a field agent who has a giant gear sticking out of his neck after a bad run-in with some nano-agent. Thirty minutes ago, a guy ran in and told me to grab a mop: someone decided to feed the seven-legged dog a bit of cheese, and the stink is horrific. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm dead and in hell.
No, hell would be too sane compared to this madness.
At least I don't have to deal directly with any of the SCPs: my job is monitoring staff on site for signs of fatigue and PTSD, and I'm telling you, that's a full-time job. When your nine-to-five is trying to keep Things That Should Not Be from getting out and killing everyone with some mind-bending bizarro power, you tend to get a bit edgy. Had a patient the other day tried to put a knife through the back of his own hand: he'd been working around some thing that apparently gets into your bloodstream and eats you from the inside. He'd been getting less than four hours of sleep a night, and apparently got so messed up he got hallucinations, started thinking he'd been infected even though he checked out clean. Had to knock him out and keep him strapped to a bed overnight while he finally got some rest. Then he jumped back in and went back to his job like nothing happened. Insane.
It's better than what ████████████████████ has to do, though. He's trying to build a psychological profile of some freak bastard who apparently can't die and can make swords out of thin air. Yeah, just like that. Seriously, what is with this place? It's like some sort of insane story dreamed up by a fevered madman. My god.
Gonna try and get some sleep now. Hopefully I'll manage to do so without those freaky rolling eye things running in and staring at me all night.
Date: October 11, ████
So I walk in this morning, and Dr. Franks tells me that ████████████████████ is dead, and now I'm in charge of his project. Joy.
Spent the day going over the file on this SCP-076. My god, it's worse than I thought. This guy is not only a complete psychopath, he's got all the powers of some freakish adolescent fantasy. How the hell am I supposed to analyze someone who doesn't like to be analyzed and can kill an elephant with his bare hands?
This is gonna take a little finessing. I've got an idea, though.
I met Josie the Half-Cat today. I petted her and she rubbed up against my leg. Weirdest feeling having a cat rub hindquarters that aren't there against your shin.
Date: October 12, ████
My idea worked. TOO well.
I thought I'd gain some rapport with 076 by chatting with him over a game or something, something to break the ice. As a warrior type, I thought he might enjoy a board game, something that needs strategy. I chose Stratego, since I've never been a fan of chess, and I've never really enjoyed Go or checkers. He seemed amiable enough, although he kept staring at me hard the whole time I was explaining the rules.
Tried to break the ice and get him to talk more about himself between turns. Didn't work. He was totally engrossed in the game, trying to break apart my strategy. After a while, he got me doing it too. I'd intended to let him win, but about nine turns in, I realized that he was using a really simple tactic: he'd taken his Marshal and was using it to beat down everything by itself, carving a giant swath of destruction in my ranks. I managed to lure him into attacking my Bomb, blew up his Marshal. He then sent his Miners in to take out my Flag, but it wasn't there: I'd used the Bombs as a lure to draw him away from my left, where my Scouts and Miners were. His Flag wasn't too hard to find, and then my Scout ran in and captured it for the win, behind a screen of Miners who disabled his Bombs.
He got really quiet, and I thought he was going to get mad, but then he smiled. "Congratulations," he said, shaking my hand (my fingers still hurt even two hours later). "You are in."
"In what?"
"Task Force Omega-7. You defeated me in a battle of wits and honor, and now you are one of my chosen elite."
That wasn't what I'd planned at all. "I hadn't intended to join your group. I'm a scholar, not a warrior."
"Now you are both." He clapped my shoulder so hard it bruised and walked away.
I tried to get out of it with the section chief. He refused to allow it. "You've got a perfect chance to do a psych profile on Seventy Six," he said. "You'll be around him day and night. A perfect chance for long-term observation."
So ummmm… yeah. Tomorrow I'm checking in for basic training with a bunch of freaks and maniacs who hang around with a completely indestructable killing machine and go straight into the most dangerous situations the Foundation encounters with the intent of kicking its ass. Me, a desk jockey geek with a Masters in Psychology. I guess I could transfer out, but given SCP-076's history of behavior around people he considers weak, that might be career suicide. Or even actual suicide.
I'm so gonna die.
Date: October 27, ████
I'm not dead yet.
My first day of training, however, I wished I was. I shoulda known something was wrong when I showed up and saw about ██ guys (and a few girls) standing around wearing tiny shorts and tank tops: none of them seemed to have an ounce of fat on their bodies, and a couple looked like they could beat the fuck out of Arnold Schwartze… shwan… the Governator… in a no-holds barred brawl. And that's when I show up with my slight beer belly and wire-frame glasses and milquetoast smile, and everyone turns and looks at me like I'm something rather nasty that the dog just did on the carpet.
Seventy Six started them off with a five mile run, ran along next to the group… I should say jogged along… hitting the slowest guy with a rattan stick the whole time to encourage him to run faster. I've still got the welts. By the time it was over, I was nearly passed out on my feet, and then Seventy Six started having us do pushups and pullups and other exercises that I'm convinced were originally developed by the Spanish Inquisition to deal with particularly stubborn heretics.
So I went to bed hurting in places I didn't know I hurt, but if I thought that was pain, I was in for a treat. The next day, Seventy Six started me on some Israeli martial art called "Krav Maga," which I'm convinced is Hebrew for "Kill the Fucking Goyim," no matter what Wikipedia tells me. The highlight of that day's training was running the fuck away after B████ decided to pick up a fucking ROCK and chase me with it. I think I actually pissed myself.
The next day was actually worse.
This is the first chance I've had to write in my diary for a long time: I've just been too exhausted to do more than pass out every chance I get. But Seventy Six told me to take the weekend off. I slept the first thirty hours of it, and god, was it worth it.
He tells me that tomorrow is my final exam. I don't know what that's gonna be like. I'm not looking forward to it at all.
Date: October 28, ████
I wash and I wash, but I can't seem to get it out.
Seventy Six met me alone outside the testing chamber. I was a bit surprised to find any of the members of Omega Seven weren't there. "The last test you take alone," Seventy Six said.
He walked me into the room, and there was a guy tied to a chair: Class D Personnel from the looks of his jumpsuit. The entire room was very clean. Tiled floor, tiled walls, sprinklers in the ceiling, a big drain in the center. There was a tray of surgical instruments next to him.
"Pick up one of the blades, any one," Seventy Six told me, "and start cutting."
I started cutting the ropes. Seventy Six hit me in the face. "No. Start CUTTING."
I dropped the scalpel. "I can't."
He reached into his shadows and pulled out… it was long, and it had a lot of hooks and saw edges and ripping blades to it, whatever it was. "You will. Or I will tire of this entertainment and find some elsewhere. Probably by killing as many of your people as possible, saving you for last, so that you will see them all die."
I didn't answer. He looked at me for a long long while. Then he went to the door.
I think I screamed when I grabbed the knife and stabbed it into the guy. I'm pretty sure I did, because I tasted pennies, which means I'm pretty sure that some of the poor bastard's blood got in my mouth… Seventy Six smiled at that and turned around. "Good," he said. "Now use the hook to pull out his eyes."
… I don't think I can say any more, but… he screamed the whole time, and by the time it was done, I was gone. Stupid of me, I should have seen it coming. Break down my defenses, make me pliable to commands, classic example of mental reprogramming. I learned this in freshman year at █████ for crying out loud, but I fell for it.
He didn't seem pleased. He told me that I needed to get used to killing. He told me to go down to the labs every day, choose a cat or a monkey or a dog - no rats or mice - and kill one every day. Vivisect it alive. Really let myself feel the blood spurt. Said I needed to put aside my weaknesses. Learn to become harder. Stronger.
A monster, that's what he wants me to become. A sociopath. Just like him. No empathy, no guilt, no feelings other than fear and anger. A monster.
I won't let him beat me.
Date: October 31, ████
Happy Halloween.
I was in the lab doing a live dissection of a rhesus monkey when B███████ knocked on the door. "Meet up in the deployment bay in fifteen," she said. "We've got a mission."
I gave the screaming monkey a lethal injection of adrenaline into its heart: it wasn't hard, given the fact that I'd already cracked the ribcage and laid the organ open. B████████ seemed a bit sympathetic as she waited for me to wash the blood off my apron. "We've got an active SCP somewhere in the ██████ area," she said. "Seems dormant, but Command believes it could go active at any moment. Keter-class."
"What's our cover story?" I asked.
"We don't need one," she said, tossing me a towel. "It's Halloween."
The others were suited up by the time I reached the staging area, and we really did look like freaks. The Hostile Environment Protective Isolation Suits (HEPIS) are designed to give you complete protection from all threats biological, chemical, and to also do a decent job against telepathic and mundane threats as well. In addition to the standard kevlar weave and biohazard suits, they contain a Telekill Alloy lined helmet and [DATA EXPUNGED]. End result is it makes you look like a super-soldier out of some videogame, all bulked up and scary-looking with a giant gun that M█████ F████ wouldn't mind using against some L██████. Seventy Six just wore his usual outfit, of course, which was scary enough.
That was the first time I met Iris, too: She was the only other one who wasn't wearing a uniform, was in fact dressed up like a video game character (whom I later found out was J███ from "██████ ████ ███ ████") She had this big camera around her neck and she was wearing a very sensible leather jacket and pants. When I saw her, she was arranging some polaroid pictures in various pockets around her vest and pants. "In case I need them" she said.
We piled into two vans and drove down to ██████ ████████. Fun times. A lot of young people standing around wearing fancy costumes and generally having a great time in a giant three-block outdoor party. We got a lot of attention, and even posed for a few pictures [REVIEWER'S NOTE: Upon Covert insertion and review of photographs, it has been determined that no essential data has leaked. Termination order for civilian bystanders cancelled]. We moved fast, though: our guy on-site was waiting for us, and Seventy Six looked like he was going to snap and kill some poor drunk valley-girl dressed up like L███ C████ who wouldn't stop trying to hit on the tall, brooding, strong goth guy with the realistic-looking prop sword.
The target was in the sewers underneath the party: SCP operatives had managed to trap it in a section of the tunnels, but eventually it was going to make a break for it. We met up with our guy on-site, who was guarding the only exit door. Two operatives set up claymore mines while Iris snapped a picture of the trigger mechanisms. "If it tries to open the door without me reaching through the photo and flipping the switches, it'll blow itself up," she said, sliding the photo into a waterproof bag and slipping it safely into a breast pocket.
Seventy-Six led one team, the other two were led by W███████ and K████. Iris and I were with Seventy Six in the "Special Elements" squad. I stuck close to Seventy-Six before Iris waved me back. "Don't get too close," she said, making a gesture like swinging a sword. "Sometimes, he swings without checking his blood circle first." I took a couple of steps back after that.
Seventy Six seemed to change the moment we went into the danger area: he leaned forward, like a panther, sniffing the air and smiling as he ran a finger along the slick, moldy brick wall. I wasn't so happy. I was in a big, bulky suit that cut down my vision to the sides and back, hearing the sound of my own breathing and the pounding of my own heart. The flashlight didn't light up the darkness enough, and my night vision didn't help either: just made things even spookier with its grainy green appearance.
So when it grabbed me by the neck and dragged me down into the sewage, all I could really do was scream a lot. My helmet was sealed, and I had my own O2 supply that kicked in the moment I got dragged under, so I wasn't in danger of drowning. Choking, yes, the thing's tentacles were grabbing me around the neck and squeezing the life out of me. I had barely enough time to pull the trigger of my gun, feel nothing go off, and realize that I'd forgotten to take it off safety before I blacked out.
I came to in the van, surrounded by a bunch of guys who were looking really tired and beat-up. There was something huge covered in a tarp and strapped down by bungie cords in the middle of the vehicle, something that looked like a cross between a squid, a bicycle, and an MC Escher painting. Seventy Six was nowhere to be found. "What happened?" I managed to croak out.
"You got grabbed," W███████ said. "Able killed it. He's still down there supervising the burning of the eggs and looking for more of them."
"I guess I screwed up, huh?"
"Nah, you did fine." He put a cigarette between my lips and lit it with his zippo. "You lived. That's all we can really ask out of a first-timer."
Cleaning my suit afterwards was a pain: they look kinda like space suits, but they don't put elimination tubes in them, and my bowels did what bowels will do when you get the shit scared out of you (Note to self: consider wearing Depends the next time I go into the field). Seventy Six didn't say a word to me afterwards. No one did. But everyone's thinking it: what the hell am I doing in this group? I'm not a soldier. I can't shoot, I can't fight, all I can do is write stupid papers trying to psychoanalyze that which can't be analyzed by mere psychology.
So what the hell am I doing here?
Date: November 19, ████
Killed three cats today in the lab. The process seems to be getting easier, which kinda scares me: the screaming and mewling doesn't bother me as much as it used to. Maybe I should try burning them alive, next time. Trying to make myself feel something. Revulsion. Fear. Anger. Self-Loathing. Anything's better than just… emptiness.
We did a mission in a quiet little town today. Mining town outside ██████████. By the time we got there, though, about half the town was infected: they all had these things growing out of their eye sockets that made them look like they were weeping blood. We tried shooting them, but they just regenerated the damaged parts. We tried using fire, but it just seemed to make the stuff grow faster, made the infected people explode with the force of a hand grenade, scattering spores all over the place: that's how we lost Y█████. Tried a few other things: [DATA EXPUNGED] We eventually switched tactics after L████ rolled a VX grenade into an infected house: she'd confused it for an incendiary, as it turned out, but it worked. The nerve gas seemed to react to the infection somehow, kill it cleanly, but it also killed the host as well, made them violently reject the infected body parts: heart, eyes, lungs, liver.
Able ordered a resupply and regroup. We traded our incendiaries for nerve gas bombs, kind of like roach foggers. The procedure was to cover the buildings with plastic isolation sheets to seal them up, toss in a half-dozen bombs, wait about an hour for the stuff to really permeate, then move in and mop up the leftovers as needed. At least half the casualties were clearly uninfected: civilians who'd holed up in their rooms and apartments waiting to be rescued.
The elementary school was the worst. There was this one teacher who'd barricaded the doors against the infected, had kept her kindergarten class blissfully ignorant and safe, playing games and listening to music while the monsters roamed around outside. I saw her through the second-story window as I started setting up the covers: she met my eyes, and the look on her face told me she knew what was gonna happen next. I saw her tell her class something, I couldn't tell what, then she walked away from the window.
I was the first one through that door. There were a dozen five-year olds laying on their little beds, blissfully sleeping: the nerve gas had killed them cleanly and instantly while they napped. The teacher was seated at her desk, sitting upright with her head bowed as if she were just taking a rest. She had a mug in her hand, said something like "World's Greatest Teacher," had a crayon-style drawing of a little girl hugging an older lady in a blue dress. There were tears in her eyes. Could have been condensation from the nerve gas.
There was an infected on the roof: the gas must not have permeated high enough to completely kill him. He was hacking up his lungs and twitching a bit, but he wasn't dead, could still walk, and he lunged towards me as I moved towards him. I think he might have been a janitor, he was wearing a blue jumpsuit, and his left wrist had a compound fracture with the bone sticking out. I shot him in the head. Then I kicked the hell out of him with my steel-toed boot. His eye fell out after the fifth kick, so I stomped on it. It popped like a grape.
We were all really quiet coming back, except Able. Seventy Six was his usual cheerful self (sarcasm sarcasm). The rest of us… well, we're just soldiers, not monsters. Wiping out the town had to be done, and an airstrike would have had too much risk of letting the gas fly downwind, hit ███████ and kill another ten thousand poor souls. Explosives could have set off a giant chain reaction, spread spores all across half the continent. We did what needed to be done, but we're not required to feel good about it.
B███████ came into the lab a few minutes ago just as I'd started cremating the remains. She looked tired. Asked me if I couldn't sleep either. I realized it was almost 2am. She offered to stay up with me in my room. As soon as I wash the blood off my hands, I might take her up on that.
Date: November 24, ████
Happy Thanksgiving! Back when I lived in the Real World, the most annoying thing about Turkey Day was hearing my dad demand that we all say at least one thing we were thankful for this year. Well. I've got a few things to be thankful for. I'm thankful that I'm not dead. I'm thankful that the world didn't end. I'm thankful that Able didn't decide to kill us all and use our skins to make drum heads. I'm thankful that no one decided to expose the Slime from Hell to any dead bodies. And mostly, I'm thankful for B██████, the most wonderful girl in the world, who can not only [DATA EXPUNGED], but can also cook a damn fine turkey.
Bit of a small Thanksgiving, though. Able and Squad One had to deploy at the last minute and were out in the field chasing some giant rust monster that apparently was rampaging around this sugar factory, so it was mostly just me, B███████, Iris, and whoever else wanted to drop by for a real Thanksgiving dinner instead of the mass-produced stuff the cafeteria prepared. I went around the facility asking if anyone else wanted to drop by and get some turkey. Gathered up a few folks along the way, then headed over to Dr. Franks' office to see if my old boss wanted some food too.
He was chatting with a rather nice looking guy: possibly Indian or Arabic, was going over the newest field reports from our Mobile Task forces. The guy was just listening and nodding the whole time, stroking the tattoo on his forehead. I asked him if he wanted to come too. "That's fine," he said, smiling. "We'll be busy for a while. If you would like, however, please bring me a turkey leg later."
"That's a good idea," Dr. Franks said. "And save me a plate. I'll drop by to pick it up once we're finished."
Figured the guy was busy, so after dinner, I made two plates with all the fixings, headed over to Dr. Franks' office. As I got closer, though, I started noticing something funny: the cornbread stuffing was starting to smell bad. By the time I got outside the door, it had rotted through so badly that the mold was starting to spread to the meat as well. I dropped the plates and yelled in surprise, and almost hit the "Containment Breach" alarm, before the door opened and the stranger walked out.
"Oh, hell," he sighed. "Not again."
So that's how I first met Cain. Decent guy, even if he isn't much of a gardener. Turns out he was just in town for the day to help Dr. Franks back up some files. "It's best if I'm not around here when Able comes back," he said, before he headed back into the helicopter a few hours later. Then he gave me a funny look. "When the time comes," he said, "Don't hesitate. Do what you must. I'll be fine." I'm really not sure what that's supposed to mean.
Note to self: Whatever ██████ brand cranberry sauce is, it's apparently not made of cranberries: the stuff didn't break down one bit around Cain. Remind me to choose a different brand next year.
Date: November 19, ████
No, the date is not a typo. Yes, it is four days before my last entry. Damn temporal SCPs.
I'm spending the next four days in confinement with the rest of my team to make sure that we don't accidentally pollute the timeline. I'm arguing with the security staff that it would be okay to let us out because, you know, time being an infinite loop and all, if I was going to meet with my past self, I would have done it anyway, and the fact that I didn't means that I'm not gonna. They tell me that the fact that I don't remember ever meeting my future self means that I'm gonna stay in confinement, so there's no point arguing about it. Is it too much to ask for just to get a moment's walk out in the sunlight? The damn padded walls are starting to move in on me.
I don't like this one bit.
The mission was a success, relatively speaking, I guess. We went into the facility with isolation suits on, to retrieve the artifact. Joint mission with MTF ██████ ██, "███ ████ ████." They took the lead, given that they've had more experience underground than we have. We were just there to lay down the pressure once they met up with the artifact.
We lost Squad three two minutes later: the members of that squad just suddenly up and died of old age within three minutes of coming into contact with the artifact's holder. Squad two managed to get out a distress signal before dying. Able closed in on the target shortly afterwards: weirdest thing, watching other people growing old and dying around him while he just kept aging away, hair growing longer, fingernails growing longer, but his body just not aging at all…
<DATA EXPUNGED> had him pinned down under an I-beam, but couldn't reach the artifact because his arm was cut off, and he needed the other one to pin down the monster. I was the closest. Popped open my emergency dose of double-oh six and downed it in one go before running in.
My hand instantly withered the moment I touched the item. I screamed a bit as the insulation suit rotted around me, but managed to yank it away from Abel and the Morphophage and toss it into the Box. B███████ slammed the lid shut and hit the locks, and the entire thing <DATA EXPUNGED>
So yeah, that's how we wound up here four days before we left. I managed to convince them to let me keep my journal, since it's not really gonna have too many temporal effects once I leave. Also convinced them to issue my past self an emergency ration of double-oh six before he goes. I'm sure he'll be confused about why he needs it. I sure was.
Iris seems… I dunno. She's not doing well recently. I'm thinking the stress of the job might be getting to her. Being one of the youngest members of the team can't be easy.
Date: ██████████ ██,████
B███████ came into the room today and told me that she's been given TDY away from Omega-7. "Something bad happened to █████," she said. "I've been asked to talk to her."
█████. That would be SCP-███. [DATA EXPUNGED]
Anyway, B███████ was a ███████ before she transferred to Omega-7, so I guess they figured she was a good person to talk to ████ ██████. She didn't think so. "I've never been raped before, A█████," she pointed out. "How am I supposed to talk to someone who has?"
"Just… listen. Don't let her blame herself. Let her know no one blames her. And don't let her depersonalize. She might be suffering from some post-traumatic stress. I can find a pamphlet for you on that."
"How the hell do you know all this stuff?"
"I was a psych before I was a soldier, remember? This used to be my job."
"Oh yeah," she said, smiling. "I forget that sometimes."
"I do too," I said.
Date: ██████████ ██,████
Retrieval Mission. Dr. Dantensen let Iris out for some reason. They've got the good doctor in solitary. How could he be so stupid…
Date: ██████████ ██,████
Retrieval Mission a success. I'm listing it as, "Recovered under pain of death from SCP-173." That'll sound good on the report.
We caught up to Iris at the ██████ airport, waiting for a flight home. She burst into tears the moment she saw B███████ and I approaching. "Can't you guys just leave me alone?"
<DATA EXPUNGED> put the gun to my head and handed her the polaroid of the internal workings. "You can stop me from killing myself," I said. "All you have to do is reach into the photo and pull out the firing pin."
"You wouldn't dare," she whispered.
"I managed to bring a loaded handgun through airport security, I can and will. And if you can still do what you can do, you won't let me die, because you're too good of a person to let that happen."
I pulled the trigger, and there was a click. She was standing there with the polaroid in one hand and the firing pin in the other. Then she fell down and started crying.
I let B███████ take care of the rest. My job was do
DATE: ██████████ ██, ████
They're all dead.
V█████. N█████. L████ J██████. All of them, they're dead.
Hang on, getting a call from command.
Transcript of Communications between Field Command Mobile Task Force Omega 7 and Foundation Transport Learjet 223
Agent AA: "Field."
Command: "Command here. Let me patch you in to Able."
Agent AA: "My god…"Agent AA: "The… the colony is in flight over ██████. It's going after ███████… oh god, if it gets ahold of that much silicon, then…"Agent AA: "… what?"Agent AA: "I don't… I don't understand. There have to be better agents…"Agent AA: "Think… wait. I have an idea. It's a marshal, but it doesn't have any other troops. I just need to lead it into a bomb…"
<TRANSMISSION ENDS>
Official Citation
Let it be known on this date, Agent A█████ A██████ (Mobile Task Force Omega-7, "Pandora's Box"), while in extreme personal danger to life and limb, did personally engage a Keter-level SCP for the purposes of completing a retrieval operation. Although grievously injured during the attack, which resulted in the death of Agent Beatrice Maddox, Agent A██████' actions allowed SCP-073 to come into attack range of SCP-███, which was at the time rampaging through Foundation Facilities. Upon engaging the enemy, ███████ did <DATA EXPUNGED>
DATE: ██████████ ██, ████
able came by today. he heard abouyt b. it was hard goingn to the funeral. buyt we've all lost friends.
it's hard typing with no hands and no fingers. n i'm still getting used to the mouth wand. sime tomes i mmiss keys. it's my jourmnal. so i don'rt really give a ashiut.
i took a shard to my head too. one piece went into my skull. they say that it hirt part of my brain. mnty sense of empathy might be gone. whatever thar means./
i watched the footaghe of the team dying.; nirt was weird. ni thought i'd feel it more but it was like watching cats being dissected. jusat more guts and blood.
i hear they have a machine that makes you mbetter., i think i'll give it a trey.
Permission for Agent A█████ A██████ to undergo enhancement by SCP-212 - GRANTED
- O5-██
Log Ends: For further information, please see SCP-784-ARC |
The Foundation uses the presence of other businesses and organizations as frontages to mask the existence of the SCP Foundation. These may be anything from local flower shops to international conglomerates. Websites to a few of these facades are as follows:
So Clean, You'd Think You Were In Heaven!
Your premiere source for human remains based soap and lye products! Experience a cleanliness like no other and indulge in the renewing lather that will have you believing in the resurrection of your aging, lifeless cells.
We are a society of skeptics who seek to disprove the foolish beliefs of conspiracy theorists and paranormal enthusiasts.
A gated community for the discerning family.
South Cheyenne Point is a privately-owned civic development aiming at creating an utopic living environment for our denizens. Admissions are only accepted on the basis of availability, and a strict set of requirements must be adhered to before the process may go forward. Currently there are no openings in our development. |
The wind was harsh and cold, swirling gouts of the snow rippling around the man's thin frame, staining his black cloak like stars in the night sky. It tugged at his ragged clothing, sucking what little warmth left in him through his armour. His breath crystallized in front of his face like smoke from the maw of a dragon. His hair whipped around his face like a thing alive, beating senselessly against his cold cheeks and lips incessantly.
Yet despite all this, he stood stock still, staring over his high perch on the snowy mountain, staring at the large flat plains in front of him, his eyes two shards of aged, dirty gray ice, far colder than anything that frigid peak could conjure up.
Stray flakes stuck to his eyelashes, and he blinked them away, rolling down his face, tears that were not real. He tightened his grip on the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, the material groaning in protest, the flecks of dried blood cracking and falling away from his wiry fingers.
He could not say how long he stood there, staring. The moments rolled into days, and the hours to seconds. He could have stood there for a thousand eternities, or for the scantest of instants.
All he knew was that eventually, he would return once more.
And he would fight.
Able's eyes flickered open slowly, glancing towards the clock nailed unceremoniously to the wall with a butcher knife. He had slept for only a few hours.
He did not truly need to sleep, and had not needed to for a very long time. But that was not to say that he did not enjoy the action from time to time. Still, it had been centuries since he had last dreamt, an action he thoroughly relished on the rare occasions that it transpired.
He rose from the simple metal cot, his muscles and joints pliable and supple as if he had not spent several hours inert and motionless. He stalked over to the heavy blast door, a slab of gargantuan metal two feet thick and weighing three tons. He wrenched it aside with ease and a metallic screech of protest from its wheels, the weight of the barrier a more effective deterrent to invaders than any lock. No one but him could open it, as he had ripped the hydraulics out of the sides of it, the little people's fleeting strength no match for the sheer burden of his bedroom door.
Still, they insisted on their inane rules and regulations, two heavily armed guards standing watch over the entrance. They did not move as he left, the tinted shields of their riot gear helms hiding their emotions from Able, had he cared to look.
As he strode through the corridors, a young, almost mousy woman struggled to reach him, the clicking of her high heel shoes resounding from behind him.
"Seventy Six!" she called out plaintively.
"Seventy Six! Please, wait for a moment. I have to talk to you,"she gasped as she ran, nearly out of breath, her cheeks red from exertion.
Able stopped, turning around to face her slowly.
She caught up quickly, bending over double for a moment to catch her breath.
Able studied her fastidiously as she did so.
She was a young woman, in her mid twenties, her eyes almost hidden behind square, thin rimmed glasses, thick, curly, shoulder length, light brown hair framing her small features. She was thin, but not overly so, yet everything about her spoke of a certain petiteness, as if she really was a smaller than she appeared. Her clothes were formal, white blouse, black skirt and tights, and she clutched a old brown clipboard, a pen in her other hand.
"Yes?" asked Able, drawing out the word as languorously as possible. It almost sounded like an insult to the woman, one that spoke of apathy and indifference.
"I have to talk to you," she responded plainly.
"About?" Again, a range of insults in a single word.
"It's a psychological evaluation." she answered, now beginning to sound just a little haughty at his tone.
He simply turned and began to walk away, but she quickly followed suit.
"The higher ups want another psych evaluation because of what you did to Professor Liham," she continued on, hurriedly trying to keep up with his merciless, distance eating strides.
"How is Liham?" chuckled Able, flashing the woman a horrific smile. She nearly visibly recoiled in disgust upon seeing his teeth. They were thin and angular, the majority of the ones in the front filed to grim points, and they crowded his mouth, jostling for space, near bursting out of his mouth.
Still, she carried on, determined not to appear weak to this monstrosity that wore human form.
"He's still in the hospital. His doctors are amazed he's showing brain activity,"
Able muttered something unintelligible, and from the ugly expression he made, she could tell it was not pleasant.
"I'm Doctor Angela Langley, and I'll be evaluating you through your actions today. Would it be possible for me to ask you some questions?"
He looked at her coldly and began to talk animatedly in a tongue that certainly did not sound English. In fact, she had never heard anything like it before. While he spoke, he moved his clawlike hands in odd stratagems, speaking in a bizarre physical manner.
He continued like this for several minutes, the gestures he made getting more and more strange, until at last, he stopped, a quick silence descending before he spoke again, this time in English.
"And that would be my entire history, from the point of when I was born, to right now. Granted I removed some of the unimportant things, but the majority of it was there," he told her calmly.
"But… But I couldn't understand it," she replied worriedly.
"No… You can't," he answered back, increasing his pace exponentially, and leaving her far behind.
He continued that pace until he was at the stadium where he trained with Pandora's Box. They were all already there, waiting for him. While Able set them a strict time to arrive there by, he often arrived there himself at arbitrary times, either several hours too early or late, expecting them to do the same, and woe betide those who were not, becoming his personal "whipping boy" for the rest of the session.
They began with simple exercises, an hour of hard physical labor and several sparring matches. He fought in none of them, instead opting to watch. Fighting such inferior opponents, especially when they were unarmed would only serve to raise his ire, and put him into a foul mood.
Time passed, and soon he decreed they had strained their tiny bodies to their limits, dismissing them with an apathetic wave of his hand.
He trudged slowly through the facility, wallowing in his boredom. There was nothing to do.
There was never anything to do. The people here had proven that they were a mediocre challenge at best, and there was rarely anything that pressed him to his limits anymore. Not like when the world was young…. Back then there was-
"Seventy Six!" came a plaintive call from behind him, causing Able to roll his eyes in annoyance.
"Seventy Six! Please! I still need to talk to you," she yelled, trying to run back up to him.
"What!?" he growled, clearly losing his patience.
"U-uh, Well-" she stuttered, afraid now that he showed his irritation clearly.
Angela took a deep breath, calming her nerves before continuing.
"High Command has said that you must perform a-" she cut off with a grunt as she was lifted off her feet, raised into the air by a hideous mockery of a human hand, gripping her tightly around her throat.
"Listen to me you slug of flesh," hissed Able coldly.
"I have been patient with you because you were not worth my time, but should you continue, I will pull you apart, simply to cease your incessant nattering. Tell your superiors this," he told her with a scowl.
"The only reason I agreed to this imprisonment is because I, for some fleeting moments, believed that you may lead me to something worthwhile with which to amuse myself. And if you all continue to irritate me with worthless, trivial tests, I will find every member of this organization, and everyone ever associated with this organization, locate each and every single one of them, and rip them limb from limb."
"Am I clear… Angela?" he whispered, his face pressed against her cheek.
"Y-y-yes," she stammered out hoarsely, her eyes wide with fear.
"Good," he spat cruelly, dropping her callously onto the floor, leaving her in a sprawled tangle of limbs on the ground.
He could hear her gasping for breath as he stalked away, a sound he had heard countless times, from countless others, often before their death.
Gasping for breath as their lungs filled with blood, their bodies torn and destroyed, numbed hands grasping their weapon with ever unresponsive fingers.
And still, they rose up once more…
Rose up once more…
As he had…
As he rose up once more…
He could remember the sound that raven made…
scratch
The sounds it made as it scraped the ground above him…
scratch scratch
How he wished it would stop…
scratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratch
How he wished the sounds would stop…
So he rose up…
He rose up once more…
He rose up as he would do so many times again…
He rose up as he had done so many times before…
He rose up, cold and gasping for breath, his hands still stained with dirt and filth and blood his blood, and he felt…
He felt…
Rage
Angela started as Able suddenly started ripping segments of steel from the wall as he passed them by, shredding the hardened steel with his fingers as a child would a spiderweb, and casting them aside with errant, uncaring tosses.
She could see the muscles on his shoulders stretch and strain against his neck, tensing so tightly as if to rip themselves free of his body.
And then he stopped. He turned his head, slowly, enough to look at Angela with one crazed, baleful, bloodshot eye and he spoke in the most chilling tone she had ever heard.
"What?"
She turned and fled.
He turned back, looking at his torn and shaking hands, gobbets of their flesh now decorating the metal he had so casually tossed aside. His blood spattered onto the ground with thick wet splashes, a morbid trail for others to follow.
He let them fall to his side, and continued walking, his brows furrowed in disgust and irritation at a world that bored him to his very core.
He hated being bored.
So he intended to do something about it.
Pulling a sword out of the nothing, he observed its notched and serrated edges almost lovingly as they curled across its surface slowly, before giving the weapon a few experimental swings and burying it into the now exposed concrete of the wall.
Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he slid his hands beneath the choker on his neck, partially crushing his throat in his determination not to damage the fragile band of metal.
Confident that he had enough shielding, he snapped it off as quickly as possible.
It exploded violently, a volatile sunburst that decimated his already bleeding hands, shards of shrapnel slicing into his face, neck and torso.
He shrugged off the damage, stretching out his arms as he attempted to fix the somewhat pulped bone and muscles in his hands. There were a small series of clicks, and he regained some of the mobility in the massacred digits, but not much.
No matter, he thought, retrieving a thin barbed chain out of the darkness, spending several minutes wrapping it around his hand, clenched around the hilt of the buried sword.
A few practice tugs to ensure that it was holding, unmindful of the way the chain tore into his already desecrated flesh, the lean man yanked the sword out of the wall, and set about making his own entertainment.
Within twenty minutes, he had cleaved his way though an entire legion of panicked guards, arriving in one of the major containment areas.
Within thirty minutes, there were hordes of skittering crab like creatures swarming across the area, shredding the flesh from anything in their path, leaving naught but gnawed piles of bone behind. One of the corridors had converted itself into the maw of some tremendous beast, luring the unwary in and crushing them with its enormous mandibles, spitting out the remnants with a belch. Occasionally, a strange skeletal human hand would snake out from beneath a some fallen debris, out of an air vent, or even out of the cracks the floor, and snatch a someone up, mulching them into bloody paste as it tried to force them into its hiding spot.
Personnel ran about in terror, guards trying to contain one threat, but falling to another. Some went mad, firing on everything, friend and foe alike. Others lost their minds to far more sinister forces, going berserk, twisting inside, or simply dying on the spot.
And at the center of this chaos, was Able, laughing and screaming like a madman, fighting anything and everything in his way. All around him, blood fell like plentiful rain, the flash of gunfire as lightning, and the hail of weapons fire, screams and roars were thunder in the storm of madness he had created.
The monster laughed manically as he danced across a moving carpet of the scuttling arachnid creatures, bursting them under his weight with errant footfalls, his weapons cutting wide swathes out of their ranks and spattering them onto the walls.
The few people that fell into his way soon fell out again, often in pieces if they came too close, but he did not actively pursue them. Even the guards were largely ignored, unless they attempted to fire at him, in which case retribution was swift, brutal, and deadly.
Soon, the corridor was clean of all movement, with the exception of the odd shuddering corpse.
Able snorted in derision, disgusted at the weakness of his opponents, and how short lived his "entertainment" was.
Preparing to leave, he paused as he heard the crunch of debris being crushed underfoot, and the click of a hammer being cocked back.
Turning to see what fool had come to try and stop him, he rolled his eyes in frustration upon seeing exactly who and what had arrived.
A bloody, trembling Miss Langley, eyes wide with terror, thin hands clutching a pistol far too large for her digits to properly grip, slack kneed and trying to probe her way through the desolation, involuntarily heaving at the sights left behind.
She turned up, starting as she saw Able glaring at her from the end of the corridor, his expression as unamused as hers was fearful.
Her entire body tensed up, her lip trembling, a mild tic beneath one eye. Slowly, she raised the gun, it shaking spastically as she attempted to aim it at the man before her.
"S… S-stop…," she half cried, half mumbled, tears of fear beginning to run down her cheeks, clearing paths through the filth and dust.
The man glared at her, fury growing at this effrontery. Those who had come before had been weaklings, but they had at least been warriors of a sort.
But this… this was disgusting. They might as well be sending maggots to fend him off.
He started towards her, sword raised in one hand to finish the terrible deed.
"Patheti-"
His insult was cut short by the tumultuous crack of a gunshot, the upper portion of his skull blown into generous chunks of meat and bone. On the remainder of his face, there was the beginnings of an expression of surprise.
Langley dropped the smoking gun in shock, staring in surprise and disbelief before retching out of human reflex as the man's thin body staggered a few awkward steps forward before collapsing. It twitched a few times, its scrawny limbs sprawled and entangled as it slumped into a graceless pile on on the floor. |
Item #: SCP-███
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedure: SCP-███ requires no special handling or storage beyond that of typical electronic devices - keep it at a reasonable temperature, dry, away from electromagnetic interference. It is not believed to pose any risk to anyone, therefore can be kept in a secure locker rather than requiring its own chamber.
Description: SCP-███ is a small rectangular device, approximately 4 x 2 x 0.5 cm. It appears to be a storage device of some kind, similar to a modern-day memory card, but much more advanced - our engineers have estimated its storage capacity to be approximately 200 terabytes. Based on the available data, we believe the device to have been constructed in or around the year 2074.
It took several years to construct an interface to allow us to connect it to current computers, and several more to write the software necessary to read what is on it.
The entire content of the device is a single file, a multimedia recording. Our software engineers have managed to recover and convert the file into a format usable on our current computers, but the video appears in monochrome, a single 'layer' of the recording. They say that there are at least 18 such layers, each from either a slightly different angle, or displaying a different colour, leading us to believe that the recording was intended to be viewed on some type of three-dimensional display that has yet to be invented.
Device contents: The recording on the device appears to be a police interview, two detectives interviewing a murder suspect. Due to the missing segments, we don't currently know the names of either of the detectives, or the suspect, who is referred to only as 'Doctor'. We hope that eventually we will be able to recover the missing pieces of the recording and identify the men, the location, and the exact date the recording was made, so we can track the people involved in the years leading up to the events in the recording.
Below is a complete transcript of the section we were able to recover. It begins mid-sentence with the detective nearest the camera, whom we have dubbed 'Detective 1'.
<Begin transcript>
Detective 1: …your confession, we have multiple witnesses, and we have this…
The detective presses a button on the table in front of him, and the wall in the rear of the picture blurs, then fades into what looks like a high-tech laboratory. The wall is a screen of some kind. On the screen, a man is standing in front of what can best be described as a blur, stretching from floor to ceiling. He seems to be shouting something at another, older man, who is aiming a shotgun at him. The man with the weapon, who is the man being interviewed, shouts something back. The younger man turns towards the blur and takes a step forward, at which point the older man fires the shotgun. The left-hand side of the younger man's head explodes, he spins round and falls backwards into the blur, and his entire body disappears.
Doctor: I HAD TO DO IT!
Detective 1: Why?
Doctor: Because of what he was about to do!
Detective 2: Which was what?
Doctor: I don't know. Possibly destroy the universe.
Both detectives chuckle
Detective 1: Destroy the universe. Well, you stopped him, good job, Doctor.
Doctor: I'm serious! And I don't know if I stopped him, you saw yourself, his body fell through. The damage may already be done, it may be too late.
Detective 1: What damage?
Doctor: That'll take some explaining.
Detective 1: You're in some serious trouble, and we've got all the time in the world. Talk.
Doctor: OK, OK. I've been completely co-operative, I'll tell you everything. How much do you know about wormholes?
Detective 1 shrugs.
Detective 2: Only what I've seen in the movies. Bending space, that kind of thing.
Doctor: Yes, exactly. I won't go too much into the science of it, but my team and I were working on developing stable wormholes. A way to instantly travel from one point to another. About 6 months ago, we had a breakthrough. We actually did it.
Detective 1: You made a wormhole?
Doctor: Yes. We managed to open one in the laboratory. We punched a hole in spacetime! An actual wormhole, right there in front of our eyes.
Detective 2: Okaaaaaay… and where did it go to?
Doctor: Philadelphia.
Detective 1: Oh, spectacular. That would've been… May. Nice time of year for Philly, huh?
Detective 2: I dunno, I would've preferred Hawaii.
Doctor: Please, let me continue.
Detective 1: Alright, go ahead.
Doctor: Thank you. When we first opened it, we had no idea where it led to. We ran all the tests we could think of on it, but eventually, we knew we'd have to send something through it. So, we got a video camera and attached a locator device to it, and sent it through.
We left the complex, and activated the locator. It showed that the camera was 150 km away. We got there in 2 hours, and eventually found it halfway up a tree.
Detective 2: Is this going anywhere?
Detective 1: Apart from Philadelphia?
Doctor: Yes, yes, I'm getting there. It's crucial you know the full history before I explain why I had to kill him. May I continue?
Detective 1: Please do.
Doctor: We retrieved the camera, only to find that the battery was dead. We thought that maybe the trip through the wormhole had somehow fried the electronics, drained the battery. We got it back to the lab, and connected it to a charger, hoping maybe it had recorded some footage before whatever it was had killed its battery.
Detective 2: And had it?
Doctor: Yes! But this was the part that shocked us. The first message that appeared on its display was "Chip full". And simultaneously, one of the technicians yelled over that there was nothing wrong with the battery - it had simply been used up, drained.
Detective 1: Meaning?
Doctor: A standard holochip will store 36 hours of recording. The battery for that camera model lasts for 48 hours. We retrieved the camera in 2 hours, detective, yet the battery was depleted and the storage device was full! We checked the contents of the chip. It had a full 36 hours of footage on it.
Detective 1: So, the camera was damaged and wrote garbage to the chip?
Doctor: NO! It worked perfectly! The footage we pulled from it began in the lab showing me smiling into the lens, then going through the wormhole, then into a blinding light - sunshine! Then green, then blue sky. As near as we could tell, it exited the wormhole 35 metres in the air, had fallen, and landed in the tree. Luckily, it had ended up pointing up in the sky. We were able to determine, from weather conditions and the phases of the moon captured by the camera, that it had not only travelled 150 km through space, but it had also travelled 9 days back in time!
Detective 1: Back in time.
Detective 2: Time travel.
Doctor: Yes.
Detective 1: If you're gonna start jerking us around…
Doctor: I'm not, I swear it. The wormhole had not only bent space, but time too.
Detective 1: So you built a time machine.
Doctor: Unintentionally, but, yes, we had. We kept experimenting with it, over the following weeks and months, sending more and more objects through, as well as sterile biological samples, until we were able to accurately calibrate the exit point both spatially and temporally to a high degree of accuracy.
Detective 1: What does that mean?
Doctor: We were able to create wormholes to within 1.5 metres of our intended destination location, and to within 12 minutes of our intended destination time.
Detective 2 sighs.
Detective 2: What has this got to do with you killing Doctor Snow?
Doctor: Everything.
Detective 1: Well how about you use that time machine of yours and skip forward to tonight. Say, when you arrived at the lab.
Doctor: OK. It was important you understood what the device was before I explained.
Detective 2: You've explained. Now, talk.
Doctor: Alright. This evening, I was at home, reading, when the lab's security system telephoned me. It told me that there had been an intrusion into the Restricted Materials compound. That's where we keep all the dangerous chemicals, biological agents, weapons tech, that kind of thing. It said that Doctor Snow had broken in, and removed 8 litres of Rx52.
Detective 1: Rx52?
Doctor: It's an engineered virus, a bio-weapon. It causes a severe rash within 10 minutes of exposure, followed by pustules erupting on the skin. It's non-lethal, and runs its course in about 4 hours, with no lasting effects.
Detective 1: OK. Go on.
Doctor: While Rx52 is non-lethal, it is still very dangerous. Its intended use is to create mass chaos, panic, but not fatalities. That much of it is enough to infect tens of thousands of people. I jumped into to my car and drove to the lab. When I got there and entered the building, the lab's computer greeted me and announced that I had a new message from Doctor Snow. I got it to play the message for me, and that's when I realised what I had to do.
Detective 2: Which was…
Doctor: I had to stop him, whatever the cost.
Detective 1: What was the message from Doctor Snow?
Doctor: It was a last will and testament, of sorts. He explained his plan, every detail of what he was going to do. In his own words, he was going to become a hero, legendary. He'd been planning it for some time, apparently. He was going to use the device to send himself back in time, along with a shotgun, 200 rounds of ammunition, and 8 litres of Rx5. He'd set the spatial co-ordinates to Manhattan, New York, and the temporal co-ordinates to 4 am on the 11th of September, 2001.
Detective 1: WHAT?
Doctor: Yes. He was going to send himself back in time 73 years, to the morning of the attacks. Are you familiar with what happened on September 11th 2001, detective?
Detective 1: Of course, I learned about it in history class, we all did. What was he planning to do?
Doctor: 2,973 people died in those attacks, most of them in the old World Trade Center towers. He was going to stop them.
Detective 2: WHAT? There was no way he could stop them, those planes came from completely different parts of the country.
Doctor: He wasn't going to physically stop the planes. He was going to have the two buildings evacuated. He was going to connect the canisters of Rx52, 4 litres in each tower, to the ventilation systems. He would then contact the authorities and announce that he was a terrorist who was about to release a large quantity of the smallpox virus into both buildings.
Detective 2: Smallpox?
Doctor: It was a deadly virus which was eliminated in the 20th century, but was believed, for a time, to have been held in stockpiles for biological warfare. His plan was two-fold - if the authorities acted as he'd hoped, they would have evacuated both buildings. If they didn't, he would have released the Rx52 by remote into the buildings' ventilation systems. The physical symptoms which Rx52 presents would make people believe that it truly was smallpox, and they would panic, fleeing the building, or at least try to leave, going down to the lower levels if the authorities enacted quarantine procedures.
Detective 1: My god.
Doctor: Yes. Ingenious. The people behind the attacks would have had no way of knowing, but if his plan had succeeded, those planes would have collided with two empty buildings.
Detective 2: What was the weapon for?
Doctor: That was in case he was discovered. He'd thought of everything. In case he was found planting the Rx52, his intention was to get into a gunfight, which would have caused the authorities to turn up and cordon off whichever tower he was found in. He would have told them, between shots, that they were 'too late, I've already done the other tower'. Again, this would have caused both buildings to be evacuated.
Detective 2: OK, let me get this straight. Doctor Snow was going to use your device, a time machine, to stop one of the worst atrocities this country has ever experienced?
Doctor: Yes.
Detective 2: And you stopped him?
Doctor: Yes, he had to be stopped! I couldn't let him interfere!
Detective 2: Why not? He could have saved thousands of lives!
Doctor: No, no, my god, no. He would have changed history! History is fragile, don't you get it? Had he succeeded, history as we know it would have been completely rewritten! He would have created a paradox! We have no idea what would have happened, it could have decimated the fabric of spacetime! Destroyed existence itself!
Both detectives are silent, staring at him
Doctor: DON'T YOU GET IT? HE COULD HAVE LITERALLY TORN THE UNIVERSE APART!
Detective 1: Sit down please. Sit. Down. We'll get into the physics of it later. Continue with your story. What did you do when you'd listened to the message?
Doctor: I ran as fast as I could to the wormhole chamber. When I got there, he'd already activated it. Beside the door were the canisters of Rx52, with the shotgun and ammunition on top. I screamed at him to stop. He turned to look at me, sneered, and told me I was too late. He was standing in front of the wormhole, there was no way I could have reached him in time to stop him going through. Even if he went through without his equipment, he could still create catastrophic damage to the timeline simply by his presence there. I had no choice, I could NOT let him step through. I grabbed the shotgun from where it was, and aimed it at him. I gave him one last
<end transcript> |
ATTENTION: REPORT 076-2/682 IS FOR REVIEW BY CLASS-4 PERSONNEL ONLY
Incident: 076-2/682
SCP involved: SCP-682, SCP-076-2
Personnel involved: Dr. Gears, Prof. Kain Pathos Crow, Generals ████████████ and ████, Mobile Task Force Omega-7 (aka "Pandora's Box")
Date: ██████████
Location: ██████, Northern Canada
Description: Omega-7 dispatched after reports of SCP-682 being sighted in the area. Dr. Gears, Prof. Kain Pathos Crow, Generals ████████████ and ████ temporarily attached to supervise and observe, over objection by SCP-076-2. Contact made three hours after initial deployment.
After several hours of searching, SCP-682 is eventually found in ██████, near ████, having killed the civilian population there.
SCP-076-2 stopped Omega-7 from firing upon 682, then approached the subject. The pair are seen to converse for several minutes, with SCP-076-2 constantly looking back at the main group, and gradually becoming more and more agitated as the conversation goes on.
SCP-076-2 attacked SCP-682 with a bladed weapon. SCP-682 disarmed and attacked SCP-076-2 with its claws, suffering massive damage. SCP-076-2 re-engaged SCP-682 after recovering from the initial assault. Combat proceeded quickly, with both SCPs suffering and dealing enormous amounts of damage. SCP-682 suffered the most damage recorded to date, with damage or removal of over 93% of its body. SCP-076-2 produced more weapons in this single event than the total number recorded since containment.
SCP-682 was incapacitated, with SCP-076-2 preparing to “finish it off”, when the Anomaly occurred. Sensors and monitoring equipment measure a enormous burst of electromagnetic energy, radiation, and wildly varied temperature readings. Site Command received reports from Central Monitoring of a sudden alteration in space-time, localized around SCP-682. Analysis has shown this event to be consistent with both the sudden appearance and disappearance of a black hole, or the theoretical event of a sudden hole forming between our dimension and another.
Serious questions have been raised in light of the Anomaly, and the repulsed reaction SCP-682 has to most organic life. It is currently theorized that SCP-682 is not “alive” in our sense of the word, or possibly is extra-dimensional in origin.
SCP-682 and SCP-076-2 both incapacitated due to physical trauma. SCP-682 moved to temporary containment. Remains of SCP-076-2 and combat area firebombed from the air. Missile test misfire story issued.
Notes: I am telling you, it's not actually here! I think SCP-076 is the same way. It's like poking your finger into a balloon: you're inside it, but still outside of it. They are “projecting” into our reality, and causing all kinds of problems when our reality tries to comprehend them. It's like in programming, when you request a pixel that isn't there, it makes the whole system go haywire! -Dr. █████████ |
“Christ, 204 really did a number on this place.” Agent Williams frowned as he surveyed the damage the Keter level SCP caused to its containment cell.
“I concur. The monetary damages caused by this breach easily numbers in the millions,” Dr. Gears said in his usual blank, apathetic voice.
Williams sighed. He didn't exactly enjoy working with Gears but he was the doctor on duty and Williams honestly didn't feel like filling out all the paperwork necessary to get this mess sorted out. It was quite sad really. He'd rather oversee the operation of Containment Protocol 204 than fill out a few forms.
“How far did it get?” Williams asked.
“SCP-204-1 managed to break out of its containment cell, made its way through several labs, plowed straight through the onsite dormitories, and was making its way to the Euclid containment wing. Fortunately, it wandered into the hallway leading to SCP-615's enclosure and both SCP-204-1 and SCP-204-2 were incinerated by SCP-615's containment measures.”
“I suppose Containment Protocol 204 is now under effect.”
“Correct. The candidates are being gathered as we speak.”
“And what's our total body count?”
“The current tally is sixteen casualties. Nine dead and rest wounded.”
As they traced the line of destruction SCP-204 had wrought, Williams frowned. There shouldn't have been any reason the thing could get this far. The EMP generators alone should have been enough to keep the SCP contained.
“Oh, and the EMP generators were never online,” Gears said, as if reading Williams' mind. “They weren't powered on today and by the time they were spooled up, SCP-204 was already contained. The staff at fault will be properly reprimanded.”
Farther down the path of destruction, they finally made their way to the ruins of the on-site dormitories. Fortunately, they were mostly empty since the majority of the staff was on duty, but as Williams and Gears could see, rescue crews were still digging survivors, and bodies, out of the wreckage.
“I would advise you to be cautious,” Gears warned. “This area has not yet been completely secured, and there is still a danger of catastrophic structural failure.”
“I'll keep that in mind- oh damn.”
Gears and Williams found themselves in what was left of one of the dorms. In the corner, there was a woman huddled with her child. Williams was slightly disturbed, as the scene reminded him of those macabre remains of the people of Pompeii. The woman, apparently a junior or assistant researcher judging from her torn and shredded lab coat, was clutching a young girl who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. It wasn't completely uncommon for on-site personnel to have children here, but it was still a jarring sight.
“Correction, casualty count has now been increased to twenty three,” Gears said dryly. “The cause of her wounds was probably by falling debris.”
“No…” Williams inched closer to examine the bodies. “Her hands… the scabs on her knuckles suggest she was fighting something.”
“Are you implying that she engaged in physical combat with SCP-204-1?” Gears asked.
“The evidence doesn't lie.”
“I find that scenario highly unlikely.”
“Then you haven't seen what a mother defending her child is capable of.” Williams shook his head. “I've heard stories of women lifting cars and tearing doors off their hinges to save their kids. Maybe we can add punching out SCP-204-1 to the list?”
“Well, it's not like it made any difference. She and the child are still both deceased,” Gears droned on.
“Gears!” Williams cried.
“I am aware of your tendency to give respect to the dead, but-“
“No, it's not that!” Williams knelt down and checked the girl's pulse. “They're both still alive!”
“What?” Gears' eyes widened by several micrometers, and the muscles around his mouth tightened ever so slightly. This was possibly the closest he ever got to genuine, complete surprise.
“I think,” Williams leaned even closer, craning his ear against the mother's mouth, “I think she's singing a lullaby.”
“So how do you think they survived?” Williams mused as medical teams carted Assistant Researcher Ann Wells and her daughter Jill Wells away to the infirmary. “SCP-204-1 doesn't leave jobs half finished.”
“Most likely, SCP-204-1 initiated a cost-benefit analysis and came to the conclusion that terminating Dr. Wells and her daughter wasn't beneficial.”
“Huh, is that so?”
“Do you have an alternate theory?”
“Yeah, but you'll just think it's stupid.” Williams shrugged.
“How foolish you, making assumptions about me like that. I am above that sort of pettiness.”
“Well, I've got absolutely no evidence to back this up, but maybe, just maybe, SCP-204-1 realized that it and Dr. Wells weren't so different?”
“That's implying that SCP-204-1 possesses a level of intelligence that is completely unheard of based on our research of it.”
“I know I know, but it's just a gut feeling.”
“I find this turn of events highly unusual,” Gears said.
It had been four days since the SCP-204 containment breach. Containment Protocol 204 had been put into effect immediately after and it had finally paid off, but with results that nobody had quite anticipated.
“Of all the people, it had to choose Jill.” Williams shook his head.
“Need I remind you, that Jill is merely a name on a piece of paper that no longer exists. She's an SCP now.” Gears coldly reminded him.
“What's going to happen to the mother?” Williams asked.
“Dr. Wells will be given a rigorous amnestic treatment and then be transferred to another facility.”
“So, it'll be as if Jill never existed, then.”
“The Foundation has no place for sentimentality, Agent Williams. I'm not quite sure why you're expressing so much concern over two individuals you have never met.”
“I'm pretty sure explaining the reasons would make your head explode.” Williams shook his head and walked away.
Gears, however, opted to stay in the monitoring room and stared at the security screens for what seemed to be a very long time. If the man was thinking of anything, none of the personnel present could even begin to guess what it was. They merely tried to pretend he wasn't there and continued with their duties. There, sitting in the middle of the newly reconstructed containment cell sat Dr. Wells, or at least something that resembled her, watching over Jill as she slept.
Meanwhile, the sound recording equipment inside the cell began to pick up something odd and faint. The sound engineer on duty was about to disregard it as random interference, but thought sounded vaguely familiar, like a lullaby. |
Dear Diary,
Hello! My name is Lucy Campbell and I am 8 years old. When I grow up I want to be an actress like Emma Watson because she is very pretty! My mummy is also very pretty and very clever and helps me with my homework (I am not very good at it). My daddy works at a big white house called a sykiatric psychiatric hospital where he makes sad people feel better. When he came home today he was very happy and said that he was getting a promotion which means he is working for the guvermint government. I think he is going to meet the prime minister!
Dear Diary,
School was really good today! Mummy made me a choclate chocolate sandwich for my lunch and miss Young gave me a smiley face on my maths homework! Daddy did not come back home today because mummy got an e mail from daddy that said that he would not come home for a while. But mummy said that it was all right and daddy would be home soon and then she bought me an ice cream! Mummy said that I couldn't have any sweets tomorrow because my teeth would fall out, but I think she just wants them for herself. Grrr!
Dear Diary,
Yay! Daddy sent me an e mail today! He told me that he was writing a lot of stories and he was going to send them to me so I do not get bored. Daddy's stories are the best! I asked daddy if he had met the prime minister but he said that no, he hadn't seen him. I think he did meet the prime minister but he was told that it was a top secret meeting and he couldn't tell anyone… or else!
School was OK, except Cindy kept throwing rubbers at me when miss Young wasn't looking. When I'm a witch the first thing I will do is turn her into a slug!
Dear Diary,
Miss Young teached taught us about pirates today! I like pirates, but I don't think they could beat a wizard in a fight because wizards have magic and pirates don't. At break, me and Justin had a swordfight with some long sticks and I won! But then he started crying and I had to give him some of my chocolate bar to get him to shut up (boys can be such big babies sometimes!).
Daddy sent me a story today! It was about a big man that had to stand still when you looked at him. I think he would be good to play tag with because you could look at him and then he could not move! I think mummy would like the story but daddy said that the stories were secret stories.
Dear Diary,
I hate Cindy! Today at lunch she called me a big ugly pig and she made oink noises, so I punched her in the arm. It wasn't very hard but she started crying and told miss Young and miss Young made me say sorry to her! I hope Cindy turns into a maggot and is eaten by birds!
Daddy sent me another story! It was about a big dragon that was really angry and really hard to beat. Maybe it would eat Cindy? I think daddy forgot about the knight in shining armour that slays the big dragon though!
Dear Diary,
Ha ha, Cindy got in trouble today! She made a face at me during art time, but miss Young saw her and told her off! Miss Young liked my painting too – it was a big mean dragon like the one in daddy's story, and there was a handsom handsome knight and some birds and a big shiny sun! I really like art.
Daddy sent me a funny story today! It was about a man that has a necklace that turns him into a monkey. I asked daddy if he could get me that necklace so I could be a monkey but he did not send me an e mail so I guess he can't. Oh well.
Site ██ Log ██/██/██
1417h - Level 1 Buzzphrase “██████ ██ ████████” detected in outgoing transmission; Code Alpha information breach confirmed.
1419h - Buzzphrase traced to Dr. ████████; Dr. ████████ terminated.
1420h – Request sent for deployment of MTF-██ to [DATA EXPUNGED]. Request approved; MTF-██ mobilised.
1428h – Total containment of information breach confirmed by MTF-██. |
There is, in a small national park somewhere in the US, a bike path. This bike path is hardly unusual: it is roughly twelve miles long, and makes a circuit around a small lake. Most of the path is wooded, and it is regarded by the locals as a beautiful little place to take a breather and catch some peace and quiet.
Many who jog or bike along the path observe nothing out of the ordinary. But there are those lone bicyclists who happen across the Runner.
Mark coasted his bicycle to a stop on the side of the path. Standing astride it, he drank eagerly from his water bottle. Finally, he was able to enjoy a day off, instead of staying home and paying bills, or mowing the lawn, or fixing the roof. And he was at the park at the perfect time, too: he was practically the only one there, besides a few families in the picnic area and the old men who fished from the pier.
Wiping his mouth on his arm, Mark put the bottle back and was about to pedal off, when someone ran up behind him.
“Nice day, eh?” the young man said. He was tall and thin, and wore a hooded grey sweatshirt and black running pants. His face was concealed by a scarf and sunglasses. Since summer had yet to take the place of the mild spring, Mark saw nothing unusual about this.
“Yeah. It's perfect out.”
The young man nodded. He swayed when he stood still, as if he was anxious to keep moving.
“You up for a race?”
“A race? That'd be pretty unfair.”
“Maybe. But so is life, you know?"
Mark couldn't help but chuckle.
“Okay. You're on. Where to?”
The young man thought for a moment.
“Right past the tenth mile marker, by the old storm shelter.”
“Fine by me. That's a pretty good distance from here, though. You sure you can keep up?”
“I'll give you a ten-second head start, even. Just go whenever you're ready.”
While Mark did host some suspicions about the strange young man, he brushed them aside. Sure, he was a bit odd, but he seemed nice enough.
Mark put his foot to the pedal and rode off. His speed was almost casual, and with good reason: the ten second head start would let him build up enough speed to leave any jogger in the dust.
“You know, you're going to have to do much better than that.”
Mark looked to the left to see the young man there, keeping an equal pace with the bicycle without moving at much more than a light jog. The ten seconds had achieved nothing.
How did he do that?
Mark immediately shifted gears and began to put some force behind his pedaling. The bicycle shot off down the path. Mark kept his head low, cutting through the air with aerodynamic precision. The wind whipped around him, filling his lungs with cool air. The trees went by in a blur of green and brown. He kept pushing himself further, faster, faster, faster. There was no way the jogger was anywhere close to him.
Turning his head to the side, Mark saw to his dismay that the young man was still there, matching his speed perfectly. But now he wasn't even running on the path anymore: he ran straight through the woods, dodging obstacles with the grace of a deer. Actually, it would be inaccurate to say that he even ran. He flew. His feet barely touched the ground before he took another leaping stride forward. His scarf waved behind him like a tail. The way he ran, Mark could imagine him laughing.
Mark's amazement at this was numbed by the overwhelming sensory maelstrom his speed had achieved. There was no noise but the wind in his ears, no taste or smell but the chill air in his mouth and nose, no sight other than a stripe of grey in a sea of green, nothing to touch but the handlebars.
Then, the shelter appeared up ahead on the side of the path. The finish line. Mark looked off into the woods. There was no sign of the young man. He must have left him behind. Redirecting his gaze towards the shelter, he gasped and hit the brakes, hard. He screeched to a halt in front of the old wooden storm shelter, twin streaks of rubber burned into the path behind him, and the young man standing in front of him.
“Nice effort there,” he said, not the least bit winded. Mark on the other hand, could not reply due to his shortness of breath. “I almost thought you were a lost cause at the beginning, but you pulled through for the finish. Best race I've had in a long while.”
“H-how…how did you…do that?” Mark panted.
“I really don't know what you're talking about. But anyway, here's your prize.”
“What prize?”
“Your consolation prize, of course!” The young man almost sounded insulted. “I can't let effort like that go unrewarded. So much better than the others.”
Mark's vision began to warp. The forest seemed to grow darker, unreal. The young man seemed to loom larger, and more mysterious. Shadows and shapes that should not have been there appeared in the forest. Bodies. Dozens of them. Bodies impaled on saplings, bodies with heads smashed in by rocks, bodies torn open by some ungodly force, bodies hanging by their own entrails from the branches of trees. A row of bloody bicycle helmets were perched on a fence of sharpened sticks. They were there, and they were not, shifting between the real, the imagined, and the forgotten.
“Here's your prize, a word from the wise,” the young man said, in a voice textured the way no man's was. “The one who does not give his all receives nothing but his grave.”
The Runner walked into the shelter and was gone. |
*shatter*
FLASH
I'm lying on the floor, in more pain than I've ever felt before. I guess this is what it feels like to have a bullet in your gut. The pain is a constant but everything else is fading: I must be losing blood fast.
Wait - how did I get here? The last thing I remember was the break-in, that little guy turning around as they ran, the gunshot… and Angie gasping, clutching her stomach, and collapsing in a pool of her own blood.
ANGIE! Where is my wife?! There, standing where I was when she got shot, she looks as shocked as I am. She rushes over to me, not even paying attention to the furniture in her way. The old oil lamp falls off the end table, hits the floor…
*shatter*
FLASH
The pain is gone, and I'm back on my feet. But I was just… oh God, Angie's on the floor bleeding, like she was before. I've got to help her, I try to get over to her, to help her, stop the bleeding, something, ANYTHING. My elbow brushes the old oil lamp, it falls…
*shatter*
FLASH
FUCKING OW! I'm back on the floor, but at least Angie's okay. What the Hell is going on here? First she's dying, then I'm the one dying, then her, then me again - and nothing else is changing at all! Angie runs over to me, bumps the table, knocks over that old lamp…
*shatter*
FLASH
Switched again? How? It doesn't matter - I have to help Angie. I rush over, knocking over a table on the way…
*shatter*
FLASH
I'm the one dying again, but Angie doesn't look like she's any happier. She looks so confused, so scared. She looks at me, at her stomach, at the lamp. Wait a minute - why is that lamp in one piece? I remember now, when that little slimebag shot Angie in the first place, I ran over to help her, but I knocked that lamp over on the way. I didn't see what happened to it, but I heard it break.
She picks the lamp up off the table, barely able to hold it her hands are shaking so badly. She lifts it up above her head, throws it down…
*shatter*
FLASH
Standing and healthy again. I look out the door, see the two thugs running, not ten feet from where they were when they shot Angie. The lamp's back, too - does it rewind time or something? What the Hell is going on? How does some random oil lamp I bought in a store as a decoration somehow rewind time, and how do Angie and I keep getting switched?
No time to think about stuff like that. I know how little time Angie has: I could feel it when I was the one on the floor. There's no way an ambulance could get here in time, even if somebody else called them the instant they heard the shot. The only way to save her now is for me to be the one that dies. I grab the lamp and hurl it to the floor…
*shatter*
FLASH
It worked - I'm back on the floor. I see Angie reaching for the lamp, try to tell her that it's all right, tell her to let me go, but it's too late. The lamp falls…
*shatter*
FLASH
I grab the lamp, look down at my poor Angie, and tell her I'll save her…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
We've been married almost twenty years - known each other twice that. Childhood friends, highschool sweethearts, always together. Everybody pretty much knew we'd end up married. I've sworn to myself ever since I was a kid: I'd always protect her, no matter what, even if it cost me my life…
*shatter*
FLASH
So why won't she let me?
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
I wonder if this thing ever runs out of juice? If it does, I hope it's while I'm the one down…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
At this point, I'm pretty sure that if whoever's down dies before the lamp breaks, it won't switch us again. I just need to keep it in one piece long enough that I die before Angie can take my place…
*shatter*
FLASH
I grab the chimney, and wait. Watching her suffer like this, watching the life drain out of her without doing anything to stop it, it feels like my heart and soul are being ripped apart, but I have to wait as long as I can. If I delay the switch, it should put me closer to dying when we switch, and maybe Angie won't have time to switch back…
*shatter*
FLASH
DAMN. All the way back to when the lamp broke the first time. Delaying isn't going to work…
*shatter*
FLASH
I apologise to Angie for letting her suffer so long last time, and beg her to just let me die, let me save her…
*shatter*
FLASH
Angie begs me to let her die, let her save me…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
I think I may actually be starting to get used to the pain - the physical part, at least. They say a person can get used to anything, but nothing dulls the horror of helplessly watching the woman I love dying slowly on the floor. I HAVE to save her…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
By the rest of the world's reckoning, it was only a few minutes ago that we were cleaning up after dinner. Then those two thugs, bold as brass, just kicked in the front door. The big guy started grabbing whatever he could, while the little one ran room to room. He was probably looking for us, since he stopped when he found us hiding in the kitchen, pointed that gun at us, and ordered us into the living room…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
We watched as they tore apart our home, grabbing whatever caught their fancy, and smashing a lot of what didn't. While the big guy was all business, the short one kept coming back to threaten us. The little rat giggled every time he made us flinch by jabbing us with his gun. That sick fuck must get off on hurting people - I saw the look on his face when he turned, gun in hand…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
Maybe if I could kill myself somehow before Angie could smash the chimney again, I could break the cycle on the right side. The problem is I only get a couple of seconds…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
Nope, that didn't work, either. Can't convince Angie to just let me die - she's obviously as set on saving me as I am on saving her. I'll find some way to kill myself in time…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
How many times have we gone back and forth? I haven't exactly been counting, but it must be hundreds. Or thousands…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
I don't remember my name. I don't remember who I am, where I grew up, or much of anything else that happened more than a minute ago by the rest of the world's time. We've been going back and forth for pretty much as far back as I can recall - years, at least. All I really remember clearly is that I can't let her die…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH |
Dear Diary
………………………
*Click click tap click tap tap tap*
Alright, Videira. Here's the script you were wondering about. This thing was a sort of dramatization of a little research disaster that happened in July four years back. It was meant to illustrate to some of our less cautious researchers the value of emotional detachment during the job, or some BS like that. Never really got produced, and no, I don't know why not. It's missing the a bit of narration that was meant to go in before and after the thing played. If I remember correctly, just details about the event. I think that it was something about this being written from live video feed, with creative liberty taken only when necessary. I found what I could about the incident, and it seems to match pretty well. Apparently the SCP was destroyed by the girl afterward, which is one reason they got worked up about it enough to start making this thing… I guess someone wanted to use it for questioning the dead or something. Since the research was never completed and the thing got burned, there's no official entry in the database on it. The guy's name matches the other stuff I've found, but the girl's name is only here - I guess they didn't want anyone to find out what happened to her. Seeing as she destroyed a potentially useful SCP after making a rather serious mistake in studying it, I can see why they might not want that to appear in a human resources type video. I can keep digging for more, if you'd like, but I can't make any promises.
- J.N.
p.s. - Dinner, Saturday.
*Click click click tap*
*Beep*
-*-*-*-*-*
ACT I
FADE IN
INT. HOUSE - NIGHT
A small room with a medium-sized bed and two chairs. There are two doors, on either side of the room (One leads to a small bathroom, the other to a hallway). Everything is white and sanitary.
A MAN is sitting on the bed. He is holding tightly on to a book. He is in mid teen years, and is wearing clean white hospital clothes.
Two researchers are standing in the hall. One is MASON, an early middle-aged man, the other is HOLLY, a woman also in early middle age. Both wear lab coats.
ANGLE ON HALLWAY.
HOLLY
Well, Mason, you got the tickets?
MASON
Of course I do, Hol. Vacation in Vienna. Two months. I promised, didn't I?
HOLLY
God, I'll be glad to see the back of this place. When do we leave?
MASON
Friday. We just need to finish the interview, see what makes him tick. And he's a safe class, so we can take it easy.
HOLLY
I don't think I've ever had this much go right before, honey.
MASON and HOLLY grip each other's hands briefly, then open the door to the MAN's room.
ANGLE ON MAN, looking up.
MAN
Please, why am I here? Why won't anyone tell me?
MASON
Sir, we just need to ask you a few questions. After that you can go home.
MAN
Why?
WIDER ANGLE ON ALL CHARACTERS
HOLLY
We think you may have some knowledge about a recent accident, and we just need to know a few things about you.
MAN
What do you mean, accident?
HOLLY
Sir, just answer the questions. Then, you can go home and just forget about all of this. Now, what's your name?
MAN
How can you have me here if you don't even know my name?
MASON
Please, sir, this is just protocol. Now, answer the question.
MAN
My name is Esteban Tetson.
MASON takes out a notepad and begins writing in it.
ANGLE ON MAN
MAN (CONT.)
My parents were migrant workers from Chiapas, Mexico. They changed their last names when they acquired US citizenship. Esteban means crown, and has etymological connections to English names such as Steven and Stephen.
MASON stops writing, and both HOLLY and MASON look at the MAN.
MASON
Sir, where did you receive your education?
MAN
I didn't. My parents were very poor. I learned English mostly from the other boys my age. I didn't learn to read and write until I was a teenager.
MASON
You don't seem to be having any difficulties. You don't even have an accent.
MAN
I wouldn't know.
MASON shrugs, and starts writing again.
HOLLY
Why don't you tell us about that book?
MAN
This is my diary. I've kept it ever since I was a kid.
HOLLY
I thought you said that you didn't learn to write until you were a teenager.
MAN
I didn't.
HOLLY
But then how did you keep a diary?
MAN
You're wasting my time with this. Please, just let me go home now.
MASON
Sir, please just tell us how you kept a diary before you learned how to write.
MAN
Why won't you believe me? Have you never heard of someone keeping a diary before?
HOLLY AND MASON share a glance.
MASON
Sir, those are all the questions we needed to ask for now. I suggest you get some sleep. We'll be back tomorrow.
MAN
But…
ANGLE ON HOLLY AND MASON leaving. CLOSE ON THE MAN sitting briefly, then lying back, gripping the diary to his chest.
FADE OUT
END ACT I
-*-*-*-*-*
ACT II
FADE IN
Resume. OVERHEAD SHOT OF MAN lying down, asleep, still gripping the book. HOLLY and MASON are out in the hall, talking. MASON has a carrying case.
TWO SHOT ON HOLLY AND MASON
HOLLY
Think it's him or the book?
MASON
Dunno yet. I had the team pick up some memorabilia from Esteban Tetson's family, and ask whether he kept a diary. They didn't remember. I mean, it's been a while.
HOLLY
I hate this part.
MASON
Yeah.
HOLLY
Maybe, after this is done, we could just stay in Vienna. You know, forget this place. Move on. Find some safe and enjoyable employment in hard manual labor.
MASON
I wish that was still a joke. You know we can't.
HOLLY
Yeah.
TWO SHOT as they hug briefly, then walk over and OPEN the DOOR. At the SOUND OF IT OPENING, the MAN immediately sits up, fully awake.
WIDE ANGLE ON ALL CHARACTERS
MAN
Please, just tell me when you'll let me go. I have children.
MASON
Ah, good. That's the topic I wanted to start on.
MASON and HOLLY sit down. MASON takes out his writing utensils.
ANGLE ON MAN
MAN
What? Why do you need to know about them? Has something happened?
TWO SHOT ON MASON AND THE MAN
MASON
Nothing has happened, sir. This is just protocol. Now, please, just play along for a little bit longer.
MAN
Fine. Fine, I don't care, I just want this over quickly.
MASON
How many children do you have, and what are their names?
MAN
Two daughters. Celia and Chicha.
MASON
How old are they?
MAN
Celia is twenty, Chicha is fourteen.
MASON
And how old are you?
MAN
Forty-five. I was born in 1958, just after my parents immigrated. I was born at seven thirty-two in the afternoon on Wednesday, April twenty-seventh. There were no complications during birth, and I weighed exactly six pounds.
CLOSE ON MASON'S HAND when he stops writing. MASON and HOLLY look at the man.
MASON
Why do you do that?
MAN
Do what?
MASON
Tell us so much about yourself. You did it yesterday, when we asked for your name. And if you were poor, how do you know your exact time of birth and your weight at that time?
WIDE ANGLE OF ALL CHARACTERS, FAVORING THE MAN
MAN
Please, if you must ask me questions, don't make them like that. I'm being questioned, and I don't even know where I am. I don't feel like joking.
MASON
Can you please just answer the question?
MAN
Why should I answer the question, when it's so obvious and unnecessary?
MASON begins to speak again, but HOLLY puts a hand on his arm, and he stops.
HOLLY
We're sorry for upsetting you, but this is just protocol. We'll leave that question for later. I think that for now we have something to show you.
MASON begins unpacking the bag. He takes out a small photo album and a mirror.
MAN
How did you get that? Why do you have my photographs?
HOLLY takes the photo album from MASON, and opens it.
HOLLY
Sir, just answer our questions. After that, we'll answer yours. Now, where was this picture taken?
MAN
I was on vacation in Vienna with my family. It was hard, but I had saved enough to go. That was three years ago.
HOLLY quickly turns the page of the album, points randomly.
HOLLY
This one?
CLOSE ON PHOTOGRAPH OF UNFAMILIAR MAN, WOMAN, AND TWO GIRLS, IN FRONT OF A GARAGE.
MAN
That's us in front of the garage where I work. We took that two years ago.
HOLLY
This is you in the middle?
MAN
Yes, of course.
MASON holds up the mirror. WIDER ANGLE TO INCLUDE MIRROR. The MAN can be seen in the mirror. There is no similarity between the man in the photo and the man on the bed.
MAN
Why are you doing that?
HOLLY
Do you see any differences between the man in this photo and yourself?
MAN
No, of course not.
HOLLY
Of course.
ANGLE ON CHARACTERS
MASON
Sir, you are a teenager. Look at yourself. You are not forty-five. You are closer to fifteen. Your name is not Esteban Tetson, Esteban Tetson died while you were in elementary school. You are Jon Eois. You live with your parents, Kip and Janice. You have never been outside the United States.
MAN
I don't know why you have me here, and I will not answer any more questions until you explain what this is about. I know who I am. I know exactly who I am, and I am tired of these jokes.
MASON
I see.
TWO SHOT OF MASON AND HOLLY repacking the bag in silence, leaving the mirror. They walk to the door, but HOLLY stops and turns.
HOLLY
Do you remember how you found that diary?
The MAN does not answer. POV of the MAN watching the researchers exit, then looking back at the mirror. It shows Esteban Tetson holding the diary. CLOSE ON MIRROR.
CUT TO HALLWAY
TWO SHOT OF HOLLY AND MASON, STANDING AT THE WALL ACROSS FROM THE ROOM.
HOLLY
I think it's the book. He's too fixated on it, too illogical about it.
MASON
Just be glad he's safe to work with. We'll grab the book tomorrow, run some tests. I just want to see this thing filed and gone.
A MEDICAL GURNEY ENTERS at the far end of the hallway, being rolled by another researcher. It is steadily rolled towards HOLLY, MASON, and the camera. HOLLY AND MASON watch it approach.
HOLLY
Mason?
MASON
Yeah?
HOLLY
Why'd I have to come here to meet someone?
THE GURNEY reaches HOLLY and MASON.
MASON
Because the universe has a really weird sense of humor.
THE MAN SCREAMS from OFF SCREEN. HOLLY AND MASON jump in surprise, and run for the door. The GURNEY WHEELER does not react, and continues to move.
ANGLE ON DOOR. HOLLY OPENS IT, but the view begins to fade as soon as she does.
FADE OUT
END ACT II
-*-*-*-*-*
ACT III
FADE IN
RESUME. TWO SHOT HOLLY AND MASON ENTERING THE HALLWAY. MASON is holding a CELL PHONE.
HOLLY
It figures, doesn't it? We finally get an easy subject, and this happens
HOLLY AND MASON stop walking outside the door.
MASON
We're just lucky, Hol. At least we're not on statue duty.
HOLLY shudders.
MASON (CONT.)
At least he died quickly.
HOLLY
That really isn't very comforting.
MASON
No, I guess not. But we have to figure out how his body affected our lovely little ticket to Vienna. It's procedure.
HOLLY
I know, honey. I'm just sick of this. Every day someone's careless and there's another body to deal with. It didn't use to bother me that much, but now…
HOLLY reaches for MASON'S hand.
HOLLY (CONT.)
Now, every day I think the body's going to be you.
MASON
I know. We shouldn't be here anymore.
HOLLY
No choice.
MASON
I know.
THE CELLPHONE BEEPS. MASON hits a button on it.
MASON (CONT.)
He's awake. Let's go.
HOLLY AND MASON kiss, then walk to the door.
ANGLE ON MAN, looking at the door as it opens and HOLLY AND MASON ENTER.
MAN
Finally. Holly, Mason, I'm fine. I have no idea how, but I'm fine. Now can I please go home and get some rest?
WIDEN ANGLE to show all characters.
MASON
We've told you before, sir. Once we're done asking you questions, you can go.
MAN
What on earth are you talking about?
MASON
What do you-
HOLLY
Mason, how did he know our names?
HOLLY AND MASON pause.
ANGLE ON MAN
MAN
We've worked together for five years. Now stop joking around.
MASON takes out his writing pad, and begins scribbling furiously. He does not look up when he talks.
MASON
What, if anything, do you know about the men Esteban Tetson and Jon Eois?
MAN
What? Why?
MASON
Just answer the question.
MAN
I've never heard the names before. Now can you please explain what's going on here?
MASON
What about that book you're holding?
MAN
My diary? I've kept it ever since I was a kid.
MASON
You bring it to work?
MAN
Of course I do.
MASON
In spite of the restrictions on personal belongings we may bring on site?
MAN
I don't see the relevance.
MASON
No, of course not. Holly, restrain him. I want to try something.
WIDEN ANGLE
THE MAN acts surprised and confused. He attempts to defend himself, but HOLLY easily overpowers him. MASON forcefully takes the diary from him. THE MAN begins to SCREAM.
MASON (CONT.)
Put him in the bathroom and lock the door.
CAMERA FOLLOWS as HOLLY drags THE MAN to the bathroom and pushes him in, then shuts the door and presses a button on it.
MASON (CONT.)
He, or they, displayed an obsession with the book, a fear of separation from it. If I'm right, the effect should end after a bit of time alone.
CAMERA CUT TO BATHROOM, with the MAN on one side of the screen and a mirror on the other. The mirror shows the reflection of another researcher.
THE MAN begins to cough, growing steadily louder throughout the conversation. MASON AND HOLLY can be heard talking as if they were in the room.
HOLLY
Honey, I don't like this. We shouldn't do tests without approval from higher up.
MASON
That takes too long. I want to leave tomorrow. Hell, I want to leave right now. I don't want to talk to someone who believes they're a dead friend of mine. That's just too much.
THE MAN begins to pound against the door, still coughing.
HOLLY
We can't afford to be careless, not now.
MASON
I'd rather take a risk than keep hearing that thing talk.
THE MAN GASPS AND COLLAPSES. HOLLY AND MASON notice the absence of noise.
MASON (CONT.)
There. Let's go check.
THE DOOR OPENS, HOLLY AND MASON STANDING in it. MASON is holding the diary. HOLLY rushes to THE MAN'S side. She puts her hand on his chest, and her ear to his mouth.
HOLLY
No heartbeat, no breathing. He's dead.
MASON looks down at the body.
MASON
Where am I?
HOLLY turns toward MASON. The mirror shows an exact copy of JON EOIS standing above his own body, in MASON'S place. He is gripping the diary.
CAMERA CUT TO BLACK
END ACT III |
One day, Dr. Cog was walking through his lab (being a scientist and all), when he found Dr. Crow trying to catch his attention. It was never a hard thing to do, as Dr. Cog was usually quite bored, and Dr. Crow was a talking dog.
“You should take a look at this,” insisted Dr. Crow, in a somewhat excited manner, “It's really quite interesting.”
“Well, I don't have any experiments running at the time, so show the way.” Dr. Cog replied in his usual monotone.
The pair walked down several hallways, and through several elevators (Dr. Crow isn't good with stairs), the bipedal doctor occasionally deflecting attempts at smalltalk.
“Any interesting hypotheses?” Dr. Crow would ask, “Any developments with the exploding crabs, or the self-aware maze of pipes?” Dr. Cog hemmed and hawed, it was all work to him.
After a good many turns and descents, they reached a darkened observation room. Behind the single large window was a boy, probably no more than ten years old.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“This,” Dr. Crow indicated with a wave of a paw, “is a small boy who eats only plastics, and is about three times as strong as an average child of his age”
“Interesting. Not particularly dangerous. Administer sedatives, run a four month circuit of tests with some of the new researchers, and slate the item for destruction if it presents any difficulties.”
“You know, Cog, we've been friends for years, research partners at the least. You've seen some strange things that I couldn't imagine. I've never understood, though, how you can deal with things like this so easily.”
“Like what?”
“Like asking a dog with glasses to kill a small child if it ‘presents difficulties.'”
Already on his way out the door, Dr. Cog replied: “There's always another one tomorrow.” |
I am a wire. They're finding new ways to kill me. Even now, I can hear 00201, screaming, relentless, and under it and above it and around it and through it there's 598, pressing, like a vice, trying to squeeze it out, the waves break around them. I twitch and I turn, screaming passively, and I feel a pair of hands clutch firmly at my back- when I look through yellow-washed eyes there's no one there, just another way to use me-
I wasn't new to the Foundation, for three years I'd been catching their monsters and outreasoning their demons. I'd risked life and limb and sanity for them, and when they asked me to observe the introduction of SCP-598 to SCP-███-00201, how was I to refuse them? It was after I noticed that what I believed to be the observation chamber was coated in the humming yellow I knew so well, and heard the door lock behind me, that I thought to question them.
Two agents watched through the plate glass window.
“Twelve, I'd rather you not kill her.”
“You've already been informed of the risks, Barculo,” The Other Man in the room shifted and sunk his hands into his pockets. “We strongly believe SCP-███-00201's hostile intent will be directed at SCP-598 as opposed to Agent Hays, especially with 598 making the initial confrontation.”
“Only got the memo today. You're planning to use her mind as a battleground. She's a good agent.” Eliot Barculo clenched his fists.
“Barculo, I'm sorry that she's the most convenient choice we had. The fact that she's interacted with 598 before, that counts for something- And her mental ability-”
“The synesthesia, you mean.”
“Yes. Precisely. All of these make her the most logical choice.”
“What happened to all the Class-D's?”
“No synesthesates around for the time being, and we can't keep putting resources into containing it-” he gestured to the steel box, which gave another shudder as the equipment surrounding it sparked to dangerous highs. "And we're not merely planning on it, we're about to. Do you have any further questions, Agent Barculo?”
The man swore several times and dug his feet at the ground, then looked up. “Can I watch?”
“Figured you'd want to.” Twelve gestured to a pair of seats. The pair sat down and reached for their headphones.
I was surprised that nothing happened the second I stepped in. Only the sturdy reflective plate glass, and the large steel box, a dark chair, and of course the quiet yellow hum of the walls greeted me.
“Hello, friend,” I greeted the walls as I dropped into the chair (the door clicking brightly behind me).
The pensive yellow hum only throbbed and buzzed worriedly instead of responding immediately. Mm, steel yourself, Miriam, yes? It asks.
“I thought I was just observing,” I frown.
Not as I understand it. Of course the intelligent shade of ochre has a higher security clearance then I. It's, ah, you're designed to act as the medium, I believe.
This wasn't what I was told.
I'm sorry, Miriam, brace yourself. I'll work this out. I could feel it do the same. The steel door flew open.
Instantly I heard the screaming, and at the same time Yellow flung like a tiger- lesser sensations went crawling up the walls. Pure light and sound exploded into being in my skull. I sat immobile, staring unblinking at the yellow wall- its normally calm hum now a bee-swarm buzz. An inhuman, pitch-black scream ran through me, and there was a distant awareness of 598 grappling it with sheer will. Flipping it onto its back. Glimpses of a suited man and Eliot Barculo through the plate glass, who wore bulky headsets to protect from -00201 and looked through painted glass as protection from 598.
Golden ribbons swarmed around a black cloud, shrieking and battering, and I sat still and let the gods wage war and tried not to remember things torn free in my head-
- illicit trips at ten years to the shooting range with a tall uncle, laughing in delight as I lay down a messy pattern of shots, more interested in the concentric lime-green ripples they made then ultimate destinations. Back when synesthesia was a vase-shaped word rather than a neurological condition, back when we'd play with pots, pans, dyes, dulcimers, paints, anything else that would make noises and colors -
- police force days, decked in sparrow-song blues, rounding the corner, pistol raised, as the thing that had been the house ate Officer Strandberg, fire hose sloshing it down, and a man I would come to know well tapped me on the back, saying, I think I have a new job for you -
- the inside of Agent Brennan's car, in the pale night at the end of my first mission under Eliot Barculo, with the brakes blown out and a bullet only just out of my calf, pulsing black. Raindrops streaming dye the air green, as the pain throws rings around my legs and I wait for the darkness to overtake me, I feel Brennan's dusky hand in my hair, and his fingers turn the radio on to the New World Symphony -
Not exactly helping! Yellow calls. I snap back. The screaming is still there and spurting liquid ink tendrils, I catch a smiling thought that looks a lot like a “Hah”. There is blow after blow that seem to be nothing more material or pure then an aural push towards failure, and the pulsing walls seem to glow a little less brightly with every throb. My mind, with its mixed signals and need for interpretation, shows me a handful of black diamonds fluttering to earth like feathers.
My friend is unprepared, but deals with adversity well. He - always written as male in my mind - tries for a relentless and slow domination of psychic force, calmly reaching out again and again. They're too closely matched: a creature of air, a creature of light, transcending mediums, trying to sing each other to death.
This was new to me, and yet, I excelled. In me there are thousands of eons of guarding the caves, of reflecting throughout the Resplendent Hall with my brethren, of singing the songs of our species. Only in our distant memories was the knowledge of interaction with a species not our own.
And yet, I find I use violence where I wish it. Certainly I owe my Foundation favors.
I change tactics, becoming a monolith. I know my enemy already, he is an echo of the mouth of the infernal cavities of Long Before. Born of endless night, strong, but seeing no further then the preoccupied predator must.
Light travels faster than sound. I remember this. I notice the black ribbons in her mind and with a thought crush them.
In the chair, Miriam shakes. I would apologize, honestly, but there is no time.
Hays twitched, dancing unwillingly to behemoths filling her sight and ears. A whirlwind and a nothing of chaos changing shape. They didn't exist. The screaming. The dark.
Yellow decided a change of tactics was necessary, and concentrated very hard for a moment. The normal thoughtful hum erupted into a sudden, high, very organic howl. Hays remembered something about shortwave radios. It had an electric affect, and she jolted, but 00201 took most of the blow. The darkness howled and dissipated a little.
Miriam - Yellow started, but he was cut off by the scream again. He came at it from all angles like an ectoplasmic starfish, like a guardian angel. The small human's shoulders shook. Hands and claws, touching and bracing -
- tempestuous -
-Miriam, the thought you were having earlier, Yellow says urgently. How did it end?
I can't move, I can't think. “…Why?” They continue to attack as my mind tries to work. My hand jumps up of its own accord and sinks into my leg, drawing blood.
Look, it ends with you and Agent Brennan listening to that symphony and falling asleep in the car, right?
Among other things, yes.
I have an idea. Finish the memory, imagine the song. I have a plan but I'll need your assistance- The screaming stops for a minute, my vision clears, and I turn around to see chips of bright yellow paint spraying off the walls, before the black cloud senses me -
I truly heard it, unsheltered, for the first time, as Yellow didn't react quickly enough. I opened my mouth to scream, driven to be alongside it, lusting to echo it -
A yellow hum filled my mind. The world goes xanthic. Everything else blinks out temporarily.
Mariam, that's how it gets you, 598 tells me sternly. My idea, the symphony, trust me.
Then it was gone, the awful screaming returned, but distracted as Yellow danced around it. My ears were wet. I had nearly died, and 598 had stopped it.
The song. What song? Time passed in inches.
…00201 like battering assaults pushing vision to a standstill -
…pain in my leg, red rings, that night in the car -
…the two concepts like a hurricane through my central nervous system, a true epileptic seizure, muscles contracting like the man whose spine I'd shot out -
…hands in my hair -
…the scream -
…violins -
My mother had always said I was musical. Piano, cello, violin, clarinet, piccolo, nothing came as easily to me as that one godly gift. As soon as I recalled the first note, the rest followed, like an old friend: small vermilion zephyrs.
Cellos crescendoing into anxious violins, sprouting gold all over.
The dam rose, shrugging its mighty shoulders one last time, heaved, and the golden wave burst -
When it came crashing down, it was a thousand times what it had been in the car. Caterwauling and dazzling, vivid beyond thought, piercing to the heart and the everything of what I knew- it was a stinging all-encompassing force, that left burns on my tongue, a sonorous beam; more than that, a tidal wave of energy, merely passing through the dimension of sensation on its way to a higher goal.
And now the tide was going out.
It had worked, I knew it had worked, the scream was extinguished; the black cloud not a trace but in my mind. As I slumped in the seat, arms sliding uncomfortably down the sides, something new had shifted into being.
I could see the warm bitter rings echoing off of bleeding legs; as the locks clicked open, I could hear the argent pins sliding upward and downward, floral tastes echoing off them, I could see the tawny-striped voices, muttering red clothing, hitting high notes and textured ellipses-
I could see -
Twelve and Barculo, once it was done, exchanged a glance before removing their headphones simultaneously and rising to survey the damage. SCP-598 had succeeded admirably, not a trace of the hostile entity that they had expended so many men finding and restraining remained. Head Agent Eliot Barculo called for a medical team and started tending to Hays, while Twelve stepped aside for a conversation with the only slightly-damaged surface of 598.
“Good work, Yellow. Are you injured?”
Not at all, thank you, good Twelve. The physical damage is superficial, and I will be entirely restored with some chromal rebuilding.
“Good to hear. How did you do it?”
Changing tactics. Miriam aided me near the end as well.
“Really?” Twelve raised an eyebrow at the stretcher being carried out, a knowing smile writ on the face of the unconscious body on it. “Is she dead?”
No, however, I feel I may have harmed her somehow. This would be unfortunate. I did try to avoid it.
“Collateral damage,” the man said sadly. He turned to face the wall again. “Yellow, none the less, you've performed admirably. I'll be passing this on to the higher-ups, of course, and I hope you'll continue to assist the Foundation when we need it.”
I look forward to being of service.
Twelve and the stretchers left, and the lit room was left alone. Solitary, SCP-598 glinted and reflected around the walls, in slowed, contrite, static thought. Elsewhere, in the Medical Ward, Miriam (blood leaking from ears, nose, and throat, limbs still rocking spasmodically) grinned like a madman, entertaining thoughts of a man whose voice felt like cloves, whose eyes were sweet foggy panpipe notes, whose hands were dusky barks sailing in a d-flat sea, of everything correlated and a world illuminated.
A nurse held her still on the gurney as a doctor pushed a needle into her arm, and the quiet darkness rushed around, up to meet her. |
Document 941-B was located in the men's lavatory at Site ██ June 3, ████. Despite an authorized review by the on-site forensic department, there are as of yet no clues as to who is responsible for publishing Document 941-B. Even though much of the information within Document 941-B has been proven false after lengthy investigations, such periodicals are not repeat not permitted under the employee contract.
ALL periodicals must be submitted to and approved by at least two Level 3 administrators and must be printed using supplied on-site equipment.
Note from O5-█:
Even though we have yet to find any further items related to Document 941-B, we must still be on the lookout for possible attempts to distribute items like these. They only serve to undermine the established authority and can possibly have negative effects on the disposition of researchers.
Note:
WHO THE HELL IS PRINT ABOUT MY SEX LIFE
SON OF THE BITCH
I HAVE YOUR HEAD ASS FOR THIS YOU SON OF A BITCHES
-D. Strelnikov
With respect, Captain, none of this can possibly contain information the whole site wasn't aware of before.
-Dr. Light
For the record, you totally traded down.
-Agent Yoric
Hey man, how come this one even has some Javanese date and matchmaking articles? It even has prediction dates for some of our personnel… Let's see… Iceberg, Kliwon Friday ██th ████████, ████… 'Be careful, watch for the flying money hidden dump' …I seriously can't decipher this one.
-Agent Carriontrooper
MOVE ALONG NOW, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, PEOPLE.
IN PARTICULAR, PAGE SIXTEEN IS TO BE TREATED AS, ahem, A CLASS- uh, TWELVE MEMETIC HAZARD.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
-Dr. Klein
I am not a Monkey.
-Dr. Bright
On the upside, the extra advertisement from the ban should sell enough to cover printing cos- er, nevermind. How do I make it erase that?
-Agent Yoric
It all really depends on your definition of Doctor, I suppose. I refuse to comment beyond that.
-Lurker
So THAT is what happened to that poor, poor pony.
-Dr. Ziegler
Damn. I expected an article about Strelnikov's beak wetting habits, but I didn't expect close-up pictures…
-Dr. Kald
I think I was at that wedding.
-Agent Nicholakis
I was at 914 and Gears' counselling session. It was the most uninteresting thing ever.
-Agent Spoon
Whoever came up with "Dear Able: Advice for the Lovelorn": that was funny as hell, and it was nice knowing you.
-Dr. Lambert
Everything on page 16 is FALSE. FALSEFALSEFALSE. And I swear I'm going to hurt someone the next time I hear the word "Necrololi".
~Dr. Trebuchet
Regarding the article on page 24 about my botched attempt to get 050… The pictures about the "Sushi-Inator" are just photoshops of 914 with inari-sushi filling! I wasn't even near 914 that day, so shut up about trying to get pictures of Josie wrapped in seaweed! IT NEVER HAPPENED!
-Dr. Okagawa
That Pisces horoscope regarding 999 is just downright disturbing.
-Dr. Armstrong
Jesus Strelnikov, I had to turn those pictures upside down twice before I realised what they were showing.
- Dr. Aeish
Who the fuck approved a 231-7 paternity test?
-Dr. Stoeckle
I see that nobody else slipped the Internal Communications staff a fifty to keep their mouths shut.
-Clef |
Darkness loomed over the streets of Night City, the shadows casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt pavement, the city's dark darkness lurking deep within its shriveled black hearts, as black as pitch and as shriveled as the lungs of a chain-smoking sailor.
Joe Knife pinned the girl up against the wall, his ugly, slobbering face sneering as he sneeringly pulled up her skirt. "Don't worry," he sneered. "I'll make sure this hurts a lot. I'm a rapist, this is what I do, rape and things like that."
It was then that he was clobbered by a bowl of chowder, steaming hot and packed with delicious clams and white potatoes, cooked just to firmness, with quite a few celery bits as well to give snap and flavor. It was New England clam chowder, for the figure who stood on the rooftop wearing a black apron and a tall chef's hat made of black cloth (blacker than the blackest of blacks that a black-wearing goth kid would wear at midnight) was not fond of tomatoes in his clam chowder, and considered it an abberation, nay, a heresy, which must be purged.
Joe Knife screamed in pain as he raised his gun and fired it at the rooftop, but the black-clad, mysterious figure was too fast for him, and vanished in a flash of black cloth. "Come out!" he screamed. "Who the hell are you? Where the fuck are you coming from?"
"Right here," said a voice, and it pounded him in the back of the skull with a ladle.
Joe Knife grabbed the back of his head. "OW! That HURTS!" he shouted. "And you didn't answer my question, who are you?"
The mysterious stranger drew himself up to his full mysterious seven feet of height, and the grin on his face was wide and mysterious. Moonlight glinted off the horns on his forehead.
"The name is Clef," he said. "Chowderclef. Defender of the World."
CHOWDERCLEF, DEFENDER OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER 1: THE BADASS AND THE HOT CHICKS WHO WANT TO BONE HIM, OR BE BONED BY HIM
Site 19 was in a tizzy. "Oh no!" shouted Doctor Rights. "All the SCPs are out of their pens!"
"I'll save you!" said Doctor Clef, and he ran into the room with his shotgun.
"Oh noes," said SCP-682. "It is Clef. He gong to kill us."
"Ha ha ha!" said Doctor Clef, and he shot at SCP-682 with his shotgun rocket missiles.
"Argh!" shouted SPC-682, and it fell down and was ded.
"You saved us!" said Doctor Rights, and she kissed him. And then they had sex.
"The SCP Foundation would fall apart without Doctor Clef here," said Doctor Gears, and he gave Clef a promotion to O5.
To everyone at Site 19, Doctor Clef was just a mild mannered researcher, an ordinary guy like any other.
But Doctor Clef had a sekrets. At night, when the rest of Site 19 was alseep, he put on a black chef's toke and a black aporn. And he went to the Site 19 kitchen and he made a big pot of clam chowder. Then he went to Gotham City or Night City or Metropolis and he fought crime. He was Chowderclef! Defendeer of the innocent and the protector of the world.
This si his story.
"I'm sorry to call you away from your work on such short notice."
"Always glad to help out a senior staff member. What can I do for you?"
"I have a question for you. Do you remember this?"
"But of course. How could I forget? It took me hours to type up this report."
"Please read the report again."
"All right… it seems in order… wait. Oh my god…"
Vanessa Danielle Heartilly picked up her tray of food and walked over to the lunchroom table. Halfway, there, she felt something grab her backpack and pull her down. She stumbled and fell, scattering her milk and spaghetti all over the front of her shirt.
Alexis Evilmeir sneered at her. "Nice job, nerd," she said, flouncing her stringy blonde hair. "It looks good on you." She laughed and walked away, accompanied by the other popular researchers, who sat around with all of the jocks at their own table, gossiping about something stupid and lame.
Vanessa whimpered and knelt there on the lunchroom floor. A single tear rolled down her face and splashed on the food. "Get the hell up and clean that up," the lunch lady said, and Vanessa slowly got to her feet and started to gather up the fallen food.
Then a hand reached down and helped her. "Here," a soft, gentle voice said. "Let me help."
She looked up into the face of the most handsome man she had ever seen. His eyes were limpid blue, green, and brown orbs, their sparkling hues warming her heart, and his perfect white skin peeked from under the collar of his immaculate white labcoat. A broad smile on his face as he carefully wiped the tear from her cheek and licked it off the tip of his finger. "Beautiful girls shouldn't cry," he said.
"I'm not beautiful," Vanessa mumbled.
"I think you are. I've thought so for a long time," Doctor Clef said. "I've watched you for a very long time, you know." He picked her up off the ground and carried her away, while Alexis and her stupid friends looked on jealously.
"Are you sure this is a good idea," Vanessa whispered. "I mean, what if the other senior staff see?"
"Fuck the senior staff. Love is greater than this," Clef growled, and he started to take off her blouse. "But first, you need to know something," he whispered into her ear.
"Anything," gasped Vanessa.
"Late at night," Clef uttered, "I put on a black hat and apron and fight crime as Chowderclef."
"My god. How far has it spread?"
"As far as we can tell, to all of your records. Everything from your personnel files to your reports to your SCP articles."
"This is ridiculous. How could anyone believe any of this? Ex-GOC sniper? I was a clerk! And my god, I'd never been anywhere near a gun, much less used one… they're like bad…"
"Bad fanfiction, yes. SCP-732 is known to do that."
"Can the records be retrieved?"
"Perhaps… but it will take a while. Some of them may never be completely restored."
"My god… all those years of work, all that data, reduced to the testosterone-laced ramblings of a preteen, violence-obsessed…"
"I'm sorry, Doctor Clef. I really am."
"DIE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" Clef screamed, and he blazed away with his twin Pancor Jackhammers, filling the air with lead. The zombies exploded into showers of gore, splattering blood and internal organs across the walls. "KEEP KILLING THEM, YOU FUCKERS, DON'T LET THEM GET AROUND US!"
"SIR!" screamed Strelnikov. "THE DAMNED CHECHEN ZOMBIES ARE COMING THROUGH THE WALLS!"
"FUCK THAT! KILL THEM ALL!" Clef roared. He threw down his twin Pancor Jackhammers and grabbed a pair of Mateba Autorevolvers, firing off the exotic .38 caliber weapons akimbo, as he dove under cover. "GRENADE OUT!"
A whole bandolier of grenades flew over the desk and landed in the middle of the group of zombies, turning them into chunks of writhing flesh. "It's over," Demitri said.
"No. Not yet," Clef snarled. He put on a black chef's hat and an apron. "The criminal scum who did this is still out there. We must bring him to justice."
"I'll go with you," Damitri said.
"No. I must do this alone," grimaced Clef. "Chowderclef always works alone."
— Alice screamed with pleasure. "Chowderclef, oh god, I love you!" she screamed, as she came. Chowderclef's massive, throbbing —
— "Fire photon torpedoes!" shouted Captain Picard. The U.S.S. Chowderclef raced after the Romulan invaders, firing a massive stream of photon torpedoes and quantum phasers, launching X-Wing fighters and Mark XI Vipers in massive —
— "CHOWDER FOR THE CHOWDERCLEF, POTATOES FOR THE SPUD THRONE!" screamed the Chaos Space Marine, as he —
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"… no, I think I'll be fine. But as long as the initial infection is gone, we should be fine."
"You seem to be taking this well."
"It is actually pretty funny. And I must admit, this… other Doctor Clef… seems to have a much more interesting life than I do. Instead of being cooped up in a lab, he seems to be living the life of some kind of action movie star. Killing… sorry, what's the word 732 used… decommissioning SCPs… claiming to be Satan… he's actually quite the badass."
"Isn't that the truth. Some personnel claim that we should keep these older files, simply for entertainment purposes, at least."
"The originals will have to be restored, of course."
"But of course. In any case, that is all. Oh yes, and here."
"Ah, thank you. I'd wondered where they'd gone off to."
"I wouldn't want you to lose them. After all, you'll need these if you want to fight crime as Chowderclef."
END |
Incident Report: I-028-F
SCP involved: SCP-028
Personnel involved: Agent Stebritz, Security Officers Gomez and Bishop, D-1437
Date: ██/██/████
Location: Site █
Description: I was assigned the duty of bi-weekly inspection of Site █, and arrived shortly after 12:00 noon. Officer Bishop was stationed in the security checkpoint outside the front gate, while Officer Gomez was stationed at the door to the room where SCP-028 is held. D-1437 was going about his duties cleaning the facility. I checked everything as per usual, and was done with the inspection by 3:15. Transportation back to my hotel room was scheduled to come back at 4:00, so I pulled up a chair in one of the offices in the building and started reading a book to pass the time.
A little after 3:30 PM, a group of 3 high school students found their way to Site █ thinking that they could vandalize it without people noticing. Officer Bishop heard their spray paint and moved out to scare them away. About fifteen minutes later, they came back and started throwing rocks at Officer Bishop (probably thinking he was just some Rent-a-Cop). He called for Officer Gomez and they both moved to drive the kids off again. During the time that the facility was left unguarded, D-1437, during his daily rounds of sweeping the halls, saw that the room containing SCP-028 was left unguarded. He made his way into the seemingly empty room and stumbled unknowingly into SCP-028's area of effect.
Moments later, I heard screams coming from down the hall. I jumped up and ran to the room where I found D-1437 on his knees, screaming and crying. As soon as he saw me, he lunged for me and grabbed hold of my clothing. He repeatedly screamed, "It's killed all of them!", "It's unstoppable!", and "You don't know what it's capable of!", along with other incomprehensible blabbering. I managed to get him to calm down enough to form one complete statement. He looked me in the eye and said:
D-1437: You HAVE to do everything you can to stop it or it will be the end of everything we know!
Myself: What are you talking about? What will be the end of what?
D-1437: At Site 19… number Fift… (His face went blank and almost looked bewildered.)
Myself: …Number what?
D-1437: …What the fuck are you doing holding me? Get the fuck off! (At this point he pushes me away and stands up.)
Myself: What do you mean 'what am I doing'? You were screaming bloody murder in here.
D-1437: The hell are you talkin' about? I was just seein' what was in this room!
At this point, Officers Gomez and Bishop return. After asking us what we were doing in there, I asked them what they were doing not guarding the facility. They explained and I led D-1437 back to the office I was in before. I sat D-1437 down and cuffed his hands, then contacted SCP Command to come pick D-1437 up. They arrived ten minutes later. As they were walking D-1437 away, he yelled "The room was empty! There was nothing in there!"
Personal note: D-1437 was on death row for multiple counts of murder, along with several other less severe crimes. One, how did he manage to get a JANITORIAL job working with a Safe-level SCP? Two, what knowledge could have possibly been implanted into his mind to scare him so bad? Three, why was he only affected by this knowledge for no more than a minute?
Addendum:
Document# 028-01: Interrogation of D-1437
Agent ████: Why did you go into that room?
D-1437: I saw that no one was guarding it, and I was curious. I don't see what the big deal is, it's just an empty room.
Agent ████: You don't remember anything strange happening in that room?
D-1437: Other than that dude suddenly latchin' on to me, no.
Agent ████: No sudden inspirations or revelations?
D-1437: Yeah, actually. That dude's gay.
Agent ████: Alright.
D-1437: Look, I don't know what the big deal is. There's nothin' but air in that room.
Agent ████: Then why were you screaming?
D-1437: I wasn't! I was in the room for like ten seconds!
Agent ████: According to Agent Stebritz, you were in there for almost a minute yelling about something that will kill everyone.
D-1437: What? That's bullshit! It couldn't have been more than fifteen seconds I was in there!
Agent ████: And you're sure about that?
D-1437: Of course! Your Agent's a damn moron!
Agent ████: Okay then, excuse me. (Agent ████ exits the room.)
D-1437 terminated at first of the month as per protocol.
The SCP D-1437 referenced is unknown at this time, but efforts are being put forth to find it. Site 19 security has been tightened, but no sign of such a threat has been found. |
Our planet was dying. There are many explanations I could give for this, countless stories of failures and failed ideas and the inability of one lonely species to see the truth, endless tales of ignorance and of the worst possible living sin, stupidity. But none of these reasons are excuses, and in any case I am not looking for sympathy. So suffice to say that our planet was dying, while we yearned to live.
I was in the Council of Sciences. Several years earlier, we had sat down the most formidable minds of our time, and broken down our situation, assessing the level of our threat- dire, indeed, very dire- and more importantly, discussing what we would need for a solution. It was called the Thirty Year Plan. The common people thought this referred to what we were going to do over the next thirty years to solve their problems. In actuality, it was the maximum calculated length of time we had until civilization broke down, and possibly methods of lengthening that time.
We would need land, and food, and fuel, and we didn't have the resources to attain any of it. We did, yes, have a prototype starship available to us, and enough energy to power it many light years, but the starship could not carry a city, and there was already talk of breaking it down and using the power source to produce heat or food or any of the supplies already in dire need. Our planet was dying. Our people were starving. We needed hope.
Then it came, out of the stars, like a gift from the gods we had officially denounced. We spotted it in the atmosphere long before it touched the surface of our planet, and a rocket was sent to retrieve it from orbit. It fell to earth in an unpopulated desert, and was removed by a single unmarked van. We couldn't afford to get anyone's hopes up.
I was fortunate to be chosen to help study the Artifact. The bulk of it was badly dented, stained, and entirely foreign to us. It was made by hands, and the hands were not ours.
There was some manner of electrical devices built into it, although they were all but melted and ashen ropes now. The only item we could recover was a single, beautiful, golden disk, covered in tiny circular ridges on one side and engraved all over on the other. We all stared at the markings. They were unlike anything we had ever seen.
"I don't want to jump to conclusions," said my good friend Professor Maddy, after some discussion, "But these drawings could, after some imagination, be a star map of sorts." He indicated a set of abstract dots and lines. "And these," gesturing to an outlined shape, "Could almost be life of some sort." He was saying what all of us were thinking, what we didn't want to think. I put my hand on his back. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said gently.
"Yes," said the Head of the Council. "Absolutely. Research on this item must start immediately, but not a word of this is to be given to the public. Does everyone here understand? Not a word." He looked around, expression softening. "False hope is another commodity we cannot afford." Everyone understood what he meant.
The next day, I was assigned to speak at a protest in the city of Voss. This was the part of my job I hated most. Voss was impoverished, hungry, massive, and angry, perhaps rightfully so. I would have to smile, and try to address and support their concerns by feeding them lies, hopefully by mentioning the Thirty Year Plan as much as I could. That always seemed to reassure them.
I stood, later, in a crumbling and formerly-grand auditorium in Voss. The entire room was packed with filthy, hungry, extinguished souls, all of them staring at me, dead silent.
"I would like to c-commend you for your concern," I stammered. "But your g-government, and the Council of Sciences, have only your best interests in… In mind, and we are working on finding solutions to the most pressing issues we face, namely the food and water shortages, the economic sh-shortfalls, as well as pollution. We want to assure you that we are doing everything we can to deal with these. I will now f-field questions." I tugged at the collar of my shirt, as the room dissolved into angry muttering. A young reporter with a microphone stood up.
"Professor Rook," she addressed me, "You say you are addressing the poverty and the food and water shortages in communities around the planet. What exactly are you doing?"
I adjusted my hat normally. "We are developing new and improved filtration methods and agricultural practices," I said, "Which should drastically increase the amount of food raised. The… Uh, the production and implementation of these techniques will require a sub… substantial new workforce, thus increasing hiring. This, and more, is all covered in the Thirty Year Plan."
Another reporter stood up. "You know, all the officials I've heard have talked about the Thirty Year Plan, but I haven't heard any specifics yet. What is the Thirty Year Plan going to do about overpopulation? About our waning food populations? About the poverty? Professor, what is the Thirty Year Plan?"
"The Thirty Year Plan cannot be fully disclosed, because we believe that total disclosure will alter the intended results," I read off of my prompter. "Suffice to say that the Thirty Year Plan is being enacted as we speak, and is showing results." Deemphasize, deflect, reassure. Easy enough.
The crowd had begun shouting about the lack of results. I felt small.
Somewhere in the back, a well-dressed man stood up. He didn't have a microphone, and his loud voice carried his words.
"Professor Rook," he said smoothly. "I recently discovered an unrevealed government report- it my have been somewhat confidential, I apologize- but it stated that some sort of object- known as the Artifact, I believe- fell out of the sky several days ago, and, let me quote the report- 'It is certainly man-made, although it is engraved with multiple symbols not recognized, and is nearly positively non-terrestrial in design.' What can you tell us about the Artifact, professor?"
The room was silent. I felt as though I had been punched in the chest. I had written those words. The Artifact. They knew about the Artifact. I watched the man fade into the crowd again.
"Y-yes, the, uh, the anomaly- the Artifact, as it's known- does present some curiosity to us, but it's… Certainly not a definite symbol of anything. Research is… R-research is ongoing." The prompter was black. Silence.
"Why didn't you tell us?" A voice screamed. A civilian somewhere.
"We, uh, we didn't want to g-get anyone's hopes up…" The mass broke into screams and boiled like a pot of water. I felt sick. I felt like a monster. Security rushed in. The meeting ended shortly after that.
They had to change our hotel reservations. They put security in the lobby. Nobody found us. I called Maddy, asking about the Artifact.
They had found nothing. They had bounced light off of it, scanned it, studied it, measured the ridges, put them through our best codebreaking programs. Nothing at all. And news of it had encircled the planet by now.
I slept with my two mates that night, Jai and Adel. None of their comforting, their nuzzling, their reassurances helped. Eventually their soft words and contact degraded into the slow, heavy, silence. When I tried to sleep, I tossed and turned helplessly. I latched onto the thought that the Artifact, instead of being a greeting or a chance occurrence, was in fact a plea for help from another dying world, a planet similarly falling apart. Another world running out. It would be unbearable.
In the morning, I woke up early. I snuck into the security guard's break room between shifts, took a gun, and slipped back into my hotel room unnoticed. Jai and Adel slept peacefully, still holding my nonexistent form.
I had to turn away. I was a coward. I held the gun to my head. Straight through the upper eye, that would do it. The people were angry, furious, and they had every right to be. Their water sources had failed them. Their food sources had failed them. Their ecosystem had failed them. We had failed them. They wanted to see the Thirty Year Plan? This was the Thirty Year Plan. I closed my eyes. The phone rang.
I jumped, and turned to see if Jai or Adel had noticed. They hadn't. I shoved the gun into a drawer, and stepped into the hall. "Yes?" I asked tiredly.
"Rook, this is Maddy. The artifact."
"…What about it?"
"We made it work. Look, you know the side with the ridges? We had to balance a pin over it, attach a speaker, and spin it at a very precise rate."
"Almost like a code."
"Maybe. But you have to get over here right now. It's making noise. It's singing."
I was there in under an hour.
By that time, they had reached the apparent end of the recording, and had to reposition the device to make it play again. We sat surrounding the little makeshift player, as the disc spun, absolutely silent.
I heard sounds, the likes of which I had never heard before. Short, organic, staccato beeps and clicks. A low buzzing that rose and fell. Vibrant, voice-like vocalizations from the throats of strange animals, showing anger and joy. Hundreds of sharp, short, airy, melodious whistles, that fell into wondrous natural tunes and songs. A long, low, howl that seemed to swell out of silence, like a mountain out of water, like the sun out of night. Then there was the music.
All different styles, all different sounds. Some like water falling over rocks, some like heartbeats, like screaming, like falling, like love. Unintelligible singing voices wove in and out of them. It was rhythmic and beautiful.
"That's not all," Maddy explained excitedly. "We translated the star maps. We found our star. If we're right, this came from a planet in a solar system 7.7 light years away." Well within reach of the starcraft. I could feel the Thirty Year Plan, and all of my doubts, wither away.
The music ended soon, replaced by tuneful, punctuated voices, all diverse in their influences, all saying things we couldn't interpret, but understood precisely. The music had ended, but I was listening to the most glorious song I would ever hear.
Hello.
Hola.
Bonjour.
Jambo.
Ni hao.
I could barely give the muttered instructions to prep the starcraft. This was the song of salvation, of hope, of deliverance. A song of plenty, of a land of space and air and animals and voices. We thank our otherworldly saviours like tribal ancients, showing gratitude for the lives of the animals they were about to hunt.
So this message is to you, to your planet, to your world that howls and speaks and sings. Thank you for your expressions of welcome and invitation, and for your offerings of hope and life.
We hear you.
And we're coming as soon as we can. |
Dear Mom,
Hi from school, it's me, Elaine. I know it's been a while since I've written anything, but it's been really busy over here and I just haven't had the time. I know it's strange for me to be late, but I wish you were here so I could tell you how crazy everything has been. I really miss you and the whole family, and I'm hoping I can get some time to visit during the break. I did finally find the package you sent me a while ago, and I really appreciate it because I love the patterns on my dresses. The stuff they sell over here is just not the same as what we have back home.
Anyways, it's about time for midterms here, and you can't go anywhere without seeing people studying. You know, it's kinda scary being out here for the first time, but I guess you can really start to like it after a while. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about our promise. Our minds are still on the same thing, so we are going to make that date no matter what!
I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to go home for the break, the flight to home is already booked up. You'd think they'd learned to create an additional flight this time of year, but I guess they would have to order additional help or something, and I wouldn't want to be stuck out working over break. A week of watching everyone else go home would just kill me. Anyways, hopefully I can figure something out before the chaos really starts. That, or I'll just have to find a better time. Or maybe I should just come home for good. I don't know any more, it's like there's just so much wrong right now, I just want to be home again. I'm sure someone could help me with all this, but you know how I am with being helped out by other people. It's just like there's nothing there for me if I don't do it myself. Anyways, I'll keep trying, there has to be something I can do. Please tell Dad I love him, and we'll get together again soon. I hoped you saved us some of your special cookies! Anyways, I should get back to studying before something bad happens.
Hello there. |
scritch scritch scritch
I couldn't get any sleep last night. There was something scratching from behind the walls. It's probably just rats or something. I'll probably get it checked out tomorrow.
scritch scritch scritch
Couldn't sleep again last night. That damn scratching sound came up again. This time, it was all over the place, like it was scurrying through the walls and ceiling. I seriously have to call somebody about this.
scritch scritch scritch
That damn scratching won't stop. I called over the landlord and an exterminator. They gave my room and the entire floor a thorough inspection, short of knocking holes through the walls. They said they couldn't find any evidence of pests anywhere. Well fuck them. At least the inspection was free.
scritch scritch scritch
Fucking hell, it's still there. I borrowed some plastic sealing spray from one of my neighbors. I'm not sure how he happened to have several cans of the stuff lying around, it just seems to be a bit too convenient. From the way he acted, it looked as if this wasn't the first time he's done something like this. Maybe…?
Nah, just my imagination.
I didn't sleep that night. I spent the whole time sealing every possible crack and hole in my apartment. I don't want to risk that damn whatever it is crawling into my room.
scritch scritch scritch
FUCK.
I think the thing must have crept in while I was out. I can hear it scratching around on the inside of my room now. Oh god, I think it's coming closer…
I'm calling Amy#1000..
scritch scritch scritch
It's in my head eating my thoughts!
Itsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughts!
Transcript of Autopsy Report
Doctor █████: Alright, subject is a ██-year-old Caucasian male. Cause of death unknown at this time.
Doctor ████████: But, look at him! His head-
Doctor █████: Doctor ████████! I know you're new here, but please refrain from making unprofessional statements during the autopsy. Severe trauma in the top half of the subject's skull. Scratch marks on the wounds suggest that the trauma was self-inflicted and done by hand. The blood, skin, hair, and bone fragments found under the subject's fingernails correlates with this hypothesis.
Doctor ████████: He scratched his own brains out?
Doctor █████: That's a very blunt way to put it, but yes. That seems like what happened, does it? But you can never be too sure. Let's continue… |
When I was a little boy, I was afraid of monsters.
They always lurked in the dark places where the light didn't reach. It didn't matter how many times my father shone a flashlight into the dark corners of my closet; I knew, the moment that the light was gone, that the monsters would come back. They would lurk in the darkness and whisper to me. I would cower under my blanket and hope they would go away. Sometimes, they would, when the morning came, but I knew that the moment the darkness came back, the monsters would return too.
And they always did.
When I grew up, I learned why: the real monsters don't hide in dark corners and closets. The real monsters are the ones that live behind your eyes, in the darkness of your mind, and it takes more than a flashlight to send them away, more than a blanket to hide from them. They're always there, whispering to you, saying terrible things that children don't understand.
After enough listening, you'd do anything to make them stop.
You'll find what you're looking for in the basement of the abandoned Murphy house. She's still alive - at least, the parts that I still had were alive the last time I visited her - but the others are long dead. I've kept their teeth in ziploc bags in the old file cabinet. Maybe you can identify them from dental records.
Anyway, she hasn't eaten in days, and she's lost a lot of blood, but she might still live if you hurry. If she wants to live, that is. The others didn't want to, in the end.
All I ask is that you leave the light on when you go. This prison cell is very dark, and I'm afraid that the monsters will come out when you leave. |
“Hurry up, we're gonna get caught!” Jenny whispered, failing to stifle a giggle.
“Come on,” I muttered, “I've popped harder locks in my sleep… there!” I stood, one hand on the jimmied doorknob, and said to Jenny, “Last chance to back out.”
She snorted and replied, “Like I'm scared of some old ghost story. Just go in before someone sees us!”
I cautiously opened the door and started to look around inside when Jenny pushed me in. “Come on, you goober!” she giggled, following me inside and closing the door behind her. I pulled a couple of flashlights out of my jacket and handed one to Jenny. The loft was dark and dusty—no surprise since no one had lived there in who knows how long.
“Whoa, freaky!” I exclaimed, shining my flashlight on a… sculpture, I guess. I didn't know what else it could be. It looked sort of like a person, but its face was distorted, its body was twisted and stretched, and its arms and legs were in positions I didn't think were possible. It looked like it was made from some kind of stone, maybe marble.
“Look,” Jenny called, “there's a whole bunch of them in here!” Shining our flashlights around, we saw several more sculptures scattered around the room. They all looked like horribly misshapen people, some made out of wood, some metal, some from that same stone as the first, and a few that… I didn't know what they were made of. “Talk about artistic license,” Jenny murmured as she stepped closer to one of the sculptures.
As she examined the sculptures, I decided to see what else was in the loft. In the next room, I saw more of those weird sculptures, but also a table with what looked like dozens of tools on it. “Hey, Jenny, come check this out,” I called out as I approached the table. Neatly arranged on the table was a large assortment of hammers, chisels, files, and other tools I guessed a sculptor would use, as well as vises, tongs, saws, knives, and several tools I had no clue what were.
Jenny came into the room a moment later. “Something's weird about those sculptures out there,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Yeah, they're creepy as hell. Come look at all these tools…”
“No, I mean… something's not right about them. I don't know what, just… jeez, it's cold in here!”
“Well, yeah, we're in a vacant loft in November,” I responded as I picked up a crescent-shaped tool off the table.
“No, look, I can see my breath in here… hey, how come there's not any dust on those tools?” she said as she pointed her flashlight to the table. She was right—though the rest of the loft was dusty, the table and tools were completely clean and shiny, like they'd just been polished. “Someone's gotta be here,” Jenny said, starting to sound hysterical. “Let's get out of here!”
“Relax,” I said, “no one's been here in forev—OOF!”
Something had knocked me over, pushed me down hard onto my belly. I tried to get up, but it felt like something huge was on top of me, pinning me down. I tried to yell but couldn't draw a breath. I heard Jenny scream, but she was cut off with a loud thump.
The weight on me spread, covering my whole body, smothering me. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I tried to call out to Jenny but I couldn't even whisper her name. I was suffocating… drowning…
…I don't know how long I was out. Minutes? Days? I can't tell. I still can't move, even though I don't feel the weight on top of me. I try to open my eyes, but… it feels like they're already open. But I can't see.
I try to say something, but I can't move my lips. It feels like I'm smiling, but my mouth feels like it's twisted around and under my face. Instinctively I try to run, but I know it's useless to try. I don't want to feel my legs, or my arms, but I have to.
That's all I can do now, feel this twisted body, sculpted into an impossible pose—and think about what happened to me and Jenny. |
Every night for the past month, I've had the same dream. I'm in a dark tunnel, and I hear a noise behind me. It's quiet, faint. It always draws closer. Shuffle tick tick. Shuffle Tick Tick. Such an innocuous sound, but the slow creeping of it towards me terrifies me. I run as fast as I can away from the sound, panting, gasping for air. The tunnel echoes, and I hear it getting closer. I wake up, just as it reaches me.
Another night passes with the same nightmare. My eyes shoot open, and I'm in my bedroom, nothing special. I look over at the window, and sigh. It's bright out this morning. I smile, the terrors of the night banished once more. I make breakfast for my son and myself, put on my suit, got in my car. I checked my mirrors, no big deal, but I swear I could hear the sound behind me, shuffle tick tick. I snap my head towards the sound, and see my neighbor sweeping her driveway. I have a little chuckle. It's just a dream, and I'm getting paranoid over nothing.
I pulled in to the office, and stepped out of my car. Another day of crunch for a web development company. We had to turn out a product soon, or we'd be in trouble. I took the elevator up to my office, and I heard the sound again…shuffle tick tick. I looked around, and noticed one of the elevator buttons blinking. Must have just been a bulb popping. Nothing important.
I sit down at my cubicle, and started working. Code segments, debugging, the usual. I put in a good four hours, before getting up to go to lunch.
Lunch was good today for once; burger, fries, shake in the cafeteria. It was great, and I looked forward to picking up my son from school, having a quiet night in front of the tube or something. I turn off my computer, and walk out of the office. I hear a sound behind me though…Shuffle Tick Tick. Shuffle Tick. Shuffle Tick. I turn around quickly, and see a blinking street light, making some kind of noises. I guess it was only my imagination. Maybe I should talk to my brother-in-law. He's a psychiatrist or something like that.
I pick up Stephen, and take him home. I ask him about what he learned in school today. Division he says. Smart kid. I start to make dinner for the two of us. Chicken breast, broccoli spears, rice. I put Stephen to bed after watching the Raiders get thoroughly wrecked by the Steelers. Before he goes to sleep, I ask him if he's had any strange dreams lately. He told me he's only had dreams about me. I asked him what he meant, and he said that he was having dreams that daddy was a superhero. I smiled, and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
Changing into a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, I slip under the covers, and fall asleep almost as soon as I hit the pillow.
I'm in the dark tunnel. All I can hear behind me is Shuffle Tick Tick. Shuffle Tick Tick. But now, a new noise. A throaty growl, almost an animal sound. I break out into a run. The terror is a lump in my chest, and I can't run fast enough. The sound gets closer and closer, the echoes growing louder, and I hear an inhuman scream from behind me, and something crashes down on my back. I scream out in terror, and my eyes shoot open. I look around the room, and see nothing out of the ordinary. I rush to the bathroom, and throw up into the toilet. I'd never been so scared in my life. I look in the mirror, and for a moment I see almost a ghost of an image behind me in the mirror. I turn around, my hands up defensively, and see only the shower curtain behind me. Nerves. Just nerves.
I can't shake the feeling of being watched. I quickly push Stephen to get into his uniform for school, and get into my car to go to work. He says something about breakfast, and I reach into my wallet, handing him a couple of bills. He could buy breakfast at School I think. I don't remember. I almost forgot my tie in the rush, but I strung one around my neck with shaking fingers. I hear from behind me…Shuffle Tick Tick. Shuffle Tick Tick. I turn around, frantically searching for the sound. I see a kid carrying a trash bag, dragging it along the ground, and trying to tug it along every few seconds. I'm not crazy, just overworked, nothing to worry about. The crunch at work would be over soon, and we would return to the normal stress level.
I drive to work quickly, above the speed limit. Something's following me, I'm sure of it. I get into the office, and hold my head in my hands. I hear a quiet shuffle, and look up, realizing its just the door opening. My friend John asks if I'm alright. I give him a shaky smile and try to temporize that I hadn't slept well. Nothing to worry about. I barely got any work done. I couldn't think straight. A knock at my cubicle wall, and John says it's time to go. I didn't even notice the day. There's no code on my screen. What was I doing again?
Stephen is at a friend's house I think…I can't remember. They picked him up from school, right? It doesn't matter, I've got to keep my mind focused. I can't let them get to me. That noise isn't going to get me. Not me. Someone…someone needs me, but I can't remember anymore. That damn noise is in my thoughts, every last thing I can think of. If only the damnable noise would stop! My eyes swiveled around the room, looking for the source…Shuffle Tick Tick. The VCR is sticking again. Of course, it's nothing. Just the VCR. I stay up as long as I can, but eventually head upstairs to my room, laying down, and drifting off to sleep.
I'm in a dark tunnel, a loud noise is coming from behind me Shuffle Tick Tick, and something is calling out in the most ghastly voice I can imagine, something unintelligible. I run as fast as my legs will take me, until finally, I fall to the ground, tripping over an errant rock. Something pounces on top of me, and grabs my foot between powerful jaws. I can almost hear the sound of its jaw muscles contracting, as my eyes slam open.
I scream at the top of my lungs, and throw the covers away. My foot is fine, and I get up, running into the bathroom again, vomiting out the contents of my stomach into the toilet again. What the hell is happening to me? I've never been this terrified in my life. I don't understand what's happening, and I hear a noise behind me…Shuffle tick tick. I look around, trying to find the source of the sound, but there isn't one. Nothing. Just that horrible noise. It's all around me. I hold my hands to my ears to try to block out the sound, but it doesn't help.
I throw on the first clothes I come to in my closet, a pair of rumpled sweatpants, and a tee shirt, and run out the door. I get into my car, and start to drive off in the opposite direction from work, coming to a stop light. I take a moment to think. I can't miss work, they're depending on me, I've got to make sure I don't miss work, it's important to…someone, I can't remember anymore.
I get into the office, and my boss is at my cubicle wall, asking me why I didn't turn in any work yesterday? He takes a look at me, and shakes his head, telling me to go home. I stood up, and struggled out, while the rest of my coworkers looked on. Their eyes looked so hollow.
I got into my car, and started driving. I had no idea where I was going. Was I being haunted? Was there something that I couldn't see? I couldn't remember, but something was tugging at the back of my mind. It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is getting away from that noise, that tunnel, whatever it is, was.
Time didn't matter anymore. I stopped at a convenience store, and bought a bunch of NoDoz. The attendant looked at me, and asked if I was alright. I snarled something at him, and walked out. The noise was all around me now…Shuffle tick tick. I screamed out into the night at nothing, and got back into my car, pulling off. My tires squealed, and the next few hours pass in a blur.
It's too much, I need to sleep. I know I can't, if I do it'll find me. But I can't anymore, I'm so tired, I'm out of pills, and my hands are shaking. I think my car is running out of gas, and I pull in to a seedy motel on the side of the road. I stumble into the office, and slap down my credit card. The clerk hands me a key, and when she does, it makes a noise on the table…shuffle tick tick. I scream, and run out, running down the doors, panting. I find the door that goes with my key, and turn it in the lock.
The room is dirty, smelly, but I didn't care. I sat down on the bed, and stared at the door. I got up, and moved the dresser in front of the door, and put the desk with the television on it in front of the bathroom door. Nothing is going to get me tonight.
A manic grin spreads across my face. Nothing is going to find me here. It can't. I'm too far away! My eyelids grow heavy. I'm safe here though. I fall back, and pass into darkness.
I'm in the tunnel again. No, no! I scream into the darkness and start running, but that horrible noise echoes all around me! Shuffle tick tick…shuffle tick tick. It's getting closer! How can it get closer! I can hear a horrible moaning, groaning sound. Like the voice of some horrible creature from beyond death, reality. Something is right behind me! It lands on my back, and I feel powerful jaws close around my foot.
All I hear next is a snap, and feel a tear, as my body goes into shock. The thing jumps on top of me, and grabs me by the throat with its teeth. I wake up with a jolt, to see blood all over the bed. My foot is gone, my throat is raw, and torn. I stand up in a panic as best I can on the nub of bone left of my left leg. I shuffle over to the door as best as I can, and I shove everything out of the way with strength I shouldn't have. My jaw itches. I throw the door open, and run out, eyes streaming tears, throat weeping blood. I run out into the night, and I can't see anything. It must be midnight. I see a light in the distance, and I start to shuffle towards it. I see something on each side of me. I'm in a dark…tunnel? My eyes go wide, and I surge forward with renewed terror. I hear something in front of me, a person.
I move as fast as I can down the dark metal tunnel, towards a sound in front of me, but the only sound that comes out of my mouth is a horrible moan from my mangled throat. I'm trying to call out for help, but something's wrong with my jaw. It comes out a throaty moan, almost a groan. My feet make an odd sound…a shuffle of one foot…a tick, tick as the bone touches the floor. I try to call for help, but I already know what's happening…
The bored scientists look up at the screaming man in the bed. "D-344 has broken down into total psychosis. Note it, and bring in the other D-class marked for Object 845 imprinting. Then terminate the subject." In the corner, a rather old clock with a stuck second hand makes a shuffle sound, as the second hand scrapes against the top of the face, then two quick ticks as it catches up with the correct time…
Shuffle Tick Tick… |
It is four thirty in the morning, and I've just woken up in the shower, laying in the tub with a fierce stream of hot water gone cold with time running frigid down my face. I have no idea how long I've been asleep. It doesn't really matter.
Rising, I grab a towel from the pile on the floor, wrapping it around my body with an odd sense of gratitude, and move down the short hallway to my tiny bedroom. Looking around the clothes strewn about the floor, I find a T-shirt and pants I like (or maybe just choose them at random, I'm not really sure anymore…) and shrug them on, tug, zip, button, adjust for comfort. Ha, comfort. Ignoring the insistent tapping from the other side of the cardboard and duct-tape covered window (where my gaze lingers for a moment, but only a moment. I think.) I head into the kitchen for breakfast (soggy cereal with milk grown slightly warm from the broken refrigerator) and a demotivated perusal of the help wanted section of last weeks old newspaper. I used to get the newspaper every morning, searching diligently for a job, a task, anything to get me moving forward and upward, out of this shitty fourteenth floor loft in a slumhouse on the south side of a city that hasn't been worth living in by all accounts since the seventies, but it doesn't really feel worth it anymore. With a sigh, I dump the remaining cereal and set the bowl on the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink. I need to get out of here.
Back down the hall and into my room to grab a jacket (it's freezing in here), and my eyes lock on that sheet of cardboard taped over the window. From behind it, softly, tap, tap, tap. She's still out there. She always is, as soon as it gets dark, until the sun rises, knocking gently on the window, fourteen stories up, hair blowing in the night time breeze, beckoning me to open the window, to let her in. I can change your life, she seems to say, if you'll let me. Shuddering, I look away.
Nate (God I miss that kid) used to tell me that I was depressed, that I was seeing things, that I should get help. Used to, till one day she came knocking on his window too. He called me then, breathless, apologizing for not believing me. He sounded strange on the phone… eager. I never heard from him again. I wonder if he's better off.
When I first came here, it felt like life was amazing, like the world was one big opportunity stretching itself wide in front of me and just waiting for me to take that first step. I'd chosen this apartment, with its window view of the entire, sprawling, electric starscape of the city lit up at night like God's own fallen Christmas tree, just so I could look out and revel in that feeling, in that high. That feeling got me through the first few months.
Gradually, though, the joy faded, and I was left with so many needs, and so many troubles, and never enough money, and so much time to think about it all, and I slipped into the bleak depression I've been in up till now. Then one day, she came.
Back then, I'd been able to sleep at night, every night, regularly, instead of falling into fitful patches of restless slumber at disjointed times, and I'd been asleep when she first showed up. I was awoken by a soft, almost polite knocking, so soft that at first I got up and went to the door, looking out into the silent hallway. When I went to return to bed, I saw her. Standing on nothing, fourteen floors up, her dress blowing in the wind, one hand knocking on the glass like a door, the other waving as I saw her, beckoning, a friendly gesture. I've read stories in my lifetime of creatures and spirits that knock on windows at night, of vampires who can only enter a home if the owner answers the door. I knew (or thought I knew) the risks. I went out into the living room and tossed and turned on the couch, hoping she'd be gone by morning.
And she was, but she was back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, knocking, calling silently to me, promising wordlessly that she could change my life, make it better. Eventually, I covered the window, trying to ignore her, hoping normalcy would return, but no. It never did. It never will.
So here I am, looking down, looking away, looking anywhere but at that window, shaking with desperate desire to look out, to open it, to let her in, and knowing with every fiber of my being how desperately wrong it would be. I've held out this long, but as I sink deeper into myself, I know that soon, soon, I'll walk to that window, and with shaking hands I'll tear down the barrier, and I'll reach for the latch…
Fuck that. Tomorrow, I'm buying a gun. No one will miss me anyway. |
August 3, 200█:
A red light blinked on and off, annoyingly insistent amongst a sea of green and blue denoting the status of the Foundation's worldwide assets. The man at the console, annoyed at being interrupted from his nap, sat up in his chair and started tapping commands into his console.
Observation Post 3-02 was one of those little places that only a few high-ranking Foundation personnel knew or cared about, but it was a vital safeguard against catastrophe. The personnel staffed to watch the OPs were not allowed to have knowledge on any other Observation Posts, or even know exactly how many there were, but these installations kept tabs on every major site in the world, quietly monitoring alert systems and backing up data in case of a breach or disaster. The personnel that watched the dull banks of monitors were some of the most vital links in the Foundation's world wide network. Or so they were told.
In truth, the men and women stuck in these backwater shacks were the joke of Foundation Security. While the occasional breach warranted notification of their superiors, the job was boring beyond comprehension. It was easy to go crazy staring at the endless banks of monitors, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
And so, as Agent Johnson grumbled and rose, he could only think about the annoying amount of paperwork that would eventually land on his desk after any 'red-light' event. But something was different about this one. Something he'd never seen before, which was cause to take a closer look.
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT", the status indicator read. "Automated Notification: Site 28 - SCP-███/SCP-███/SCP-███ containment compromised."
That merited a raised eyebrow. A breach of a single major SCP was pretty serious news, but three at once was almost unheard of. While a loose Keter was capable of claiming an entire site, it had been several years since a breach of that magnitude had occurred, and containment security had been seriously upgraded since. But that was of little concern to the man in the OP, for his job was only to watch, and report. But as he reached to forward the message, another red light came up on his console.
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT", the new report said. "Automated Notification: Site 28 communications lost."
How unusual, Johnson thought to himself as he reached for another folder, yet another preset incident response. It sounded rather dire, but the Foundation was ready for anything these days. It was probably a simple electronic malfunction (breaches tended to cause all sorts of collateral damage), but a mobile task force would be sent out to make sure that everything was alright. Ten minutes later, with the proper reports filed and notifications sent out, he leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes, hoping nothing else would pop up and he could catch some more of his nap.
Half a second later, Johnson sat up again, cursing as he reached for his console and then freezing as he scanned the monitor array.
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 36 - SCP-███/SCP-███ containment compromised."
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 31 - SCP-███ containment compromised."
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 42 communications lost."
His hand was shaking slightly, Agent Johnson noted, as he reached for two more folders from the cabinet, wondering what the devil was going on. He didn't know why he was so nervous, but something just seemed… wrong. On a whim, he checked the logs from the Foundation news wire, seeing if any breach drills were scheduled for today.
Nothing.
But even as he started filling out the reports and initiating response protocols, more red lights began flickering on across the board.
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 14 - SCP-███/SCP-███/SCP-███ containment compromised."
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 8 communications lost."
Something on the edge of panic began to creep into Johnson's veins, but he could only stare at the monitors as more and more reports rolled in.
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 3 communications lost."
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 38 communications lost."
"PRIORITY 1 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 26 on-site warhead detonated."
"PRIORITY 1 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 21 on-site warhead detonated."
Now, fragments of inter-site communications were pouring in from secondary channels as well, dutifully recorded by the OP's data harvester and filed away in the post's repository.
"-Security to Section 5, massive breach coming from-"
"-us out of here… Oh God, they're coming through the wa-"
"-blow it; we're all dead, we're all fucking d-"
As the alert notifications overflowed the monitors, however, a single message popped up above his main console, overriding the primary monitors.
"O5 ALERT - All observation posts: Immediate, initiate Protocol XK-0272/A."
Even as the message popped up, a hidden console in the wall opened, a red keypad with a keyed lock, looking all the world like the Big Red Button in a bad science fiction movie. In a cold sweat, Johnson stood up and pulled the thin folder from the back of his cabinet, a dusty manila file, red taped and with the ominous protocol designation across the front. Breaking the seal and taking out the single page of instructions, Johnson sat down and began reading.
PROTOCOL XK-0272/A
In case of irrecoverable [DATA EXPUNGED], all Observation Posts must observe Action XK-0272.
Due to possible compromise of primary staff and researchers, all triggering mechanisms for Action XK-0272 are routed to OP consoles.
ACTION XK-0272
In case of [DATA EXPUNGED], priority of Foundation personnel is to eliminate infection vectors for [DATA EXPUNGED]. This necessitates the termination of all nonessential Foundation staff and assets, and elimination of all major worldwide population centers in preparation for [DATA EXPUNGED].
Upon confirmation of destruct code from requisite majority of OP posts, on-site warheads and sleeper warheads at all Foundation sites and world population centers will be detonated, by which the infection of [DATA EXPUNGED] may be halted and human re-population possible.
Was this possible? Agent Johnson collapsed into his chair, frozen in disbelief, both at the instructions on his table and the constant stream of communications being routed through his post. Even as his mind reeled from the revelation, the status indicators of countless sites and task forces flickered off as, one by one, they succumbed to whatever cosmic horror had broken loose.
Was this the only way? Was there any possibility of avoiding this? What if there were survivors holding out in the cities? How could they expect him to do this? The keypad on the wall seemed to leer at him, taunting him, daring him to end the world.
Agent Johnson sat for nearly an hour, watching as the world he knew disappeared from his monitors, before finally standing up and walking stiffly to the keypad. There was nothing left, he told himself. There was nothing left to save, nothing left to mourn. The key from around his neck went into the lock, and his personal pass code went into the pad.
"To sleep, perchance to dream," he muttered, and twisted the key.
Document 0272/A-T/0131:
To Dr. ██████:
Pursuant to your inquiry dated [DATA EXPUNGED], here are the results of the 8/3/0█ experiment. Out of a total ██ Observation Posts subjected to the test, only █ OPs were able and willing to carry out the pre-assigned task.
While this is alarming, it is not necessarily unexpected. Being assigned to an OP is seen as a dead-end assignment. These people are not properly trained or conditioned to be able to deal with a real XK-class end-of-the-world scenario. If we really want to be able to use the 0272/A system as a fail-safe, then we'll have to figure this out.
Most of the personnel involved have been given Class A amnestics and sent back to work, but many had to be re-assigned or removed from duty. I believe two also committed suicide.
In summary: The test was well within expected parameters. We'll work on increasing the effectiveness of the fail-safe in the future.
Sincerely,
Dr. █████████ |
The old man stands over her hospital bed, staring down at the girl. She is wired to all sorts of machines, beeping and booping, all of them designed to keep her alive. All of them unneeded. He leans over the bed, a pleasant smile on his face. "You can get up now."
The girl scrunches her eyes tightly together, not looking at him. "Go 'way! 'M in a coma!"
The older gentleman tsks at her words. "Now, you may have the mundane believing that, but you and I both know better. Come on, lazy bones, get up now!"
The girl opens one eyelid halfway, peering at the man. He looks so pleasant and charming, like her grandfather! But there's something about him, something the… what did he call them, mundanes? wouldn't see. A veiled… hatred? "I'm not supposed to leave the bed. The Doctors will get angry." Again.
"No worries, my dear. I'll see to it they never even notice you're gone." He gestures absently with a hand, and the girl feels a tingle in her skin. Sitting up, she notices that there is now another girl in her bed, to whom all the instruments are attached. She eagerly hops out of bed, clapping her hands.
"Yey! Thank you, poppy."
"Hmm, yes. Now, we can't have you going out and about in that dreadful hospital gown, can we?" He ponders for a moment, trying to decide what would be most appropriate, but even as he thinks, the little girl bobs her head, and is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. "Well. Someone has more control then we were given to think. Tell me." Offering her his hand. "Do you know what you are?"
"The doctors keep calling me a, uhm, reality bender? It means, I can do anything, right?" She takes his hand warily.
"Hmm, you have grown ready for this. Come, let me show you." And the two of them vanish.
They sit together on a bench, watching the world go by. It is a horrible world, where mankind has been reduced to a more primal state. They hug the light, and fear the darkness, for terrible things exist in the darkness. Sitting on the park bench, the old man and the little girl watch as creatures of nightmare stalk the shadows, waiting to find a lone human, and take them.
"Where are we?" She asks, innocently. She knows nothing here can hurt her, knows it in her heart, and so it must be true.
"A future." He responds flippantly.
"Don't you mean, the future?" She corrects him, in that know it all tone little children have.
"No child, I mean a future. This is not necessarily the future that occurs, it is simply the one I choose to show you. It could just as easily be this one." And with a wave of his hands, they are sitting in a utopia, the sun shining, the people laughing and smiling, no sick or injured, everything… perfect.
The girl studies the people, then looks up at the old man. "So, Reality Benders can travel to the future?"
He winces, shaking his head a little sadly. "Please! We prefer the term Shapers."
"But aren't we Reality Benders?"
He coughs into his hand. "Well, you see, it's like the difference between using the word African over the word Negro. While both are correct terminology, one is more polite, and one wasn't given to us by people who aren't us."
She frowns in concentration, then nods slowly. "I think I get it. But, why Shapers?"
He laughs. "Well, we have to call ourselves something, don't we? And we do Shape things to our whim."
"But, the future?"
"Like a dog with a bone, you. Very well then. No, we Shapers cannot travel in time, as such. We can view other times, and affect them, to some degree, but we are bound from actually traveling to them." He puffs lightly on his pipe as he speaks.
"So, you mean, we can make things happen here, but not actually touch things?" It's hard to keep up sometimes, but then she just imagines herself getting it, and she does.
"That's it exactly!" It would sound like praise, to any one else. But she hears the edge in it.
"Why?"
"Ah, to understand that, you must understand the Game. And to understand the Game, you must play it." The old man stands up, offering her his hand.
"Come, walk with me to the Great Hall."
The girl stands as well, but refuses his hand. The longer she is with this man, the less she trusts him. He's nice, pleasant, fatherly, always smiling… but there is something behind his eyes. Something darker that she can feel with her mind, if not her senses. Sometimes, when she isn't looking at him, it almost feels like he is licking his lips. "Show me the way."
"It is rather a difficult path, but… if you insist."
The path is a long one, and filled with many a twist and turn. The girl pauses at one turn, staring into the halls of another Foundation. The walls and people are fuzzy, as if poorly tuned in. She turns to the older man, frowning. "What's wrong with this one?"
He laughs, a jovial sound. "Ah, this reality is more unlikely than most. See?" One of the doors blows open, a young boy and an old man with a beard, both holding wands and dressed in robes, strolling through, destroying Foundation agents with simple flicks of their wands. "This one is near impossible to actually happen, so it comes in rougher."
He starts to walk, sedately, in some realities with a cane, in others with a limp, but in most with a sort of slow amble. It all depends on how you look at him, really. But however he actually walks, the end result is him leaving this plane of existence, and passing into another one. The girl takes one last, long lingering look at the fuzzy reality, as a girl who looks remarkably like her runs to the wand-wielding males, then turns to follow him. Around him, the sound of dice clattering, of cards slapping the table, and of figures being moved from one spot to the next is almost constant. The Great Hall is many things, but quiet, it is not.
He takes a moment to look around at table after table of Shapers, all involved in their own little games. Here, the fate of worlds is decided, based on some of the smallest of things. On the outskirts, the low-level Shapers influence the fall of a leaf, the flow of water down a window pane. Moving inwards you find the more experienced Shapers, using regular humans like chess pieces, to further their own goals. The final ring contains those Shapers who duel with entire nations. Some of these appear almost frozen in time, as long-term strategies are waited upon.
And in the middle is his table, alone at the moment. Here, he plays all the games, great and small, but with only one stake. But it's still the most important game there is.
He turns as the girl finds her way here, his face automatically cheerful and welcoming. She'll never see it coming, when it happens. She'll play him, oh yes, and never know, until he wins. And he will win. He has plenty of trophies to attest to that.
The trophies line the ceiling of the great hall, humanoid statues, once powerful Shapers, now nothing more than remnants of ideas, bound in time, their powers lost to the old man, used to make him even more powerful. His eyes stop at an empty space, and he whistles a sharp note, narrowing his eyes. "He's out again, is he? Ah, well, I will have him back."
The girl doesn't notice his words, too intent on studying the people they are passing. Two Asian boys are embroiled in a rather determined game of Go. As she watches, she can see how the pieces are more than just pieces, the natural forces, and people they represent. Something in her tells her how they move, how they fit. She shyly steps up to the boy on the left, and points to a spot on the board. "You should put a piece there."
"There? But that wins me nothing," he protests.
"Just trust me. One man, right there." She nods at him. He waffles over the choice, then nods and does so. In a normal game of Go, nothing would be won. But in this game, half of the board changes over to his side with that one piece.
"Nicely played," the old man acknowledges.
"It was just obvious." The two pass another table, where a red-haired man in Arabic dress sits next to a man who seems to be surrounded by a halo of flames. Their opponent is… well, it changes. One minute it is a horrible monster with the head of a pig, the next, it is an old man with a ruby where his heart should be. Their game is one she has never seen before, what appears to be some form of large structure, with each player taking turns moving the various rooms of the structure, and moving pieces inside of it as well. The old man snorts.
"Tamlin is playing with himself again. Sad." He leads her onwards, to the center table, and gestures her towards the far seat. "Here is where you and I shall play."
"I don't like chess," the girl protests, even as she finds herself sitting. He takes his place across from her, behind the white pieces.
"Chess is merely a metaphor. I approve of the symbolism because it is a game for gentlemen, a game with quite a large degree of finesse. Of course, the goal we play towards is something fairly different… " He smiles over the board at her. "A simple bet."
"I don't want to play." She tries to stand, but finds she cannot. The old man's smile widens. The other players in the room are pointedly not looking at her.
"You don't have a choice, my dear. You came here with me, you play my game. If you had come here on your own, perhaps you might have had a chance, but as it stands — Well, a simple bet, as I said." He touches his king briefly. For a moment, the piece looks like three different men, three brothers. "Your goal is to give one of these men, a happy ending."
The girl stares at him, shocked. "You want me to give them a handjob?"
He bursts out laughing, a loud, booming, joyous sound. "Oh, my dear, you have spent too much time around those despicable and mundane researchers. No my dear, I mean set things up so that their story ends happily. " He waves off her attempt to comment. "No, not for the rest of their lives, merely that this chapter of their existence gets a happy ending. You pick up on things quickly, I'm sure you'll figure it out."
"I don't want to play chess." She's pouting now, arms crossed over her chest.
"It doesn't matter. If you fail to play, I win, by default, and make their lives miserable." He moves his first pawn forward. On the board, it is merely a pawn. But, in the real world, agents of the Foundation are redirected, and a rather callous man is placed in charge of the containment of an SCP with the mind of a child.
"I don't play chess!" She declares emphatically, glaring at the board. A slow smile creeps over her features. "But I do play Yu-Gi-Oh." She stares at the board intently, her face furrowed in concentration. A slow change occurs on her half of the board, until it resembles one half chess, one half children's card game. She looks up at him, from the cards in her hand, and smiles. Quickly, she places a card on the table, the image showing a sand dune. "I play the hungry sands, in defense mode! And then I cast a past immortality on it" She drops a card on top of the first one, this one displaying an amulet with a ruby stone in the middle. Sometime, many years ago, a researcher-turned-SCP gets lost in the desert. The SCP is recovered, but only after a month has passed, and his mind is imprinted on the hive mind living there.
The old man stares at her, and, for once, an emotion other than joviality appears on his face. He is shocked. More than that, for the first time in a long time, he is surprised. The Great Hall has grown silent, every eye upon the game in the middle. "What are you looking at?" he asks them, without looking around. The sounds pick up again, as the other Shapers return to their games.
343 leans forward, the smile once again rising to his face as he gazes at the transformed board. "I don't know how you did that. But that's what is going to make this interesting."
239 can't help but smile back. "Game on."
Next: Unfinished Business And yes, it does all fit together. |
Messrs. Skeffington and Branks of Marshal, Carter, and Dark's 'acquisitions firm' were very much not men to be trifled with, yet as he heated a slim knife blade with his pocket lighter and reached for a pair of pliers from the toolbox in his associate's hands, Branks began to glower with the realisation that they had been trifled with very much indeed. The grin on the face of the young man restrained on the table of the small Palestinian safe house (which Branks had 'acquired' by the simple means of shooting the former occupant) began to fade as the knife gained an angry red glow. The young man spoke, his voice still a thinly controlled calm.
"Now really, gentlemen, is this necessary?" The man gave them what must be said was quite a convincing smile from someone in his position, obviously still hoping (unreasonably) to talk his way out of his precarious situation. Branks responded by pressing the flat of the heated blade firmly against the pale skin of the man's chest, wrinkling his broken nose at the unpleasant smell of burning flesh.
After his initial howl of pain had died down to a panting whimper, the young man said nothing, looking pleadingly at his captors, his eyes begging for release. None was forthcoming. Branks and his partner spent the night and well into the next day twisting and burning and ripping, questioning and confirming until they were certain they had extracted the truth from their captive. And what an unfortunate truth for him it was…
Jack Dawkins was having a very interesting morning. Making his way across the middle east on a whim, still riding the rush and the payoff of an enormously successful few days in Dubai, he'd woken up after a night's celebration in a small city on the Gaza Strip with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Swearing to never drink again (He always did), he checked to make sure his backpack was with him, rifled through to check its contents, then walked to the lobby of his hotel and asked the concierge in fluent Arabic to check him out. Paying the bill with a forged French travelers cheque, he signed it 'Jaques Aliasse' and presented it to the smaller man with a grin and a handful of 50 sheqalim notes by way of a tip. As the man spluttered Arabic gratitudes for such generosity, Jack asked for directions to the nearest bank, then headed cheerfully on his way.
As he walked, Jack hummed himself, a cheerful spring in his step. The day had started out so nicely. He'd only made it a few hundred yards when he heard a loud cracking sound. The historic paving stones of Yatta's ancient street gave way beneath him, and he fell into darkness amid a cloud of dust and masonry. When he sat up, blinking in the half light, he saw a man with his arm around a mannequin, pointing a pistol at him.
"Ow," said Jack.
The man said nothing, keeping the gun leveled at Jack's head.
"Iz zis how everyone in Israel greets one anuzzer?" Jack asked in French accented English, raising his eyebrows as the mannequin stared blankly ahead with huge doe eyes. "If I am interrupting something, monsieur, you need only direct me toward zee exit and I will happily leave you to it." He nodded, holding up empty hands in a gesture of unconcerned goodwill. As soon as the man begun to lower his gun, Jack hit him in a flying tackle, sending the gun and the mannequin clattering into the shadows, then scrambled to his feet and ran. "Fucking Israel…"
After a short time, Jack emerged back onto the streets of Yatta. Glancing around to see that no one was watching, he pulled out the wallet he'd snatched mid-tackle from the gunman in the catacombs and began flipping through it. It contained only a small amount of cash, a hotel key, and a driver's license, along with a black plastic credit card, unlabeled but for a silver logo bearing the initials MC&D. Jack pocketed cash and cards, tossing the empty wallet into the shadows. "That should teach you not to go around pulling guns on people." With a shrug, Jack turned the corner and walked to the bank he'd been headed for initially, stepping carefully on the crumbling streets.
Arriving at the bank, Jack waited patiently for an open teller. When a spot at the counter became available, Jack gave his most friendly smile and spoke in Arabic with a carefully cultivated American accent. "Hi… My name is Chisa Eel and I'm afraid I've lost my credit card information… I'm an American citizen here on business, and I really must make a withdrawal." He slid the card and ID across the counter to the teller, who spent a few moments humming and typing noisily on an outdated computer.
"I'm sorry sir, but the system seems to be unable to process your request. If you'd follow me, I'll take you to the manager's office and see if we can get this sorted out." The teller led Jack down a short hallway to a small, tastefully decorated office. Inside, a swarthy Arabic man in an exquisitely tailored suit sat at the desk, engrossed in a phone call.
"Yes. Yes. I see. Of course we will. This bank has the sensitivity of our clients investments at the forefront of our minds. They'll be arriving shortly? Good, good. And a good day to you as well." He hung up the phone and stood, giving Jack a warm smile and a firm handshake. "Mister Eel, it's good to meet you. I'm terribly sorry for the hassle, and I'm sure we'll be able to get your difficulties cleared up in no time. First, however, I'm afraid I need to visit the restroom, so if you'll wait here?" The banker gestured to an overstuffed leather chair in front of the desk. "I'll be only a moment."
Nodding, Jack took a seat, glancing around the office as the man walked out, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His curiosity lasted only a few moments, however, before his brain registered the importance of that click. Rising, panic building in his chest, Jack tried the door. Locked. "Fuuuuuuuuuuck…"
A couple of hours later, the soft scrape of a key in a lock alerted Jack that the door was being unlocked. grabbing a heavy paperweight from the desk, Jack strode quickly to the door and pressed himself against the wall, so that when it opened he'd be hidden behind it. Soon enough, the door swung open, and a person entered the office. Jack brought the paperweight down in an arc into the back of the person's head, and they slumped to the floor unconscious. It was the banker from before. Dropping the weight, Jack sprang over the prone banker and dove out the door…
…Directly into the arms of a large man in a greasy suit who'd plainly been waiting for him to do just that. "Heyo Branksy, looks like we've got our thief," the man said offhandedly in a cockney accent as he brought a small cosh down on Jack's skull. Clearly, these were not men to be trifled with. |
It was a rather late night in the Site-19 cafeteria. Though the Foundation never slept, most of its workers did. The majority of the site staff was either back at their homes, or in on-site housing facilities. Of course, there was still a night shift, but it was a skeleton crew compared to the regular day shift. It was just security and custodial staff, with the odd researcher or two who ended up on a doctor's bad side. The cafeteria itself was run by a single galley chef, whose only job at this hour was to cater to anybody craving a midnight snack.
However, tonight was different. In the far corner of the room sat four individuals, laughing (well, three of them, anyway) and drinking. Yes, alcohol was strictly prohibited on-site for a variety of reasons. However, it was a rule that was widely ignored for a variety of reasons. Besides, it wasn't as if there was anybody around to call them out on it.
“Congratulations, Dr. Ryan.” Agent Williams smiled as he took a sip of cheap beer. The young agent was leaning back in his chair as if he didn't have a care in the world. “As of two minutes ago, you are officially no longer in the employ of the Foundation.”
“Good to know.” Dr. Adrian Ryan yawned. Already pushing sixty, Dr. Ryan was in no condition to stay up late, much less keep up with the everyday demands of Foundation employment. “After having to deal with XK end-of-the-world scenarios every other day, it's nice to know that it's officially somebody else's problem.”
“And as per standard operating procedure, you'll have to submit to one last search in order to ensure you're not bringing any of your research or any materials that can be traced back to the Foundation,” Agent Richards said in a business-like manner, the harsh stare of her purple eyes contrasting sharply with her pale white skin.
“Ah, there you go, spoiling the mood again.” MTF Sergeant Ronald Paccone laughed. He was a grizzled old veteran with unshaven stubble on his chin and hair that was already beginning to grey. “Give the guy a break, he's finally moving on in life.”
As with everything in existence, all good things had to come to an end. For Dr. Ryan, after thirty years of groundbreaking research, averting the apocalypse, and witnessing things no human can truly comprehend, he was finally going to leave it all behind.
“So, I'm curious.” Williams leaned forward in his seat. “What exactly are you planning to do now?”
“Oh, I'll probably go into teaching.” Ryan grinned. “With the references and job history the Foundation set me up with, I'm already getting quite a few offers.”
“That's good to hear.” Williams nodded.
“Now that I think about it, what are you three planning to do?” Ryan asked curiously. “I know of several colleagues who are in teaching and research positions now, but I never heard of any Agents or MTF operatives retiring.”
Paccone's smile instantly wore away. Williams' remained, but it was obvious that it had lost its warmth and friendliness. Richards, however, kept her usual stoic and cold demeanor.
“Did I say something wrong?” Ryan was confused.
“Well Doctor, it's an issue that those in our circles never quite want to talk about.” Williams sighed. “Especially people like us. Do you have any family?”
“Why, yes. My wife, three kids, and I have grandchildren on the way.”
“And I suppose you're going to spend your newfound free time with them?”
“Of course,” Ryan said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“See, there's the difference that lies between you and us,” Williams explained. “You have the luxury of having a life outside of the Foundation, something to go back to when you decide to call it quits. However, we're not quite so fortunate.”
“How so?”
“Well, let me explain.” Williams took one last swig from his cup. “First off, there are the doctors, the researchers, and the support staff. People like you. You're the kind of people the Foundation will try and recruit, because it needs you. Now, 90% of you will accept out of a variety of reasons. Maybe for the money, maybe because of a genuine interest in what you study, or maybe for the chance to make that one discovery that will redefine the concept of human existence. Either way, you have choices, options. Most of the time, you're already settled, have a family, and have a regular job at some university or research firm. Sure, some doctors are required to cut ties with their families, but they're more the exception than the rule. Most of these guys work their eight hour shifts and then head straight home. They go to church on Sundays, walk their dogs, and curse at the morning commute. In other words, they have lives outside the Foundation.
“However, some Agents and MTFs like us are in the Foundation because honestly, we have no other alternative. Do you know why we're called ‘lifers'?”
“Why?”
“Because no matter how you put it, we're stuck in the Foundation.” Williams glanced at Richards and Paccone. “We don't have families, or rather, we don't care about them or are forced to leave them behind. Agent Richards here, before she was recruited, lost her whole family after a nasty little run in with a certain SCP.”
For a brief second, Agent Richards looked away and Ryan thought that he could see a hint of sadness and pain in her expression. However, the moment passed as quickly as it appeared.
"Sergeant Paccone here joined up in the days where it was SOP to fake the deaths of MTF recruits, for secrecy reasons. Well, we don't do that nearly as often these days for obvious reasons. He had to leave behind wife and kid, who even now think he's buried in Arlington with a silver star and the posthumous rank of Major. Remember that crazy Russian guy?"
"I think he was Ukrainian… or Chechen," Paccone said glumly.
"Whatever. Either way, he was a goddamn ticking time bomb. It's not a good idea to recruit a guy with so much personal baggage and cut off the remaining contact he has with the outside. It's just not good business."
"Good to know you think I'm going to snap and kill everybody in the room at any time," Paccone joked.
"Ah no, that's probably something Richards would do," Williams deadpanned, earning a glare from Richards.
"Just because I actually take my job seriously and understand the stakes of failure doesn't make me mentally unstable," Richards coolly replied.
"Oh?" Williams continued, “On that note, even if Richards does retire, where will she go? Who will take her in? The only people she knows outside the Foundation are a bunch of distant cousins who've never even heard of her before. Not to mention, she's the only person I know of that actually volunteers for Keter duty. She doesn't even take Class As for SCP-231, and that is just fucked up. Hey Richards, how many times have you pulled 231 duty? Five, six times?”
“Eight,” Richards replied humorlessly.
“Can you honestly believe that a person like Agent Richards can just reintegrate into society like that?”
Mouth gaping, Ryan could only manage to shake his head.
“Of course not. She may as well be a D-Class in terms with how she would fit in society.”
“Thanks for the comparison,” Richards remarked sarcastically.
“Not to mention,” Paccone added, “the skills we know and are recruited for can't be transferred to civilian life so easily. You worked on stuff like SCP-514 and SCP-204. I'm guessing you're going into a biology-related field?”
“That's right,” Ryan blinked.
“Yeah, well, what's an old guy like me going to do? I've been in the combat business for twenty five years now, fifteen in the Marines and ten in the Foundation. I'm too old to reenlist into any other armed service or law enforcement agency. My only useful job skill is knowing how to kill a man 72 different ways unarmed and clearing an apartment block with an empty M16. Do you think there's anywhere out there that will provide me with a good, honest lifestyle?
“As I see it, there's only three ways out of the Foundation for people like us. We'll either take the red pill and live a life of blissful ignorance, die in a ditch alone, or go out in a blaze of glory. There's no Foundation Retirement Home for us. As for me, well, I'm not getting any younger. My physical abilities aren't getting any better with age, and I'm going to have to face that dilemma sooner or later.”
“We're also the ones that get stuck doing the Foundation's dirty work,” Williams added. “Do you honestly think that the O5s will let us just waltz out? We're the military elite with in-depth knowledge of all of the Foundation's covert military operations. It's either a Class A amnestic or a bullet to the head, depending on which is more convenient.”
“Bullets are cheaper,” Richards coldly remarked.
“She should know.” Paccone laughed. “She's the Foundation's unofficial retirement policy.”
“Is… is there any hope for you?” Ryan gaped.
“Well…” Williams frowned. “All three of us have our reasons for staying in the Foundation, and we've paid the price. Oh yes, there are some gems of hope scattered here and there among our younger members. Maybe they won't repeat the same mistakes we did.”
“Well, here's to them, then.” Ryan raised his glass, now suddenly a bit more subdued.
“Have a happy retirement, Dr. Ryan.” Williams smiled and raised his glass as well. “I hope you never see any of us again.” |
I was deposited to awareness with an abruptness normally reserved for the newly born, and much like them, my first view of the world was enough to send me into wracking sobs. I attempted to recoil, to fall back to the nothing that I had come from, but found myself frozen, my body not my own, only able to watch and look in horror at the world I now found myself in.
Cracked bricks and blocks formed an endless road before me, while behind laid only a flat mass of black more dark and empty then the place I had already come from. Stones and clumps of masonry floated here and there, as if frozen after being flung free by some massive explosion. Yawning tubes dotted this narrow, cyclopean highway, and the road had even crumbled away in sections, to reveal gaping maws of oblivion.
It was not this alien landscape that filled with me horror. While it gnawed and gnashed at the edges of my strength of mind, it was the subtle… awareness of the place that cause me to recoil in my frozen body. Everywhere, half-perceived faces leered from the bricks, the ground, the clouds. Everywhere eyes, dull but gleaming with a mocking, predatory awareness, seemed to watch, their vapid emptiness vanishing when perceived too closely.
Faced with the blank nothing behind me, or the unknown horror before, I forced my unresponsive limbs forward, each step a jerky ordeal. I kept my eyes locked ahead, seeing only the next step, the next stone, never looking at the impossible islands of floating, decayed brick that drifted over me, nor at the mocking faces laughing at my plight from every crevice.
Merely steps in to my journey, I froze, nearly recoiling back to beat at the blank nothing-wall behind me rather than take another step. Where before had been naught but the crumbling road, there was now another traveler. It shambled forward, slouching low under its own rotten weight, pulpy black lumps of feet slowly dragging it along the road. Two staring, blank eyes floated in the bloated, fungoid mass of its body, fixed on me with the unseeing focus of a mind as alien to mine as a deep-sea worm.
I stood, frozen and uncomprehending as it slowly strode forward, its wheezing body barely bigger then that of a child. Its glaring eyes were fixed on me, the pulpy thing slowly drawing closer. I could not move. To retreat would result only in eventual capture by the thing, but to advance would mean crossing it, and the thought of touching that… thing…
The decision was made for me, for as the thing drew close, I was galvanized in to action. By horror or rage, I leapt forward, screaming nonsense, and struck at that bloated body. I kicked and stomped at it, crushing the flabby and far too soft flesh under me, sobbing in horror as I felt the flesh touch me, then melt away, rotting to nothingness in seconds, but leaving such an unclean memory in me that I knew I would feel that dull, soggy weight against me long after even the sweet, cold embrace of the beyond.
After that, I ran. I ran and cursed whatever black fate had brought me here, and obliterated my memory, my life, and left only the road, the eternal road. I would have cried, have balled up and thrown myself down one of the endless pits that had broken open the road, but I was compelled to continue, legs continuing in a jerky rhythm that propelled me over the crumbling brick, leaping across the pits even as I secretly wished to fall in to their depths and obliterate the road, the faces, and myself.
As I ran and jumped, I came to one of the thick, twisted tubes that dotted the claustrophobic landscape. I thought to look in for a moment, curiosity fighting to overcome my almost manic desire to be free of this place, but upon hearing a strange shuffling and gurgling, coupled with a deep, bass pulse from the bowels of the black pipe, I decide against it and squeezed around. As soon as I was past, there was a sudden rush of air behind me, followed by a sharp, oddly muffled snap, as if two iron bars wrapped in cotton had been thrown together behind me. I did not turn, merely using this to further galvanize my stuttering walk, ignoring the continued snapping and rustling as it faded behind me.
Far ahead, I saw a long, glossy stair, leading up, and beyond it what looked like a squat dwelling made of the same crumbling brick as the road. While I feared what may lie inside, the idea of someone else, some other person with which to share this horrible place with filled me with the first hope I had felt in hours. I ran, eyes fixed on that stair, and soared across the final gap. It was mid-way across the abyss when I saw the thing waiting on the other side.
It was a twisted parody of some kind of reptile. Its elongated face was filled with a dim sort of menace, and his mouth yawned in anticipation of my reaching the other side, the jagged edges glinting as it made a choking squeal. Its body balanced on two squat, shapeless legs, a shell of hard, cracked flesh encasing the bulbous torso. Two stunted limbs projected through the flaking shell, coated in fibrous growths, and slowly shifted in a sick mockery of wings.
I screamed and twisted, trying in vain to return to the far edge, but it was too late, and my struggles were enough to bring me short, slamming in to the hard wall of the pit, the thing above me shrieking in frustration as I fell. Down, and down, spinning in to the endless blackness, I felt the dark enclose around me. However, seconds before the emptiness could provide me its final solace, I suddenly remembered.
Endless roads, lakes of fire, crumbling tombs filled with the rotting, shambling bones of beasts, hazy forms of glowing slickly light following in the dark, floating networks of ancient wood drifting in a hot sky, it all came back to me in a flood, the remembrance of where I had been, what I had done, and knowing that it would continue.
I do not know how long I have done this, nor what I have done to earn this.
Only that I must walk the road.
Forever.
MARIO
WORLD
TIME
000000
📀X00
1 - 1
GAME OVER |
The summer sun hung low in the sky, turning the clouds all shades of orange, red, and purple, sunbeams shining through the pine trees that lined the sides of this unpaved road. They drove slowly in their rental car, taking time to drink in the environment and just to enjoy one another's company. The vacation had been Dmitri's idea—he needed it—but he was glad to have the others along. A vacation alone was the last thing he wanted right now. It was good to be home, and he enjoyed acting as tour guide for his friends. Few people understood the beauty of the Russian countryside; the steppe is as deep a part of their collective soul as borscht or vodka.
He had taken them to his birthplace, Moscow, first. They had seen the rainbow spires of St. Basil's Cathedral, the towering red brick of the Kremlin walls, Lenin's mausoleum, the terrifying façade of No. 2 Dzerzhinisky Square and the crumbling remains of Stalin's pride—the White Sea Canal. They strolled along its banks and viewed the oily, filthy water with disdain, recognizing it as the slave labor project that it was. They saw the tiny plaque and paid homage to the dead, marveling at the fruits of their labor and clucking their tongues at its current state of disrepair, noting that not a single vessel had traversed it during their time there. Strelnikov sighed to himself and viewed it with longing. They did not, could not, understand its true meaning.
He continued driving, allowing them the pleasant respite of the car seats and the soothing sound of gravel under the tires. The road stretched in both directions for miles, small side roads shooting off and leading their travelers across the expanse that was modern-day Russia. He smiled inwardly, a knowing smile that he saved for special occasions such as this. He'd told them that he wanted to go home for a few days, and now he truly was—this was their last stop. The car pulled onto a winding side road and slowed to a stop, a large Russian summer house in the traditional style looming ahead of them. The others perked up and looked around in surprise as he stepped out of the car.
It had belonged to her mother once, she herself purchasing it just after the collapse in 1992 when you could buy property for as cheap as a piece of Japanese electronics. They had fixed it up and spent their summers here, away from the confines and the madness of Moscow proper. He gazed up at it, hands at his sides. The paint was faded to grayness and large portions of it had been peeled and stripped away by the harsh winter elements. The eaves sagged with decay, and the porch swing sat molding, its rusting chains folded underneath it. He heard the car doors close behind him as they exited and stood behind him; he paid them no attention, just stepped onto the porch. It groaned from the pressure, the wood joints no longer sturdy.
Strelnikov tried peering through the front door, but it was covered with a sheet of plywood. He tried the door—locked. It took him a few moments to remember the key stashed away in one of the porch beams; he pried the panel apart with his knife and reached in, ignoring the cobwebs and retrieving the tarnished brass key. It fit the lock perfectly, and he swung the door open and stepped in, the others following suit. He remembered coming here for the first time, seeing the furniture covered in plastic to keep the dust off, remembered the musty smell, remembered her sweeping the dirt through this very door and into the hazy summer air. There was no furniture now, only years of untended dust and dirt.
Stepping further through the hall, he saw the kitchen—its strawberry-printed trim lining the ceiling had faded into unrecognizable shades of white, the only appliance left was the stove where together they had once cooked breakfast. He looked away quickly, casting a nervous and embarrassed glance to his friends.
“…Was my summer home,” he said sheepishly. They nodded and gave him supportive smiles, watching carefully and waiting in the hallway, choosing not to follow as Dmitri walked up the stairs. The wooden planks sighed with each step, bowing dangerously as he climbed and only reluctantly supporting his weight. The upstairs was much the same, save for one room—their bedroom.
It was empty but for a small table with a blue tin box resting atop it. This, too, required his knife to open, but after some fussing he pried it apart and looked inside. His eyes fell upon the note first, and with trembling hands he unfolded it, scanning it in silence.
“My dearest Dmitri,” it began, written in her elegant, wavy Cyrillic handwriting.
“It has been almost two years since I received word of your death. I have waited as long as I can. The other girls tell me to have hope, but I know it is misguided and foolish of me to have even the faintest belief that you will ever return to me. It is so hard without you—sometimes I swear I hear your voice being carried in the breeze, and for the briefest moments it is like you are near to me again. I have waited, Dmitri. But I can wait no longer.
“Maybe the telegram really was a mistake, and you will return here someday to see me. I am leaving you this letter and these small remembrances in the hopes that maybe it will help you to understand and move on, as I have. I held on to them as long as I could, but the hope that you will ever see them is all but vanished from me now. I cannot bear to stay here any longer; it just reminds me of you.
“I want you to know that you meant everything to me; please believe me when I say that I will never forget the way you made me feel, while we were together here. I try to shut out the bad parts as much as I can, and leave the good for another day. I always loved you, and I always will.
“I hope you can understand.” She signed it, as beautiful as ever, Eva Katarinovna Strelnikova. It would have been her name had he ever come home to her.
The memories flooded back at once, taking his breath away and making him weak in the knees as soon as he saw the photographs underneath. He put them down, realizing he didn't need them; he saw them every night in his sleep.
He saw her standing in the kitchen, the way the sun shone on her hair and illuminated her face like the angel she had been to him when she would cook, wearing her strawberry-patterned apron that matched the décor of the room so well. Worse yet, he saw the look on her face when he told her he was leaving, saw the anguish and the worry, and the glimmer of hope in her eyes when he kissed her and promised that he'd be back for her in one piece.
He felt her in his arms when they sat together on the banks of the White Sea Canal, the way she sprawled across his body and slept with her ear to his chest, listening to him breathe and being soothed by the beat of his heart as they watched the ships drift by lazily. He remembered the soft touch of her skin and the way it glowed in the moonlight when they slept together, the way her hands would curl and lock around his own. He felt her strength and her weakness at the same time as he held her once again, telling her it would be a short war and that he was only there to keep the peace, knowing it was a lie and knowing that she was all too aware.
He heard the soft coo of her voice as they planned their future, talking of how they would sit on the veranda and watch the sun set across the fields, just as it had done today. He remembered her dry laugh when he'd make a terrible joke or do something stupid, and the smile that always accompanied it. In a flash, she was with him now, standing before him, if only in the depths of his own mind. He realized then that she had always been there.
She had been with him during the shelling, when the Chechens flung their rockets at him and when they trained their ancient weapons against him. She had been next to him when he was shot, held his hand in the field hospital and stroked his hair tenderly. She'd been with him up until the Foundation recruited him and took him away from her forever, their liaisons sending word to the Russian Military that he'd been killed in action near Grozny, leaving her nothing but a telegram and an engagement ring.
That was nine years ago.
He held up the stack of photographs, feeling something move underneath. It glinted hauntingly at him, and he recognized the gold band he had given her when he asked her to be his bride two weeks before leaving for the second Chechen war. He saw it, and at that moment he knew it was over—there was nothing left for him here. He tucked the box under his arm and returned downstairs in silence, his fellow travelers eyeing him with curiosity and silently offering him their support. He knew it to be sincere.
They exited together and returned to their rented cottage to sample the stores of vodka. His three compatriots got drunk and spent the night partying in the upstairs bedroom.
He slept alone. |
"A sabbatical?"
"At least one month," Dr. Glass said, nervously fingering the panic button under his clipboard. The figure sitting in the chair across from him slowly blinked its uncannily colorful eyes (damn it, he could never figure out what color they were supposed to be) and carefully read the pink slip of paper in his hand. "Your psychological evaluation indicates that it's been years since you last took a break. You need to let off some steam."
"I did have a break. I took a very nice trip to Italy," Clef said levelly.
"I went to bar. Was fun. Met new friends," Strelnikov insisted.
"A covert mission with six MTF operatives to eliminate a target is not a vacation, and nor are the five weeks in the hospital spent recovering from that nasty gut wound either." Dr. Glass sighed. "Look. Just take the damn vacation. I don't care where you go, or what you do, just spend at least one week where you're not worrying about the fate of the world."
"That would be… difficult," Clef said, folding the piece of paper into precise thirds. "Might as well ask me to stop breathing."
"Is stupid," said the other man sitting across from the psychologist, as he glared at his own pink slip of paper. "Is not like Chechens will stop being Chechens because I'm fatigued. War is not nine-to-five job."
"Then… at least make saving the world a secondary priority. Think of it as… periodic maintenance. You take your car in for a tune-up every ten thousand miles. This is your time to get a tune-up." Dr. Glass sighed.
"Can't I get a tune-up in the shop? Perhaps I could spend some time at the training facility instead, or in the field…" Clef muttered.
"Can spend time drinking vodka. That is proper Russian vacation."
"No. No field operations, no training, no paperwork, nothing. Just… get some rest. You've certainly earned it. Enjoy your vacations, gentlemen."
The door closed with a kind of epic finality, leaving two of the most dangerous men in the Foundation standing in the hallway, clutching pink slips like a pair of delinquent teenagers sent to the principal's office. The entire support staff of the Human Resources and Training division sat in their cubicles studiously staring at their monitors. One of them, a young lady wearing a very nice pantsuit, was desperately typing the Lord's Prayer over and over into Notepad. Another was whispering a Buddhist sutra under his breath.
The tension was finally broken by a sigh from Clef, who rubbed the back of his neck with the pink slip of paper. "So," he said, "I hear Brazil is nice this time of year."
The airport bar was crowded, full of weary passengers stopping in to have a bite to eat and a few drinks before allowing themselves to be carted off in the big Airbuses and Boeings. Strelnikov and Clef strolled in quietly and took the only two empty seats at the long bar, nodding curtly to the bartender and those next to them before settling in for the two hour wait. Their attire was ostentatious and drew odd looks from the other patrons: Strelnikov in his olive drab dress uniform with peaked cap, and Clef in a Hawaiian shirt with obscene portrayals of people engaging in coitus printed in flamboyant colors.
Their chosen drinks said much about their character. The bartender, hair in a muss from a long day, pointed at Clef and made eye contact, silently inquiring.
“Bombay Sapphire Martini, stirred, not shaken, two ice cubes only, 6:1 gin and vermouth, two olives, one onion, and if you bruise the vermouth god help you,” Clef responded dryly, as if the bartender should have already known. The bartender's expression went blank for a moment, before he nodded slowly and turned to Strelnikov. “And you, sir?”
“Vodka.”
“What with?”
Strelnikov gave him the dirtiest of looks. “…Ice.”
“Any preferred brand?”
Dmitri's stare hardened and he clenched his fists on the bar. “Vodka. With ice.”
The alcohol was forthcoming and it both lightened their mood and loosened their tongues accordingly as they imbibed. As the first rounds went through them, they developed a lively and appropriate discussion.
“You see, Dmitri, a good drink is smooth—you have just a small sip and the flavor and aromas combine and are enough to take your breath away. It's like the touch of a beautiful woman, something exquisite and rare, something you hold in your hand and show people so they can see what a classy son of a bitch you are.”
“Drink? Drink is not status or class symbol, Doktor Clef. Drink is a drink. You drink it. And you get drunk. And then you are drink more, until you have drink so much that is make you sober again.
“…I don't believe you've understood.”
Their spirited debate continued, beginning to draw the attention of the other customers. Slowly their heads and chairs swiveled to lock on the two oddly dressed gentlemen as they argued and jabbed at one another's tastes. As their collection of empty vodka and martini glasses grew and grew, the argument mellowed and became a happy, family oriented story telling extravaganza.
“I wanted to see his face when I killed him, Dmitri. That's why I had the snipers hold their fire. See, I came in behind him like this,” accompanied with gesticulation of the hands, “and swiped him across the face with my pistol. Then he stabbed me and some things happened, and blah blah blah, I ended up in a hospital for a few weeks. Good times.”
Strelnikov nodded approvingly. “In Chechnya, our supplies always run low. So I was force to hold my fire many time and resort to use of bayonet.” He waggled a finger and pointed at Clef, “Many Chechens get it in the face and neck, Doktor Clef. Many. Much blood.”
“Ever drive over thirty people in a tank?”
“Does armored personnel carrier count? What about unarm combat, you snap necks?”
“The spine is usually easier for me, Dmitri. A lot of people prefer the traditional twisting-head neck snapping action but I usually stick with grabbing them by the hair and shoving a boot into the small of their back as hard as I can. It's a personal preference really.” Strelnikov couldn't argue with that.
“Once, on night mission, we find rebel camp in bombed warehouse. I send two team, yes?” He holds up two fingers. “Two team, into each entrance, and I climb through window alone, with just knife and pistol. They were sleep, guards sleep, everyone was sleep. We come in and slit all of their throats in the night and leave them for crows.” He coughs. “Later that night I find out there had been a mutual cease fire called,” he concludes with a shrug.
“Oh, man, I know. Once, I was trying an experimental chainsaw that we thought was a possible item for containment. There ended up being a D-Class riot and, well, I was on hand with the chainsaw and one thing led to another. Next thing I know, I'm standing on a pile of D-Class bodies holding the saw over my head and screaming in bloodlust, then someone comes in and tells me it was just the annual costume party and half of my research staff is now dead.” A shrug. “Turns out the saw was just a normal saw, too.” Strelnikov nodded sadly, feeling Clef's disappointment, pausing for a moment and then saying quietly:
“I was just kid about cease fire, Doktor Clef.”
“…Oh. I wasn't. It really was a costume party.”
Dmitri sighed and turned back to the bar and asked for another drink, except nobody answered. He craned his head over the bar and found the bartender, pale as a ghost, trembling on the floor with a phone in his hand, poised to dial. Strelnikov shrugged and plucked the bottle himself, pouring a glass and turning back to face Clef. He took a quick look behind him.
The bar was completely empty.
"Considering who we work for, you'd think they could afford to give us better seats than coach," Clef griped. "Seriously. Charging us five bucks for a dry ham sandwich and a half can of soda. This is highway robbery."
"Is better than Aeroflot in 1980s," Dimitri pointed out. "Food recognizable. Cabin actually pressurized. Stewardesses smile at you instead of scream." He raised an eyebrow at the attractive young lady coming down the aisle with the beverage cart. "And are much prettier. Aeroflot stewardesses all fat old bitches with horse face."
"I dunno, a boiled beet and some horse-leather meat might actually be a step up from this… thing. What the hell are these little green flecks, anyway?" Clef muttered, poking the sandwich with his finger. "Lizard bits?"
"Maybe is sperm from 682. Big lizard wet his beak in your sandwich, no?" Strelnikov quipped, making a "jerking off" motion with his left hand.
"I wish, it would improve the taste… excuse me, miss? Miss?" Clef said, reaching across Dimitri from his window seat to tap the stewardess on the elbow. "I'm sorry, miss, but you seem to have messed up my order. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, not a pus and plastic one. From the taste of this, it seems that you've confused the two."
"I see, sir," the stewardess sighed. "I'm sorry you don't like the taste of your sandwich. If you'd like a refund…"
"I don't want a goddamn refund, I want an edible sandwich," Clef interrupted. "Now, I'm sure that somewhere in that cart under the piles of dried-out human ejaculate and styrofoam sponge, you've got something edible, so how about bending that pretty ass over and looking a little harder, sweet cheeks?"
"Ahhhh," the stewardess said. She turned to Dr. Clef and grinned, a wide, mirthless smile showing too many teeth. "So, I see, what you're really trying to say is that you're the asshole here!"
She leaned across Dimitri, her voice low and stern, but carrying through the suddenly silent cavern, as she addressed the bemused Clef. "Listen up, bucko. I don't make the damn food, I just serve it. If you've got a problem, you can write a goddamn letter to the people who do. But wait until we get on the ground. Until then, it's another six hours to São Paulo, and I'll be damned if I have to spend it listening to you bitch the whole way. So either shut up and eat your sandwich or stop complaining about it, or I'll duct tape your mouth shut and tape you to the chair." She stood up straight. "And my name's not sweet cheeks, asshole. It's Lucy."
There was a moment of stunned silence, broken by a smattering of applause, then the stewardess continued down the aisle, serving sodas and coffees to the other, appreciative passengers. Clef leaned back and smiled. "I like her," he admitted. "Girl's got spirit."
"That's nice," Dimitri sighed. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up slowly.
"Where are you going?" Clef asked. "The in-flight movie's about to start."
"To take a shit… and pretend I don't know you," Dimitri said.
Clef shrugged and leaned his chair back as far as he could, ignoring the angry stare from the fat lady in the seat behind him. He was just drifting to sleep when a loud scuffling sound and scream drew his attention.
"DO NOT MOVE!" screamed the bearded man, who held a knife to the throat of Lucy the flight attendant. There were two other men, holding similar weapons: one held a hand grenade, pin out, over his head. All three were wearing kaffiyehs and camouflage t-shirts. "This plane now belongs to the Holy Army of the Chechen Independent Republic!"
"Allahu Akbar!" screamed one of the other men. "God is great! Long Live Chechnya!"
"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," Clef winced.
The jostling of the aircraft in the turbulent skies made it difficult for Strelnikov to piss. It always struck him as odd; he'd have no qualms about jumping out of an airplane into a combat zone, but something as simple as taking a leak inside of one gave him hell. The complexities and nuances of the human psyche escaped him at the time, and he chided himself for “being a pansy.”
He finally got control of himself and was about to go when the door was rudely kicked open and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him into the aisle. He quickly buttoned himself and stumbled along, too surprised to offer effective resistance. The Chechen took a good look at his uniform and noticed the Russian crest on his hat—with a quick decision he began dragging him to the front of the aircraft.
“Caught with your pants down, Dmitri?” Clef muttered as they dragged Strelnikov between the rows of seats, the irony of his witticism wasted. Thinking quickly, he threw his foot out into the aisle just in time to catch the Chechen's ankle, sending him face first into the carpet and taking Dmitri down with him. The two others immediately rushed forward to try and subdue Clef, one still holding the hand grenade over his head and shouting angrily in a Chechen-Russian dialect.
Strelnikov immediately recognized it.
They were Chechens.
They were on the plane. His plane.
There were Chechens on his plane. Three of them.
“…That is three too many,” he said out loud. Clef gave him an odd look as he immediately began biting the tripped man's nose, drawing a short knife from the inside of a jackboot and proceeding to punch the man in the kidneys. With the knife.
Clef wasted no time and nearly leapt over the heads of the terrified passengers in front of him, lunging for the approaching men. He connected with the one carrying the knife, knocking him to the floor also. Clef hauled back and slammed the palm of his hand into the man's face, quickly shattering the bridge of the man's nose. The man winced and staggered back, clutching his heavily bleeding nose, as Clef casually disarmed him with a complicated aikido wrist lock. He then drove the knife into the man's heart as Strelnikov finished rendering his man into a bloody, dying mess.
There was only one left, still holding the hand grenade and seemingly unsure of what to do now that their plan had completely deteriorated. "Don't move!" he screamed. "I have a bomb!"
Simultaneously, Clef and Dmitri rotated their heads upward, rising from the bloodied corpses like something out of a cheap horror flick, except instead of a dramatic musical score, there was only the wailing of the outboard turbofans as the pilot increased throttle. "I don't care," Clef said.
Dmitri just smiled. Steel teeth gleamed.
The terrorist's eyes darted nervously between the two men, and he took a frightened step backward.
It would be his last. Lucy's foot caught the man in the back of the knee and sent him stumbling forward, right into Strelnikov's knife. Clef deftly snatched the grenade from the man's hand, paying careful attention to make sure he kept pressure on the spoon. Dmitri's bloodied steel teeth glistened underneath the cabin lighting, offering the man a most disquieting last sight of this earth.
He withdrew the knife as violently as he had inserted it, a spray of blood splashing across the passengers nearest him, letting the body collapse supine on the floor. The occupants of the cabin stared in shock and awe at the brief, bloody conflict, offering no applause as Clef took his seat, grenade in hand. Strelnikov walked past, heading aft.
“I have to make piss.”
"We have a problem," Clef said, when Dimitri came out of the restroom, buttoning up his pants. Compared to the Russian, who was a bloody, gory mess, the stuck-up prick had somehow managed to avoid getting any blood on him at all, despite the violence of the past few minutes.
"No problem. Chechens dead now," Strelnikov pointed out.
"That's the problem. Three dead terrorists on an airplane, a plane full of grateful passengers, media, heroism, a parade, our faces in the paper? Do you see where I'm going with this?" Clef pointed out.
Strelnikov considered the implications of the Director's words. "Inconvenient," he murmured. "Doktor Glass will lecture us muchly about definition of 'relaxation' and 'low profile.'"
"To say the least. Wait here. Then follow my lead when you have a moment."
The gangly, big-nosed doctor took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders and walked back down the aisle, to where the rather shaken young stewardess was sitting in the front of the plane, nursing a cup of coffee. Strelnikov couldn't hear what he said over the sound of the plane engines, but he could see the way that their body language changed.
Clef said something while standing back near the front row.
Lucy said something back, still holding the coffee cup in both hands.
Clef said something else, leaning forward just a bit. He smiled.
Lucy smiled back. She rolled her eyes and wiped moisture off her cheeks.
Clef nodded and laughed. He leaned against the wall next to her, looking down at her and gesturing.
Lucy began to play with her hair.
Clef stroked his chin.
Lucy began to stroke her face behind the ear.
Clef winked.
Lucy stroked her throat and collarbone.
Clef came walking back down the aisle. He walked past the bathroom and into the galley.
Lucy bit her lower lip, then followed Clef into the galley. There was the sound of a latch being undone, and a door opening.
Dimitri counted to twenty, then poked his head into the galley as well. The ladder leading down to the baggage compartment was open. He slid down and into the darkened baggage compartment.
The first thing he saw was Clef easing Lucy's unconscious body onto a cargo compartment. There was lipstick on his collar, and the doctor's previously buttoned-up Hawaiian shirt was opened up a bit. He tossed a ring of keys to Strelnikov. "See if you can get our bags," he said. "They're probably in one of those locked cargo containers."
"Doktor," Strelnikov said patiently, "Please just tell me this. What is point of finding bags now?"
"I don't want to leave them behind when we jump."
“I no jump without chute. I have done this once, was not fun. Break many bone.” Strelnikov opened the lockers and riffled around, grabbing the baggage and motioning for Clef to follow. “I have better idea.” They navigated the depths of the aircraft, working their way through access ways and maintenance corridors that usually only the lowliest of wing wipers ever have to crawl through. The aluminum skin of the aircraft vibrated from the air moving around it, and the noise was deafening. Finally, they stopped in the very bottom of aircraft.
“We wait, now.”
The pilot had changed course, ostensibly heading where the Chechens had instructed him to, but in reality veering towards an abandoned military airstrip. The concrete along the runway was cracked in places, with weeds breaking through and angling skyward. The terminals had long since been bulldozed; all that remained now were a few rusting corrugated hangars and a dilapidated, disused control tower. He steadied his hands on the yoke, knuckles white and eyes alert, still shaken from the events earlier. Though he hadn't seen the massacre firsthand, Lucy had told him about it in grim detail. Where was she, anyway? He needed a drink, badly.
The inboard flaps dropped a few degrees, then a few more, increasing the plane's lift and drag, flaring the nose slightly and slowing it down. The whine of the engines decreased in intensity, causing the aircraft to slowly descend toward the runway below. Clef and Dmitri felt the shudder of the fuselage as they lost altitude, and heard the telltale hydraulic hisses that indicated the undercarriage was about to drop.
“Hold on! Wait until we slow!” Strelnikov shouted, but it was lost in the noise. Clef gave him a confused expression but knew enough about gravity to warrant already clutching the legs of the gear. The aircraft slowed, dropping to within a few hundred feet of the ground and flaring more, nearly within ground effect. The hatch covers dropped open and the landing gear unfolded, exposing them to a harsh burst of wind that threatened to tear them away, the ground below flashing by in a terrifying blur. The concrete rose to them with alarming speed as the pilot brought the big passenger liner down—the wheels made contact and screeched in annoyance, reluctant to carry the tremendous weight.
The pilot applied brakes and the aircraft decelerated, rolling to a stop at the end of the runway. They leapt from the undercarriage and sprinted across the tarmac to a nearby line of trees, looking back in time to see the ridiculous rubber slides inflate for the other passengers to make a considerably more undignified exit. They knelt in a small thicket of trees, watching to make sure nobody followed them.
Aboard the aircraft, Lucy picked her head up and groaned. That son of a bitch—and to think she almost liked him, despite who he worked for. She sighed and rubbed her temples, pulling a cell phone from a pocket of her uniform and dialing a secure line. The phone chirped and queried her for access codes, which she dutifully punched in, surprised that they were correct considering her foggy state of mind.
“Lieutenant Parks, reporting. I have two probable Foundation assets, track from my location and prepare to deploy a shadowing team immediately.”
"I have to admit," Clef said. "Your idea was much better."
The two men lurked in the treeline for a few minutes, watching the Special Forces soldiers board the plane and get the passengers out through the inflatable slides. A man in a black suit and tie was going from passenger to passenger asking questions: he seemed annoyed at not getting the answers he wanted. Up top, a young man in camouflage gear leaned out the left side doorway and vomited onto the tarmac. Finally, several men wearing medical garb started easing three stretcher-bound bodies down the slide.
"You want stay and watch more?"
"Nah, I've seen enough. Let's get going."
They moved silently through the underbrush, crossing the electrified fence with the aid of some wire cutters and a sleeping bag, and then made their way out into the desert. There was a cracked asphalt two-lane highway under the baking sun, stretching out into the distance.
"Well," Clef said, grinning. "It's not Brazil, but it's certainly far enough away from work for Glass. Let's go hitching."
"First we must find out where we are. Is not good if we wind up in Death Valley. Then is no other people for miles."
"No problem, I'll just check my GPS." Clef said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turned it back on, and brought up the mapping software. "FUCK," he growled. "This is bad."
"Where we are? Bolivia? Death Valley?"
"Worse," Clef said grimly. "Texas."
As if on cue, the silence was broken by the sound of a battered pickup truck coming around the bend. Two men in white cowboy hats pulled up to the agents, their rusty old Ford emblazoned with a Confederate flag across the back windshield, a pair of shotguns on the roof, and a dead deer across the hood. The strangers rolled down the window as their car ground to a halt by the side of the road. The man in the passenger seat, a grizzled-looking one-eyed cowboy with unruly black hair, spat tobacco juice on Strelnikov's shoes and sneered.
"Mind tellin' me what you pair of Mexican Jew lizard faggots are doin' in our neck of the woods?" he growled.
Clef and Dimitri shared a bemused glance. "You have got be fucking with me," Dimitri muttered.
The blood boiled behind Strelnikov's eyes. He looked over their attire and felt a wave of nausea nearly overtake him—how could anyone dress like this? He felt a sudden need to adjust his cap in a vain attempt to counteract their atrocious appearance. Clef just laughed.
“What ‘n the hell are ya' lookin' at, y'stupid or somethin'?” The one-eyed cowboy leaned out the window as the driver turned down the radio, which had previously been blaring Toby Keith at an obnoxious volume. “Oh, lemme guess, you're one a' them commies, aren't you?” He spat again. “I fought you assholes in ‘Nam.” The driver nodded. “He fought y'assholes in ‘Nam!” Clef's smile grew to obscene proportions.
Not being one to let a statement like this go unchallenged, Strelnikov immediately rose to the occasion and jabbed a finger in the man's face. “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF WAR. I FIGHT IN CHECHYNA BOTH TIME AND I MEET BABIES ON THE BATTLEFIELD THAT WERE HAVE MORE HONOR THAN YOU, COWARD. MY GRANDFATHER TOOK BERLIN WHILE YOUR ANCESTORS SIT ON THEIR ASS DRINKING SCHNAPPS AND HOPING THAT THEY NOT HAVE TO FIGHT LIKE WE DID. YOUR ENTIRE COUNTRY IS BABIES. ALL OF YOU, BABIES.” His finger trembled with rage while Clef suppressed a guffaw. The redneck stared at him in confusion.
“…Wot?”
Strelnikov punched him in the mouth.
The redneck tumbled over, knocking his compatriot out his seat and onto the pavement. Clef was on him in a flash, hauling him up and securing his arms behind his back with an unhealthy cracking of joints. One-eye regained his composure admirably, and stepped out in front of Dmitri. “Y' stupid god damned commie, you god damned near broke my fuckin' face! What are ya, salty because you lost the fuckin' war?”
It was too much—such an insult to his Russian patriotism could not be allowed to stand. With one hand he lifted the man off the ground by his neck and carted him off towards a dead, wiry tree. The cowboy flailed wildly, trying to strike him or push him away, but Strelnikov had a considerable size advantage. He briefly considered hanging the man, but lacking the rope to do so decided to secure him to the tree with one-eye's belt, Clef doing the same with the other. Two oversized lone star belt buckles shone in the hot southern sun as Clef and Strelnikov stalked away to their truck, leaving them to bake for a while.
“Who won the war now, jackass?” Clef quipped as he climbed into the driver's seat. They drove for hours down the Texas highway, finding nothing but dust and clumps of rocks. Dmitri watched idly from the passenger seat, finding the vastness of the state reminding him somewhat of home, if much drier.
Far behind, the two cowboys were delighted to see a black SUV pull off the road, with uniformed men disembarking and approaching them quickly. “It's about bloody time you got here,” one-eye said haughtily.
“Did they take the truck?” Both of them nodded.
“…Excellent. We've got them now.”
"Stupid fucking American car," Clef grimaced. He slammed the hood down on the smoke-emitting engine and kicked impotently at the front bumper of the vehicle. "Stupid fucking piece of shit. Ford really does stand for Fix or Replace Daily."
"We should be driving good Russian car. Like Lada. That is good solid vehicle. Not break down like shitty American car," Strelnikov offered.
"Do you ever fucking shut up about Russia? Ever?" Clef retorted. "Seriously, you've got like, a hard-on for the Motherland so big they can see it from orbit. Goddamn."
"You ever get tired being enormous fucking prick? Seriously, you have stick up ass so big can use it as flagpole!" Strelnikov snarled.
"Fuck you, Dimitri! Fuck you, and FUCK Russia, and FUCK this stupid FUCKING vacation," Clef screamed, nearly going into histrionics. "All I fucking wanted was to spend some fucking time in Brazil lying on the beach, working on my FUCKING tan, and maybe, just maybe, having sex with some South American honey, sex involving lots of cocoa butter and maybe some leather whips, and instead I'm out here in the middle of FUCKING NOWHERE TEXAS, Population YOU AND ME and we'll probably die of fucking heatstroke before too long!"
"And how this is any of my fault!?" Strelnikov shouted back, slamming his fists on the hood of the broken-down Ford.
"I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA!" Clef screamed.
That was when the two men heard a car horn honk behind them. They turned to see a cherry-red Camaro convertible with the top down idling by the side of the road. The car gleamed like a jewel.
So did the three babes riding it.
The driver was a brunette, her long, curly locks flowing over her bare shoulders, her honeyed skin glowing with sweat from the warm Texas sun. Her red lips were pursed playfully as she lowered her sunglasses and gave the two strangers a slightly amused look. Her friend in the passenger's side seat (a tanned blonde with flawless skin and gorgeous green eyes) leaned over and waved, while the redhead in the back seat popped her gum and winked.
"Hey boys," the brunette said. "Seems like you're having a little car trouble. Need a lift?"
"… yes. Yes, we do," Strelnikov said.
"Well, it's a tight fit, but squeeze in! We'll give you a ride to town!" the brunette said. She got up and opened the door of the camaro. Clef and Strelnikov could see that all three of the women were wearing daisy dukes, sandals, and not much else. All of them had bodies that would make supermodels green with envy, their voluptuous figures threatening to free themselves from their straining tops at any moment.
Clef and Strelnikov gave each other a bemused look, their argument from moments before forgotten. "This doesn't happen," Clef whispered. "This NEVER happens. No one EVER gets picked up randomly by a hot trio of babes in the middle of nowhere, especially if they're a blonde, brunette, and redhead."
"Don't question it, just smile and get in car," Dimitri whispered.
Clef shook his head as he saw Strelnikov climb into the back seat, sandwiched by the blonde on one side and the redhead on the other, grinning as the two scantily clad women pressed up against him. He turned his eyes to the sky, beseechingly. "You've gotta be fucking with me," he whispered.
He got in the car anyway.
“How far away is this strip club you two work at, anyway?” Clef asked above the purr of the Camaro's engine. The brunette next to him just smiled and shook her head.
They had driven for hours. Clef and Strelnikov had no idea where they were, but it wasn't really a concern—they were more than content to allow the girls to fawn over them as much as they pleased. Clef sat in the front seat with the blonde in his lap, one arm around her waist and the other holding a drink. He whispered witty compliments in her ear like a suave Latin lover, making her laugh coyly and teasingly flick him on the nose. She smiled softly and threw her head back to check on Strelnikov and the redhead, her golden mane swishing across Clef's face as it twirled around.
“Er, what is he doing?” She asked Clef, tapping him on the shoulder. He craned his head to look, hearing a sound that could only be likened to “blblblbblblblblb”.
“Oh, it looks like he's motorboating her.” She gave him a quizzical look, and Strelnikov looked up from the other woman's bosom long enough to say in practiced English, “It is a rapid motion of the mouth across the breasts.”
She giggled and handed him another drink, which he held forward to Clef and toasted, the girls' smiles widening. Their heads lolled about and they couldn't help but notice that the telephone poles were whizzing by like blurs, the road becoming a mishmash of grays and whites from the evenly painted dividing lines. The sky spun like a top and together they fell into the darkness.
"Well, they're out," the blonde said.
The other two girls sighed and relaxed. "I thought they'd never drop," the brunette muttered. "Seriously, how much flunitrazepam did we slip them, anyway?"
"About three times the normal dose," the redhead sighed, pushing Strelnikov away and buttoning up her shirt. "This guy was motorboating me all the way to the end, too."
"Well, we're done now," sighed the blonde. "Now it's time for the boys to do their work."
The red convertible pulled into a side street that didn't appear on any maps. The black SUV reached them shortly after.
Wherever they were, it was freezing. They awoke groggily and were aware of only the blindfolds and the bindings around their hands and feet, the scuffling sounds they made echoing throughout the empty concrete room. A door opened and shut from behind them, and they heard the sound of boots on pavement approaching and circling them. Harsh light assaulted their eyes without warning when the blindfolds were abruptly torn off, revealing a trio of unhappy-looking men standing before them. They wore crisply pressed and immaculately tailored military style uniforms and were backlit by a naked incandescent light bulb.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust enough to be able to make out the GOC insignia printed on their breast pockets.
“Where the hell are we?” Strelnikov asked, blinking.
“The data is, shall we say, ‘redacted', as your people are so fond of putting it,” responded one of the men.
“You gotta be fuckin' with me,” Clef sighed exasperatedly.
"No, we are not fucking with you," the man in the uniform said. He pulled up a chair and sat across from the two men. A golden eagle insignia on his uniform collar gleamed in the dim light. "We are through fucking with you. From this point forward, we are being serious."
He pulled out a silver Zippo lighter with the words 'FUCK COMMUNISM' written on the side and lit up a large, black cigar. Clouds of acrid smoke billowed from the stogie, filling the room with dense white vapors. "Now," the colonel said. "You are going to tell us exactly what you two Foundation personnel were doing heading into a GOC operation in progress. What is your game? What are you trying to accomplish here?"
Clef and Strelnikov glanced at each other, then turned back to the colonel. "What we're trying to accomplish… how do I put it…" Clef muttered.
"Are trying to relax, get drunk, and wet beaks," Strelnikov said.
"In no particular order," Clef added.
"Also am trying to work on tan," Dimitri said.
"Maybe visit some nice museums or do some wine tasting."
"Meet nice people."
"In other words, we're on vacation," Clef concluded.
The colonel pulled a boot knife from the bag next to him and stuck it, point-down, into the table. "Armed pretty heavily for a bunch of guys on vacation," the colonel pointed out, taking out a bunch of knives and small explosives from the bag next to him and laying them out on the table.
"Actually, we're not," Clef pointed out. "No guns, for one thing."
"Da, and only one knife. No hatchet. Left SVD at home," Dimitri added.
"Really, what's a bit of C-4 between friends? Here in Texas, that's almost like owning a car."
"Detonator is not even primed. Am not stupid, don't want blow up plane."
"Really. So… you aren't on a secret mission for the Foundation? You aren't the backup called in by a Foundation operative six days ago in response to escalating KTE activity?"
"Not at all."
"Did not even want to go to Texas," Dimitri insisted. "Wanted go to Brazil."
"Really," murmured the colonel. He gestured to the screen behind him. The image of a young man with a black eye, wearing a brightly colored hawaiian print shirt, appeared on the screen, flanked by gun-toting soldiers. "This is from our Rio de Janeiro office. Does this man look familiar?"
The guy in the hawaiian shirt raised his head groggily and stared at the screen. His eyes lit up. "Doctor Clef! Dimitri!" Agent Yoric laughed. "Are you here to rescue me?"
The two men stared at Yoric for a moment, then glanced at each other, then looked back at the colonel. "I have never seen or met this man in my entire life," Clef lied.
"Is total stranger," Dimitri said.
"… you've got to be fucking kidding me," Yoric whimpered.
"… and what happened after that?" Dr. Glass asked. The psychiatrist was resting his chin on his hand, gazing at the three men sitting in his office with an expression of spellbound fascination.
"Well…" Clef said. "We couldn't leave Yoric behind."
"… so we break free of captors and gun them all down," Dmitri finished.
"Then we highjacked a GOC plane…"
"Boat," Dmitri corrected.
"Was it a boat?" Clef wondered. "I thought it was a plane…"
"My report said boat," Dmitri explained pointedly.
Clef blinked once, very slowly, then smiled. "It was a seaplane."
"Da," Dmitri said, much relieved. "Seaplane. That explain confusion."
"Yes. So after we highjacked the GOC seaplane, we flew down to Rio de Janeiro, found Yoric, and rescued him."
"I see," Glass said, very slowly. "And this is why you guys were late coming back from vacation?"
"Well, we couldn't just fly back right away," Clef said.
"GOC was looking for us. Very dangerous."
"I didn't want to go back to their torture chamber," Yoric whimpered.
"So, we disguised ourselves as tourists and waited for them to give up looking."
"Disguised… as tourists," Glass repeated.
"Um… yes. As rich corporate executives on vacation…"
"I see. And this explains the…" Glass ran an eye down the page of the document in front of him. "… six nights at a luxury 4-star hotel, five thousand-plus dollars in restaurant and liquor bills, and… good lord, you bought HOW many condoms? And why six bikinis?"
"… the young ladies forgot theirs," Clef said, "and they didn't want to go into the hot tub naked."
"… Dr. Clef. My dear agents. I was not born yesterday. The Foundation Expense Fund is for emergency expenses in the line of duty. It is not to be used to fund a week of debauchery on the taxpayers' dollar, and your ludicrous story is both insulting to my intelligence and…"
Simultaneously, as if they had rehearsed this (and perhaps they had), the three men reached into the breast pockets of their hawaiian shirts and pulled out three newspaper clippings and laid them on the desk in front of Glass.
UNKNOWN HEROES FOIL CHECHEN HIJACKERS
TEXAS MILITIAMEN FOUND GUNNED DOWN IN DESERT
BLOODSHED IN RIO! TWO MYSTERY MEN ATTACK BRAZILIAN MILITARY BASE
Glass looked from one newspaper clipping to the other, then back up at the three men.
He saw Yoric point to the rope burn on his wrists.
He saw Clef lighting up a cigarette with a battered, blood-stained Zippo, with the words "FUCK COMMUNISM" engraved on it.
He saw Strelnikov grin, his mouth full of steel teeth, his broad, slavic face the very picture of angelic innocence.
Dr. Glass took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.
"You have to be fucking with me," he moaned.
END |
██/██/████
I woke up late again today… I really should start setting an alarm or something. Doc Rhodes was pretty pissed off, said I'm the worst secretary he's ever seen. That old man's told me that every day for three years now. When's he gonna lighten up? At least the work is easy.
He's been studying a bunch of papers and stuff from one of his patients' home. A guy called Raul Sounder, went crazy and killed a bunch of people. Said he was on some kind of 'quest for meaning', whatever that is. He had this weird obsession with the number eighteen. Rhodes called it the worst case of something called 'Pareidolia' he'd ever seen. Helluvva word, pareidolia. Anyway, I should go to sleep. That damn crow kept me awake all night… I really wish I could live in places where the birds don't cry all night and keep me up.
██/██/████
I've never understood why people start off entries like this with 'dear diary'. It seems so stupid to pretend I'm doing anything other than writing in a notebook.
Anyway, it was a fairly good day today, light workload, just a few patients. Doctor Rhodes had me file a whole bunch of the Sounders stuff away, though, so it wasn't exactly a break. It's the oddest thing, those papers had this… stuff on them, not like dust exactly, but some kinda powder, like they'd been stored in a room full of the stuff. It gives the pages an odd texture, makes them feel strange. I got a pretty nasty papercut on one, too. It's swollen, looks infected.
At any rate, time for sleep. That fucking crow had better not wake me up again. I wish I could live in places where the birds don't cry at all hours of the night… Huh, I said that last night, too. 'places where the birds don't cry'. Kinda poetic. I like it.
██/██/████
So, today was boring.
Rhodes was acting kinda strange, though. He kept babbling about the red light at the intersection around the corner from the building changing faster than the others. He would walk over and stick his head out the window to try and catch it changing. Ah, well, old guys like him are bound to develop a few eccentricities eventually, right? Go figure.
Oh! Also, I told one of the patients, an english teacher, about how I'd come up with that fun phrase 'Places where the birds don't cry'. She said she thought it would make a good title for a book or short story or something. I was kinda hoping for a better reaction. It is really poetic. places where the birds don't cry. Ha, a novel by Susan James.
Anyway, I need to go to bed soon. I kinda hope the crow outside is loud tonight, so I can complain about not sleeping in places where the birds don't cry.
██/██/████
Doctor Rhodes is dead.
That traffic light he was freaking out over? He went out sometime late last night and hung himself from it. The police have been questioning me all day, 'what did he act like?' 'Did he seem all right?'. I told them he'd been talking about that light being off and it really bothered him, and they hmmd a bit and wrote it down, and that damn crow kept making noise the whole time. I told one of the cops about how unlucky he was to have to sleep in places where the birds don't cry, and he looked at me like I'd said something really strange. Some people, huh?
Anyway, I'm proud of my new pet phrase. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. Hey, if you say it like that, it sounds kinda important, doesn't it?
Anyway, time for bed. I'm so glad I don't have to live in places where the birds don't cry.
██/██/████
I really need to get a job, but I don't want to leave the apartment. The crow outside is so comforting… I'm almost scared to go to places where the birds don't cry… Dunno what I'll do come winter. Fly south, I suppose.
██/██/████
Places where the birds don't cry.
██/██/████
The crow never made a noise last night. I'm worried. All night, I tossed and turned, waiting for that screeching caw to lull me to sleep, and it never came. I don't want to be trapped in places where the birds don't cry.
██/██/████
Places where the birds don't cry. Places where the birds don't cry. Places where the birds don't cry. Places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry. places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry places where the birds don't cry placeswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcry placeswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcryplaceswherethe birdsdon'tcryplaceswhere thebirds don'tcryplaceswherethebirdsdon'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcryplaceswherethebirds don'tcry don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon- ( Continues for several pages. -Dr.██████)
Researcher's note:
The Foundation acquired the diary of Susan James a short time after her apparent suicide. A neighbor noticed that she had not left her home for several days and phoned local police, who arrived to find that she had [DATA EXPUNGED] repeated several times. The particulars of the case, and its potential association with the Rhodes incident brought it to Foundation attention, and all files pertaining to Miss James were closed. Item number SCP-E-███-2, the 'Sounder Papers' were taken in for analysis.
Addendum: All researchers handling item SCP-E-███-2 must wear full hazardous materials protective gear. We can't afford another [REDACTED]
Two birds with one stone. |
The smoking ruin of the black Crown Victoria lay on the side of the road, its wheels slowly turning in the air, a massive tree trunk piercing the windshield. The tree had blasted through the safety glass and through the driver's seat, knocking the steering wheel off its column, through the headrest, and into the back seat. A clearly unsurvivable accident.
Except for the young man in the grey duster sitting on top of the transmission hump, smoking a cigarette. Clearly a dangerous activity given the heavy scent of leaking gasoline in the air.
The glare of halogen-bright headlights coming down the curve interrupted his reverie, so he hopped down from the mangled wreck, tossing his still-glowing cigarette butt into the passenger-side seat. He climbed up the embankment and stepped into the middle of the road, waving a battered Yankees baseball cap over his head. The Mitsubishi pulled up beside the wreck, and he walked over to the driver's side window, where an obese, balding man with a furrowed brow glared up at him angrily.
"You're late," the young man said, showing him the time on a Mickey Mouse watch. "You said you'd be here twenty minutes ago."
"You said you could take this guy in. What happened?"
"I'm guessing a little girl happened," the young man said.
"How the fuck do you figure?"
"Well, I don't know. You think maybe the little girl whom you told me could mess around with electronics might have had something to do with the inexplicable failure of my car's transmission system? I thought you told me she could only affect computers."
"Shut up. You're supposed to be the best. My bosses paid a lot of money for you. So far you've given us shit. Get in the car."
The young man walked to the passenger's side without another word, tossed his grey duster in the back seat and climbed in. "Little girls," he muttered. "It's always little girls. Make a note, if you have a chance to fight a seven-story monster or a kindergartener, take the monster, you'll live longer." Behind him, the gas fumes had finally started to ignite, and blue-yellow flames were licking the upholstery of the wrecked Crown Vic. "I'm going to need a new car, and a six-man support team," the young man said. "In addition…"
"You're getting jack shit." The young man felt cold steel against his temple. He glanced up into the rear view mirror. Walther PPK. 9x17mm. Silver finish. Ivory grips. Stylish gun, must have cost a small fortune. "This experiment is over. We're switching back to our usual MO, and you're going to hell."
"I really wouldn't do that if I were you," the young man said. His voice was low, and flat, deliberately cool, like a snake in the rushes. "Not with only a gun. I'd recommend a stake and some holy water."
The fat man laughed. "Shut up. Aren't you a fucking lousy liar."
"You shut up. You won't kill me. You paid a lot of money for me, and your bosses won't like it if you waste resources."
"My bosses don't know about you. This is an independent operation. Perfect deniability. You were dead the moment that you took the contract. Or did you really think that the Foundation would even bother with some loser who got kicked out of the GOC?" A fireball ignited the night sky as the gas tank of the Crown Vic finally caught and lit. In the lurid scarlet light, the fat man's features appeared harsh, cruel… yes, even demonic.
The young man smiled, a wide, mirthless smile showing lots of crooked white teeth. "No support. No resources. No replacement car. I guess that makes sense." The young man leaned his head back and sighed, staring up at the roof of the car. "My mistake. I guess I've gotten soft. But one thing that I haven't forgotten…"
There was a gunshot, and a brief flurry of movement, and then the small Mitsubishi leaped forward like a pouncing cat. The tiny car swerved off the side of the road and over the edge of the embankment, where it tumbled end over end down the rocky ravine and crashed, inverted, into a small creek bed at the bottom of the hill. Two more gunshots, then silence.
The young man pulled himself out of the passenger's side window, grimacing as he nursed a gunshot wound in the ear. Blood was streaming down his face from a cut on the forehead, and his left ankle was twisted strangely as he rolled over onto his back, gasping for breath. Broken ribs. Definitely broken ribs.
He grinned up at the starry night sky as he tossed the silver-plated Walther into the creek. "As I was gonna say… I never forgot to set the car into Park when doing a roadside execution," he wheezed.
He reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there, realizing only then that his coat was still in the back seat of the car. He considered his options. Given the situation, passing out seemed like the best course of action.
So he did. |
One fine day in the Foundation, Dr. Bright finds the need to clean up some small problems. A researcher has been asking questions, and, worse, questioning Bright. And so it is that Dr. Jack Bright calls Dr. Heiden to his office, for some… discussion.
Heiden is ushered into the room by an old man, the young doctor is clearly incredibly uneasy. "…Dr. Bright, you requested my presence?"
"Heiden." Bright smiles lightly. "Please, take a seat." Gesturing at the comfy looking chair across the desk from himself. Heiden takes a moment to look around the room uncomfortably before sitting in the chair.
"Hold on just a moment, please." Dr. Bright pulls out a small remote from his pocket and begins clicking buttons. The red lights on the cameras in the office go off, the door locks shut, and all other machines go dead. "There. Much better."
Heiden gulps nervously before saying "…yes, sir." Bright's actions did absolutely nothing to settle Frederick's raging nerves. Somehow he suspects that was intentional.
"Now then, there will be no recordings if you choose to be insubordinate. For the record, my cane is in the corner behind you, and my hands are empty. I am doing this in an attempt to provide an air of open conversation, that seems to be needed." He nods his head solemnly, before continuing. "Now, it seems you may have some unresolved issues with me. Shall we discuss these?"
Heiden's mind races… but once again, honesty remains Frederick's policy. He takes a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Yes, sir. On my first, ah, incident with the Foundation, I encountered SCP-963. It was used to subdue a prisoner, an armed android with which I am sure you are familiar."
Bright nods his head. "Sonia Velamour. She was 29, had no siblings, and her parents were deceased. She once loved a man, and he turned her into a cyborg. Yes, I am aware of her, go on."
Heiden stares at Bright, taken aback by the information. "… yes. I initially protested this action, but as it was undertaken in the heat of a combat situation, it is understandable that my protests were ignored. I inquired as to the nature of SCP-963, and was offered access to a redacted file containing a briefing on the object. I am an ethicist by vocation, Doctor Bright, though my - "
Bright snorts. "It is a devious and despicable item."
Heiden seems caught incredibly off-guard by this statement. He fumbles for a moment before continuing. " -ah, well. My review of the file included sections regarding retaining brainwiped bodies for future use - actually, four."
"That is correct." Bright touches the teardrop tattoo under his eye. "I found it wiser to keep bodies on hand, instead of trusting to the fickleness of fate to provide me with new ones should an incident arise. By keeping these bodies in stasis, I have found myself capable of extending their life span."
"To be frank, sir, this is among the most hideous crimes I have ever seen systematically inflicted upon a group of people, D-class or no. I have tremendous difficulty justifying it to myself and as a result, I may have behaved in a manner inconsistent with the attitude expected towards senior staff." Heiden coughs, still nervous about sounding off to a superior. "…to cut directly to the heart of the matter, sir, what entitles you to their bodies?"
Bright smiles …ah… brightly. "Ah, yes, entitlement. You are aware that D-class are executed on a monthly basis, yes?"
Heiden nods. "I am aware. I genuinely believe that death is preferable."
"Well then, let us take a look at my bodies. Do you have any issues with my usage of simian bodies?"
"I am… unnerved by it, I admit, sir." Heiden ponders a moment, and his speech lapses into a more informal pattern. "It's not… it's not as visceral, though. It doesn't keep me awake at night. It's just another mildly disturbing thing that happens at work."
"Then that takes care of two of the stored bodies." Ticking off two fingers on his hand. "Let's move on to this one. Hank Ashton, 42, convicted pedophile and child killer. He enjoys strawberry ice cream, and the reflection of his knife in a young girl's eyes before he cuts her throat."
Heiden nods. He sees where Jack is going with this. "He deserves to be dead. Unless exposure to SCP-963 has been proven to be identical to a brain transplant- and considering the nature of SCP-963, I doubt proof is forthcoming anytime soon- I do not believe use of the object to be justified."
"It is identical to a brain transplant. The recipient's brain is completely wiped clean."
"I'll not press further after this one question- but how are you certain? The device is a twisted, disturbing thing. What happens to the 'data' that is wiped?" Heiden just wants to be sure.
Bright wags a finger at Heiden, hoping to explain. "Think of it as a computer. All the files are moved to the trash bin —" he taps 963 — "and new files are overwritten. While there may be some small indications the files were once there, you have to work to find them. Sadly, a poor copy is kept in the trash can. It is why I keep myself out of there, as much as possible."
"I… the consciousness never dies, then. It's just sequestered away?" It just sounds so…ugly, to him.
Bright shakes his head. "The consciousness dies, but the memories remain."
"So… it's as if you piggybacked your consciousness on a corpse." Heiden regrets how crude that sounds, but he's trying to fit it in his head.
Bright snaps his fingers. "Exactly. All the functions become mine. Even the ones you don't think can be changed. Every body I am in beats with the same pulse, breathes in the same manner, walks with the same steps."
Heiden frowns. That's… bizarre. Wait, where does he work again? "Acknowledged, sir. My conduct towards you was based on an understanding of SCP-963 that was mistaken, and for that I apologize."
"Good. But even were it not mistaken, there is another reason why I…deserve… these bodies."
Heiden tilts his head to the side slightly. "…I don't understand. Continue, sir?"
"I am the Foundation." Bright stares at Heiden, a slight smile on his face. In his eyes… well, you read the report, and the theories, right?
Heiden got a heavily redacted version of the report, it seems. He stares at Bright, feeling more than a little stupid. "You… you are the Foundation?" The only theory he's hearing right now is 'crippling megalomania', on the level of 'I am the Law!'. "Sir, the SCP Foundation, while I am aware …requires the work of minds such as yourself, is - as far as I know - a collaborative effort of many. To be blunt, I don't understand."
Bright stands up, and begins to pace, gesturing with his hands. "Currently, you are a junior researcher, and I am a Senior Staffer in charge of personnel. That means, I pick who comes on board, make sure they can handle the rough stuff, and in general, turn them into people capable of becoming Senior Staff, whether they know I'm doing it or not."
Bright continues. "In 25 years, you will be a Senior Researcher, possibly with your own site to handle, definitely with many new researchers, trained by me, under your wing. I, will be the Senior Researcher in charge of Personnel."
"In 50 years, you will, god willing, be ready to retire, and leave your work to a trusted researcher, who was brought into the Foundation under me. I will still be the Senior Researcher in charge of personnel." Bright focuses his gaze on Heiden, making sure he's getting it.
"In 75 years, if you are still alive, you will be suffering from dementia, and other mental deterioration, barely in control of your own bowels. I, however, will be in a body as young as they give me, training a new generation of Researchers."
Heiden, with dawning horror, realizes what Dr. Bright is driving at.
Bright stabs a finger at his desk, to make the point. "In 100 years, you will be dead, and the researchers you taught will be nearing retirement themselves. I will know who to replace them with."
Bright's voice remains calm and collected, as if discussing a new assignment. He doesn't seem to actually care about any of this, it just needs saying. "In 200 years, your name will be known only by diligent researchers, one name among many of those who have been researchers for the Foundation. I… will still be a senior researcher. From time to time, I will sit with a glass of wine and remember those who have passed, but the list will be long."
"1000 years from now, no one but I will remember you existed. And… I will still be working with the Foundation to protect humanity. Do you understand? I am the Foundation. I shape its future, and I keep it on task. I'm needed, despicable as it might be. Do you see?"
Heiden lets a long silence pass. "Why must it be you? 963 was held by someone before you, and in time, it will be held by another. Do you want this?"
Bright shakes his head sadly. "No one held 963 before me. It was created for another man, but he failed to make it work. I am its first, and only, resident. There is no escape from 963." Jack considers the question for a silent moment. "Do I want it? No. But who else am I supposed to trust to get it done?"
Uneasily, Heiden continues. "You don't have to run the Foundation, Dr. Bright. You're not Atlas - no human is. Trust that there are people who can get the job done. In your time here, you can assure many. But it is not one man's responsibility to save the world."
"What else do I have? If I leave, they will mark me as an SCP, and hide 963 away where it will take a long time for someone to find it." He knows someone eventually will. Part of the curse. "Do you think I can live a normal life? I cannot have children of my own, only those of whatever body I wear. Hell, when it comes to sex, do you know how hard it is to have something touch you, but never your partner, not even for a second? The positions get wild enough I have to pay for it. The Foundation is my life. And I will make it wonderful." Bright smiles. It isn't all that reassuring.
"You… you really can't be rid of it, can you?" Heiden pauses but a moment. "I, ah… my condolences to you, sir." Heiden doesn't know what to say. He feels like a bastard.
"Never." Bright lifts the remote. "Are we done?"
"I believe so, sir." Heiden's head hangs low.
Bright hits the button, and everything hums back to life. "Dismissed. Don't dwell on this too much Heiden. I have big plans for you."
Heiden rises, his posture straightening as he stares straight ahead. "Yes, sir." He turns and walks from the room.
And Jack Bright watches him walk out the door, his smile widening. "Such very big plans." |
1-
Transferred from the barracks, finally. The trip took forever, I'd have to guess about six hours, but I couldn't see, and I fell asleep a few times, so I guess it really could be anything. Four other people on the transport as well, two other men and two women. At least I think so, one of the guys never really talked, but I think it's a he. Still sore from getting jabbed by a guard, I fell and he really stabbed me with his gun muzzle. Anyway, we're here now. I assume “we” are, at least. I'm in my own little room, I'm just assuming everyone else is as well. It's better than the barracks, and a ton better then the cell. Still, it has that feel, where you know nobody really stays here for long, like the vibe you get off a shitty hotel room.
This is not my diary, at least not the “official” one I'm supposed to keep. I'm actually under my cot, writing this and then stuffing it in to the hollow leg of the bed frame. I'm sure they can see me, but it makes me feel better to have a secret. I haven't had any in a long time, and it makes me feel less like a toy. Security is so tight here, I've never seen so many guns and helmets. They even have this special suit for the five of us, and some of the doctors and stuff. There's this really weird atmosphere here, really…bleak.
2-
Nothing today. Food comes in through a slot in the door. Not bad, really, seems like it has something in it, has kind of a weird iron taste to it. I don't really get what is going on. Leave it to the government to keep you guessing, even when you really don't care any more. It's odd, the walls seem pretty thick, but the one the door is in seems thinner. I can hear some banging around some times, and crying. lots of crying. I listened at the door a while, seeing if I could guess who it was. It was those one sobs…you know the crying a kid makes, when they know they are hurt and don't understand why? just that empty, hopeless weeping. I wanted to go and pet that kid, let them know it's ok, that I…yeah.
Anyway, I heard some other stuff, just kind of muffled bumping, then the crying suddenly changed to this…gurgling noise, sounded like they were choking, or…I don't know. I stopped, and started just walking around my room. I went to listen again after a bit, and it was silent.
Thought about Kate today, which I haven't done in awhile. I wonder if they allow visiting hours here. If they do, I think I'm going to call her. She might want to visit me now, or even forgive me. I miss her, oddly enough. I still have the scar on my cheek from where she cut me, but I do miss her, in a way.
3-
I am not sure where I am, but it is not a jail. I really don't think it's any part of the government either. My door opened today. I mean, just suddenly slid open. There was a little hall, and another doorway at the other end. A voice suddenly came from somewhere, and told me to go to the end of the hall. I walked out, the walls felt like some kind of tile, smooth and grey. I heard other people, faintly, and that crying was a lot louder. Finally, I came out the doorway at the end, and there was a guy in this storm trooper-looking outfit, all black with this smooth black helmet, and he shoved me in to this open room. There were two other armored guys, and pretty soon the other four people from the transport came in from other halls, all wearing the same jumpsuit things as me. There was this big, steel door at the other end of the room, and the crying seemed to be coming from behind it.
The three armored guys told us to listen to their commands at all times, and that if we didn't, we'd be shot immediately. One of the women from the transport started to cry too, and I tried to go back down the hall, but they grabbed me and pulled me back. One opened the door, and the crying got really loud. They told me that we all had to do what they told us, or we would be shot. He had a gun to my head, I could feel the metal, it was very cold. He said he would kill me.
It was a hospital room behind the door, kinda. Lots of medical stuff, but other things, too. I mean, it was not hospital stuff, like belts and balls, straps. There was a big gurney bed in the middle of the room, with all these tubes and stuff, and machines…
She was on it. I don't know how old she is, I could barely see her face over her…I don't even know if it was her belly. I think it is, but it was so…bulbous, and swollen and the skin seemed like it was too thin. But she was so…pretty, and smooth, but she kept crying, and saying to take it out, that it hurt, that we need to take it out. I started getting scared, but the guards pushed me and the others closer, and they started telling us what we had to do.
The woman who had started crying freaked out, and one of the guard hit her with the butt of his rifle. I was so scared. They said we had to, that we had to do this. I felt a shotgun in my back, I could hear him pump the slide. I had to. I didn't have any choice, not any of us. She noticed us, and started screaming, but one of the guys put a hand over her mouth, hard. I touched her. She felt like she had a fever, but she was so smooth and soft. I tried to ignore the others, and that big…thing on her, and just see her hand, her little hand, and kiss it, show her I cared…
She screamed a lot. I didn't get excited, even when the quiet guy from the transport did…things with her. I didn't. Afterward, one of the guards made us all leave while they wiped her down, and we went back to our cells. Nobody really talked or looked at each other. She has such soft hands.
4-
I woke up screaming on the floor. I don't remember what I dreamed. I have sores on my face and hands, and other places. They're red and really tender. I got scared, and the voice came on, told me that it was normal to get the sores, that I would be fine. They look nasty, kind of soft and pulsing a little, but they don't really hurt. They actually…I don't know how to describe it. It's like a sore tooth, it hurts, but then when you push it, it changes and has this “sweet” to it.
The door opened today, and I went down the hall, with the others. They seemed more focused today in the room, and we all have the same sores. One of the women was breathing heavy. The guards opened the door, and I went in with the others. I took off the top of my jumpsuit because my sores started to hurt. Just the top, nothing more, because she was crying again, but I told her that it was ok, that I would take care of her. I asked a guard what her name was, and he told me to never ask again or he'd shoot me. Her skin was feeling so soft, and she was so hot and welcoming. The others took the things the guards gave them, but I didn't want to, and they said ok.
I whispered to her skin, and told her how much I cared, how I didn't mind about her stomach, I even kissed it to show her, just once, and so quick it was like it never happened, really. The skin was so tight and hot, it almost burned, but it was also kinda springy, and she moaned when I did it, I think she appreciated me doing it, to show her I wasn't like those others. One of the guys hit her sort of hard on the mouth, and she started moaning louder, but it wasn't like the one she did for me, so I told him to stop. He shouted at me, and I curled up to her skin and told her not to worry while I felt her soft palm, and he tried to hit me and the guards pointed their guns at him. He went away, and I kept telling her I would make it better, and her little hands were so soft. The sores didn't feel so bad.
They made us go away again while they cleaned her, and we went. one of the women suddenly stopped in the other room, and threw up all over. I went down the hall, because it smelled very bad, and there were squirming things in it and she started crying again. The guards took her back to her room because she didn't want to walk, and I could hear the girl on the bed moaning and screaming about something moving, and that it hurt so much. I tried to go back, but they made me leave too.
I listened to her cry again, but it sounded softer. I think I am helping her. I felt good when I listened. I took off my jumpsuit, because the sores had gotten a little bigger, and the suit felt dirty. They look like kisses. I dreamed of her softness, of making her smile up at me.
5-
The marks are softer, and looking more pink. They feel more numb now, and they have some slick stuff on top. It tastes odd, but sweet and salty. I rubbed them a little and I felt that “sweet” thing more. They have little blue veins around them. My skin feels soft, I like it, so I didn't put on my jumpsuit today. I didn't get any food out of the door today. I drank a lot of water, and rubbed some on my skin. When the water touches the sores, they pulse. The door opened, and I went down the hall. the walls felt funny, kinda rough on my skin. I got to the room and remembered I didn't have anything on, so I thought about going back to the room, but a couple of the others didn't have anything, so I thought it would be ok. The woman who threw up looked like she was half asleep, and her hair was nasty, so I didn't go near her. The others seem to have the same marks like me, but they complained about them, and the guards told them to shut up and opened the door.
I covered myself with my hands so I wouldn't scare her, even though she is naked too, but I am a good person and don't want to make her feel confused or scared ever. I know I do that some times, and I didn't want to do that to her and the guards laughed at me. The others started to do things to her, but I didn't see them, I just saw her cute little lips, and I saw they where chapped, so I tried to find water to give her. They didn't have any, so it told her in her ear that I would find a way, and I felt her press her cheek against mine and I knew she was ok with it, so I licked my fingers and rubbed them on her lips, and then she opened her mouth and they went in, and her tongue was so soft and cool and she made me blush because I could tell how she really felt, even as she cried about the others, and I took my fingers back and put them in my mouth to clean them. Her hand was so warm.
She started to scream and pull at the bed, and her belly started to shake, so I petted it and told her it would be ok, and I felt the skin move and gurgle, and I tried to kiss it to make it better, but she kept screaming and screaming. I was scared I did something, so I held her mouth and put my hand over it and told her I was sorry, I would never touch like that again ever, but she kept screaming and I was scared she would get me in trouble, so I tried to make her be quiet but the guards told me to stop and I just tried to block it out.
One of the women started to scream too, and said she was stuck, and she started to thrash around and hit the girl's belly and that made her scream louder, and they both wouldn't stop screaming about the pain, and wanting it out, and her hand coming off, and I curled up under her bed and tried to make it go away, and then I heard some kind of wet noise and the woman screamed louder and then I think there was blood and she fell and then I went in to the dark.
I woke up in my room. I think I had a bad dream while I was with Kate. She is Kate, I think, even if she isn't looking the same. Kate always loved me.
6-
I did not get any food, but I am ok. More water, lots of water, all over and in. I feel nice and warm, and my skin is soft and smooth. When I pull it, it stays up for a while. I made little peaks on my chest and laughed. Maybe I will show Kate my new trick. I am so glad they let me see her again. The little marks are red now, and they push in really far. the stuff inside is very sweet, I like it.
The floor hurts now, it feels too hard, so I try to stay on the bed, but that is too rough. I miss Kate's skin, and she misses me too. I can hear her crying because I am away, and I try to cry but all that comes out is this milk, but I do anyway. She misses me so much, I can tell, and the others can be so mean to her, but I will help her, I can keep her safe, and she knows.
The door opened, and I tried to tiptoe down the hall because the floor is so hard. The woman from my dream was gone, and one of the men, so it was only three people. The other woman looks ugly, she has bags around her eyes and cheeks, and she seems mean and glares at me, so I keep away from her, and the man is quiet too, but I think he is blind because his eyes are funny. Kate was crying for me when the door opened, so I ran to her and her skin felt so good on mine I forgot about my feet and the blood on the floor and I kissed her on the lips because I was so excited, but I pulled back because I didn't want to scare her.
She was ok, and she moaned and leaned up so I kissed her again and again, and she said to stop and that she was scared, but she meant the other people because I am so gentle, and I told them to stop scaring her, but the guards told me to shut up. I touched her belly and it pulled at my hand as I told her not to be scared and kissed her ear. She touched me and I leaned against her, and the marks moved as she cried and I told her I loved her, and she wasn't able to say it back because the people were making her moan and cry, but I know she feels it too. I love Kate, and I said I was sorry about before, when I made her cry, and made her mother get so mad at me, but it was ok and her skin made me hurt less and she felt so good.
The other man told me to fuck off because it was his turn, and I told him not to say that around her, and she tried to crawl away from him and he touched her where he is not allowed, so I hit him really hard. My hand felt funny and didn't look right any more, but I was able to jump over and grab him and show Kate that I would not let him do that. I made his air stop and he tried to hurt me, but I wouldn't let him and I kept squeezing, and then he stopped and the guards made me let go, which was fine because Kate loves me and I kissed the places he touched to make them better.
She started to scream again, and her belly moved a lot and she said she wanted it out, and I told her to calm down, that I would make it better, but she didn't listen and I had to hit her to make her stop, but it was ok because I kissed it better and she loves me. I love Kate. The guards made me leave her, and I tried to make them stop, but they were too strong and made me go. My marks are open now, and they like to pull at my fingers how Kate's mouth did. I like to think they are her, and I close my eyes.
7-
I am so smooth, and I was able to take off some skin today, and it was nice and pink underneath and that is ok, because I don't want my skin, I want Kate's skin, I want her soft hands and face. The others are gone, and I was with Kate alone and I told her all the things I needed to, and we were together and her belly pulled at me and I stuck, and when I came away I left my skin like a gift, and now I am soft like her, and my teeth feel so soft and springy when I bite her.
She loves whenever I touch her, and she barely screams, and when she does I help her stop but the guards make me stop and I scream at them too. I hate them but I love Kate.
8-
She wants me to be there, that is why it is so big, so I can stay there. she tried to put me there, but I was scared but I am not now and I love her forever. she is so hot inside, I will be safe.
Documents recovered in Holding Cell 3 of the SCP-231 containment area. No correlation to the above events have been found in any Foundation documents. No physical effects have ever occurred as a result of Procedure 110-Moutauk. Psychosomatic hallucinations are blamed for all the above mentioned effects. All inquires are to be reported to Central Records, pending approval by Site Security |
The two men quickly walked down the hall, pushing the small cloth-covered cart in front of them. A sudden door slam far behind them made the older man cry out, to be quickly stifled by the younger as they picked up their pace.
“This is wrong, we shouldn't be doing this. They are going to find out, they have eyes everywhere,” the older man looked about the ceilings, seeming to search for cameras.
“Just shut up and get it to the lab. Once we're there, we can just say it got spat out from some test. It's shift change, and as long as nothing hits the fan, they won't look over hallway tapes that closely.” The younger man scratched his arm nervously, pushing the cart at just under a run. “Beside, we'd never get it up and running without this stuff. We need it, and The Foundation would never let us have it without years of testing. Just shut up, smile, and nod at the right times.”
The older man grumbled as he pushed open a heavy door, letting out a puff of very cool, well-filtered air. “I still think this is a bad idea. Dr. Valence may have told us to get this done by any means, but I really doubt he meant this.”
The younger man sighed, shaking his head as he pushed the cart past the older man and into the room. “Listen, all that matters is the bottom line. It's two years of research into biomechanics, polymorphic computational components, and tons of red tape, or an hour with a screwdriver and some sterile gloves. Now shut the damn door so we can get in the clean room.”
The older man complied, grumbling something about a church as the door swung shut.
Neither noticed the small drop of gray liquid that had dripped from the cart. Neither noticed it suddenly gain surface tension and roll like a washed out drop of mercury either. The blob quickly slid under the microscopic gap under the door, and rolled quickly up the outside of the older man's pant leg, before hopping across and sliding back under the cloth covering the cart. Both men were too absorbed in the task at hand to notice the small shift under the cloth, and too focused on the robotic frame in front of them to contemplate it even if they had noticed it.
He sat in the middle of the smoke. He sat and inhaled deeply, eyelids fluttering, sweat dripping from his body to mix with the soot and ash on his skin. The smoke was strong, and smelled of machine oil, wood, coal and flesh as it billowed from four grates in the floor, pooling in a noxious cloud in the ceiling as the ash rained down. He opened his mouth, and exhaled the smoke, pouring forth the ash and soot as would the Lord. Truly he felt the touch of God, felt his body within his own, his flesh within-
A sudden knock on the unseen door broke his concentration, causing him to cough on the suddenly biting and acrid smoke. A few choking, hoarse commands caused the grates to snap shut and the ceiling to open, the smoke quickly venting away. He pulled on the heaped robe he had hung in the corner, still coughing and silently cursing whoever had broken his communion. He wrenched open the door, letting a thin yellow light spill in. “I swear to you, if this is any less then a message of the utmost end of need, I will personally head up an Inquisition on your behalf.”
The young girl kneeling in the hall trembled, wincing and trying to shrink into an even smaller heap. "I-I w-was told,” she stammered, near tears, her voice starting to waver.
He sighed, crouching down and taking her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to see her green eyes nearly drowning in unwept tears. He smiled, the black ash and soot causing his teeth to shine even whiter. “Ease, my child. I was in deep communion with the Lord. Your coming scattered His Voice, it is not your fault. Calm yourself, and speak.”
The girl rubbed her face with her wrist, managing a small smile before blushing slightly and looking away. “I was told to come and tell you that the Will of God had been delivered to the Jailors.”
He blinked several times, the girl shyly looking back and smiling, but his returning grin was not for her. Indeed, his eyes appeared to be miles away as he asked, “Who has done this great thing? Who has delivered Salvation to the Corrupted?”
“Brother Jacob,” said the girl, watching as he rose again, “he is still coming back, but I was told that the Will had been given over freely to them.”
He quickly stepped around her, striding down the hall without a word, leaving her still kneeling and watching his quickly receding form. Truly, he thought as he quickly went to meet with the Faithful, God is great. Even as he is Broken, the portions of the Lord can still do his Will.
“Dr. Valence, a question: why do you call it ‘hatbot'? Isn't there something a little more," the researcher paused for a moment, lost in thought, "appropriate?”
Dr. Valence shook his head, still grinning at the assembled staff. Behind him stood a small, slightly skeletal android, with what appeared to be a top hat pulled three quarters of the way down on its “head”, leaving only a small LCD screen displayed below it. To the robot's left stood a nervous older man with a name tag reading “Prof. Grommet”, and to its right stood a beaming young man in a suit, whose name tag declared him as “Agent Gild”.
Dr. Valence shook his finger playfully at the staff member who had asked the question. “Now now young man, didn't anyone teach you not to question your elders?” The assembled staff chuckled, and the questioning doctor's face started to take on a mild shade of red. “Yes, Hatbot does seem like a very silly name, however during the initial testing, the processing unit looked very similar to a top hat. We've moved away from that design with the now completed prototype, however the name has stuck. Also, the somewhat whimsical configuration allows for more acceptance and ease of interaction.” The good doctor continued to beam like a proud father as he gestured to Prof. Grommet, who quickly reached over and pressed a sequence of buttons on the robot's back.
The robot suddenly sprang up in a slight hop, before landing several inches forward of its original position, causing many of the staff to abruptly retreat several steps, a few of them even producing weapons. The LCD screen below the top hat suddenly lit up, and the robot raised one skeletal, wire-wrapped arm and waved to the staff, while a small animated cartoon mouth appeared on the LCD and a voice emanated from it. “Hello, I am Hatbot! Hatbot I am. Hello!”
Silence dominated the room for several seconds. Dr. Valence's smile faltered a moment as he observed none of the staff to be abandoning their position of retreat. Or their firearms. “Hatbot, don't be rude,” he said, keeping the nervousness from his voice with a small effort, “Let the nice people know what you are.”
The robot suddenly snapped to attention, and rattled off the lines not unlike a new army recruit. “Hatbot is a speech recognition, interpretation, and deciphering system! Hatbot's polymorphic computational matrix is able to adapt, interpret, and utilize any form of vocal or written communication!”
Dr. Valence was suddenly bombarded with questions as the staff overcame their initial concern with the desire to know more. Several began to test Hatbot's speech capabilities, watching as it not only parroted back words, but then use them in new sentences. Dr. Valence described various technical details, and laid out his proposal to use it to decipher some of the unreadable texts and untranslatable languages that The Foundation had been unable to crack.
“Doctor, how did you develop a processor capable of such advanced communication recognition in such a short time? You've only had this project a few months, it seems almost impossible.”
Everyone was too engrossed in Dr. Valence's reply about “late night 914 work” and Hatbot's slightly confusing responses to notice the sudden cold sweat break out on Professor Grommet's face, and the harsh, silencing look from Agent Gild. The staff started to slowly filter out as Dr. Valence stated his need to run more tests. Two lingered, however, watching Hatbot and the two men who stood slightly behind them.
“What's wrong boy? Got the scent? Did Timmy fall down the well?” the short woman asked, using a tone better reserved for a small, over-eager puppy.
The tall man in the outlandish hat to whom this statement was addressed continued to stare and grin at the small robot. “That is the most evil thing I've seen in years," he said, continuing to smile cheerfully. "I think there's a world-destroying demon in it.”
The woman laughed, swatting his arm. “Oh would you lay off the ‘I'm The Devil, booga booga!' crap? It's a weird little socially awkward robot who has issues communicating normally. Basically someone made a fun-size Dr. Gears."
"I shouldn't leave. Every time I do, things go to pot. I don't know why I let Glass convince me to do this," the tall man muttered. The pom-poms on the rim of his hat swayed gently. "Maybe I should cancel. Tell the others I'm staying here, just to be sure."
"Don't be such a stick-up the ass. Try to relax, you're on vacation. Now, can we please go?” She grabbed his arm, starting to tug him away, and he reluctantly followed, craning his neck to try and still see the robot.
Had he hesitated a few seconds more before being pulled through the doorway, he would have noticed the sudden flicker in the mouth screen. It was quickly back to its normal, smiling mouth, but for a moment, it displayed a roiling, bubbling mass of grey strings, wavering against an oily, black background.
“I am the best!”
“I am the best!”
“No, no…me, I and the best!”
“No, me!”
“Damn it…”
The security guard sighed, rubbing his forehead. The little goofy robot was neat, but it was about as smart as a bag of doorknobs. After getting it to repeat a bunch of swear words, the game was starting to get old. He stood, looking down at the little robot. The top hat tilted up, the screen flicking on to the animated mouth.
“Damn you.”
“…What did you say?”
“Damn me, and damn you.”
“Whatever, just shut up.”
The guard was a little nervous. He probably wasn't supposed to be playing with this thing, but being alone on-site at night was probably the worst thing ever in his opinion. Another voice helped ease things a bit, even if it was only from a weird little robot. Now, however, he was getting worried about what might happen if people found out he'd been screwing around with this thing. He hurriedly picked up his rifle from the floor and looked over the bot.
“Everything looks ok, I think…”
“Everything is just fine. Come to me.”
“Listen; don't tell anyone those things I taught you, ok?”
“The hate pours hard in the eyes of you, you must join in.”
The robot's ever-smiling mouth was starting to get a little creepy, along with the weird shit it was saying. He backed away a bit, looking it over to see if there were any obvious issues. Then he saw the leak. He felt the blood drain from his face as he watched a slow drip of grayish goo drip from a seam in the back of the “head”, slowly slipping down its back.
“Shitshitshitshit!”
“Shit your pain.”
He quickly looked around for a cloth or anything to wipe it up with, but found nothing. Cursing again, he reached out as tried to scoop up as much as he could with his hands. He wiped the oily substance on to the back of his pants, thankful that it didn't appear to stain. Pulling down his sleeves, he used them to rub off the rest of the residue. Watching for a little bit, to make sure nothing else was coming out, he nodded, some color coming back to his face.
“Oh, thank God…must have gotten something on you”
“I have gotten.”
“Yeah, I guess. Gotta be hopping little guy!”
“Be seeing you soon.”
He quickly walked out of the room, making his way to the closed offices for his rounds, ignoring the mild tingling in his hands. Probably some kind of chemical or something in it, have to hit the bathroom and wash up. As he turned down the hall, he had the sudden compulsion to go to the break room, or the main entry. He almost made a wrong turn, but shook his head and headed in to the bathroom. Stupid robot must have scared him worse then he'd thought. Although, he had made only one sweep of the entry way…another wouldn't hurt. He hurriedly left the bathroom without washing, leaving his gun on the counter. Had anyone been watching, they might have had concern over the glassiness of his eyes, or his oddly uncoordinated walk.
No one was, however, and he quickly walked through the double doors in to the main entry. The door closed behind him, and silence ruled the hall for half an hour. A sudden, loud shouting broke this calm, but was quickly stifled, the cool darkness of the site once again unbroken and total.
The word processor's animated paper clip assistant waves and winks at you. Your colleagues have told you multiple times that the thing is just a pain in the ass, but personally you think he's kinda cute. Besides, he does help keep you awake at night, especially during long shifts such as this one. You blink hard and refocus on the task at hand. Before you rests a seemingly bottomless pile of notes to be transcribed into digital format for storage, which you've been working at all night. However, even though there's no end in sight to the paperwork, you can't say that it's not interesting. Hatbot is one hell of a piece of engineering, you think to yourself.
More papers, more notes, more time spent. You look at the clock and realize it's nearly one in the A.M., then groan in annoyance. You always told yourself that you would never end up being one of the graveyard shift paper pushers, not while working in this place. Never.
So much for that, eh.
Eyelids droop across your vision and you decide a strong mug of coffee is just what you need. It's hot and full of caffeine, but you notice some odd greasy residue on your hands when you replace the pot on the burner. Thinking nothing of it, you wipe it on your clothes and return to work. The coffee helps; you immediately feel a bit more alert, and your productivity increases markedly. Maybe you'll finish after all.
Then again, maybe not. You blink and stare at the screen in disbelief; this entire page is full of angry red scribbles and Clippy is yelling at you for being so careless. Thank god he takes the liberty of fixing most of your errors, but the damage to your pride is done. Another page and yet more typos crop up, slowing you down even further. You wonder what the hell was in that coffee because this is simply ridiculous. You make a mental note to send Mavis Beacon an angry letter, should you ever get time to do so. Clippy, meanwhile, dutifully goes about cleaning up your ham-handed mistakes.
Blink again, look at the screen. No, Look at it closer. Your simple misspellings are beginning to translate into completely erroneous phrases. Phrases spill into complete sentences, and soon you have entire paragraphs of gibberish. Mash the backspace key sluggishly, you're so tired that you have to force yourself to do even that. The cursor stops, seemingly on its own, bracketing your attention around a peculiar piece of writing.
"So, we started to come to the blackness that yawns beneath the layers of thought, of reality itself."
“…Did I write this?” You hear yourself ask. At the same time you notice your palms moisten and you draw in a sharp, fearful breath. Or at least you try to, instead managing to wheeze ineffectually. “…Try again. Keep trying, finish up and go to sleep.” Your hands manipulate the keys, but what you think is not what you type.
“Blackness awaits you. In your thoughts and in your dreams, there is only blackness. It awaits us all.”
Another hard blink. “Turn it off. Turn the computer off, you're done here,” you panic to yourself, but your hands continue to type on a whim of their own. You don't give up so easily though, you're a tough girl, and it took you a lot of hard work to get here. You power through the mental barrier and stand, trembling, staggering towards the doorway. Unconsciously your hands move to your eyes; when you hold them before you, they are covered in black oil.
“Get help. Get out of here.” The airlock opens with a hiss as you lurch into the hall and collide with one of the posted guards. Your mind screams at you to speak to him, but no words come from your mouth. Your actions are not your own anymore; you swing at the man, startling him, but he quickly subdues you and knocks you to the ground.
“Help! Help me!” you scream to yourself.
“You, too, will contribute to the black. The empty. The abyss,” is what you manage to croak. Your heart races and you sweat profusely, only it's not sweat: it's that same oily mess. Your mind contorts in agony as the realization strikes home that you are not yourself anymore, this body is no longer yours. Your mind is all that's left of you, and nobody will ever see the real you again. You lost the battle for control of yourself long ago.
You are trapped, in this body. And all that awaits you is the blackness. |
Dr. Mann sat low in the seat, like a student sitting before the principal. "I suppose you want to know what happened."
"We have six escaped SCPs, over fifty casualties, and tens of thousands of dollars of damage. Yes, Doctor, I think it's safe to say an explanation is in order." Dr. ███████ sat across from Dr. Mann, a serious expression on his face. "Now, I've looked over the logs, but I need you to clarify several points."
"Yes, sir," Dr. Mann said, sinking a little lower in the chair.
"Good. Now, take it from beginning. What happened?" asked Dr. ███████.
"Well, it all started when I was shaving the pufferkitten…"
Dr. Mann stroked the kitten's head gently, calming it, as he turned on the clippers. He didn't want to trigger the kitten's defense mechanism until he had finished denuding it. "That's a good subject," he cooed. "That's the way to advance the cause of science…"
There was a loud crash outside, and the kitten turned into a ball of fluff. Dr. Mann sighed. It would take some time to calm it down again. He decided to look.
Dr. Valence was yelling at several maintenance workers who were in the midst of moving a large box. One corner was broken slightly, apparently from an impact with the wall. Curious.
"Good day, Dr. Valence," Dr. Mann said. "I'm afraid you've interrupted a valuable experiment. I don't mean to complain, but I need quiet to continue."
"Blame these idiots," said Dr. Valence. "They're handling valuable computing equipment like they were taking an old sofa to the curb. If they damage it, I swear I'll have them all assigned Keter duty."
"Pardon my curiosity, doctor, but what is in the box?" Dr. Mann tried to look into the damaged corner, but he was unable to make anything out.
"Ah! Come by the server room at three. I'll be unveiling it then. Don't tell anyone, but the contents of this box will change the face of the Foundation." Dr. Valence beamed with pride.
"Really?" said Dr. Mann. "Well, I wouldn't miss that for the world."
"So, that's when you first encountered the device," said Dr. ███████.
"And I wish it had been the last," said Dr. Mann. "If I'd known what was going to happen, I'd have tried to stop it sooner."
"What happened next?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, I went back to my laboratory and finished the experiment," said Dr. Mann. "It was quite fascinating, really…"
"I've… seen the pictures," the psychologist said, turning a little green.
"Its fur will grow back," Dr. Mann said, defensively.
"Let's just skip to the meeting with Dr. Valence, please."
It was half past three when Dr. Mann finally reached the server room. He'd been distracted by the results of his experiment, and had then gotten lost in the halls of the facility for twenty minutes before finally getting turned in the right direction by a guard. As he arrived, he was surprised to see how many people were gathered inside. It was rather crowded. He recognized several other researchers, as well as his good friend, Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich.
"Excuse me," he said, trying to get inside without touching anyone.
"Ah, Mann, there you are," said Dr. Valence. "You're a bit late. I've already unveiled Hatbot."
"Hatbot?" he asked.
"Yes, Hatbot!" He stood aside and motioned to a figure Dr. Mann hadn't noticed among the crowding figures.
It was roughly human-like, through it had shiny black plastic for skin and a row of lights for a face. It looked like something out of a Hollywood science fiction picture, save for the fedora perched on its head.
"Why is it wearing a hat?" asked Dr. Mann. "It isn't normal for robots, surely?"
"Oh, it was a joke by one of my technicians," said Dr. Valence. "I was going to call it the Fast Learning Artificial Intelligence System, but they started calling it Hatbot, and, well, the name stuck."
"Fast learning Hatbot call it normal, surely," said Hatbot. It spoke with a smooth, very human voice.
Dr. Mann raised one eyebrow.
"Well, it's not very intelligent yet," said Dr. Valence. "It learns from conversation. The more it hears, the better it gets at understanding words and forming sentences. But the real use is in routing communications. From the server room, it can handle all of the Foundation's communication needs."
"Oh, that's very nice…" said Dr. Mann, disappointed that Dr. Valence hadn't meant a more literal changing of face. He so enjoyed a good cosmetic surgery.
"Very intelligent at screaming at Jews and praising communists, Mann," said Hatbot.
"Ah, yes," Dr. Valence said quickly, "there are still some quirks to be ironed out. We must keep him away from D-Class personnel. They keep corrupting his database."
"That's very nice," said Dr. Mann. "But I really must be going. Lots of work to do, you know how it is…"
"Your life will be reset at the point of midnight in England," said Hatbot.
"And a good day to you too, Hatbot," said Dr. Mann, before hurrying out.
"And was that the first time it threatened your life?" asked Dr. ███████.
"I believe so," said Dr. Mann. "I didn't think much of it at the time, but in light of later events…"
"When was the next time you saw Hatbot?" the psychologist asked.
"Later that evening," said Dr. Mann.
The laboratory was quiet and dark, the only light spilling out from Dr. Mann's office, where he was sitting down to a microwaved burrito. He was cutting it into smaller pieces when he heard something opening the door to his lab.
"Hello?" he asked. "Is anyone there?" He picked up his auto-scalpel, in case of an intruder or a patient.
"She is worn out by use," said a familiar voice.
"Oh, it's you, Hatbot," Dr. Mann said, putting the auto-scalpel down. "You shouldn't be here. You belong in the server room."
"You shouldn't be here," said Hatbot.
"What? What do you—Oh, of course. You're only parroting me. Well, let's get you back to the server room." Dr. Mann put on his android-handling gloves and began to guide Hatbot out of his laboratory.
Hatbot didn't respond. It seemed rooted to the spot.
Dr. Mann pushed a little more firmly. "Come on, it's time to get you home."
Suddenly, Hatbot turned, hitting Dr. Mann with the side of its arm and knocking him to the floor. "He comes!"
"What the devil?" Dr. Mann asked as Hatbot stepped forward.
Suddenly, the ceiling broke, and something heavy fell on top of Dr. Mann.
"This place is a lawsuit waiting to happen," said Agent Yoric, sitting up. "Oh, hey, it's Hatbot."
"My… lungs…" Dr. Mann said weakly, trying to breathe.
"Oh, sorry," said Yoric. He stood up and helped Dr. Mann to his feet. "Hey, sorry about the ceiling. They don't make 'em like they used to."
"Think nothing of it," said Dr. Mann as he brushed himself off. "Listen, would you help me get Hatbot to the server room? Something seems to be off with it."
"Ah, okay," said Yoric. "How do you mean, off?"
"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd swear it just attacked me," said Dr. Mann.
"Neh, Hatbot's harmless. It wouldn't hurt a fly," said Yoric, patting Hatbot on the back.
"As you say," said Dr. Mann. "Still, let's get it out of my laboratory and back where it belongs."
"Did you become suspicious then?" asked Dr. ███████.
"A bit," said Dr. Mann. "But I don't really know much about robots. For all I knew, that could have been normal."
"When did you know there was something wrong?" asked the psychologist.
"When it tried to kill me again the next night. That's when I began to detect a pattern," said Dr. Mann.
Dr. Mann was half-asleep in his office when he heard something moving around in his laboratory. He sighed and reached for the auto-scalpel. He opened the door in time to see a black plastic figure leaving the room, while a table began to blaze.
It took ten minutes to control the blaze, at least five of which was spent trying to figure out how to activate the sprinklers before grabbing a fire extinguisher. He was now covered head to toe in fire-retardant foam. Only his foam-proof snood protected his mustache.
He wanted to march right up to Dr. Valence and demand an explanation. Unfortunately, he didn't know where Dr. Valence might be this time of night. That left only one avenue.
"Dr. Rights! Dr. Valence's creation tried to kill me!" Dr. Mann said as he burst into the break room.
"What? Slow down, Mann. What's wrong?" asked Dr. Rights.
"I was in my office and that android of Dr. Valence's set my lab on fire. And last night, it hit me. Very hard." Dr. Mann tried to project a tone of righteous indignation.
"Ooooh, poor baby. Are you sure Hatbot was trying to kill you, sweetie?"" asked Dr. Rights.
"I saw it!" said Dr. Mann. "With my own eyes."
"Well, it will be on the security tapes, dear. Come on," said Dr. Rights, guiding Dr. Mann to the video room with a gentle hand.
"And what happened then?" asked Dr. ███████.
"There was nothing. Not a damned thing on those blasted tapes." Dr. Mann tugged his muttonchops in irritation. "And of course Dr. Rights assumed I was dreaming. She gave me a cookie and some warm milk, but no salvation from the machine."
"Did you suspect it may have edited the footage?" asked Dr. ███████.
"I knew it had done something, but as I've said, I don't know much about computers and networks and the like. All I knew was that no one would believe me about the threat of Hatbot."
"Can you expand on that?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, the problem was that darned near everyone loved Hatbot."
Dr. Mann walked nervously down the hallway. It was just after lunchtime, and he still hadn't slept. He was waiting for another attack.
"Have you been hanging around Hatbot?" one guard asked another.
"Ha! Yes. 'Fuck trees, I climb clouds, motherfucker!'" The guard laughed raucously.
"Hell yeah," said the first guard.
"Don't they understand the threat Hatbot represents?" Dr. Mann thought to himself. "Don't they understand he's a menace?"
"Tovarish Mann!" said a familiar voice. "How is you are doing today?"
"Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich! It is good to see you, my friend," Dr. Mann said, glad to see the Russian. "Surely you will believe me."
"In what are you for need this believed, friend?" asked Agent Strelnikov.
"It's Hatbot. It has tried to kill me, but no one will believe me." Dr. Mann was nearly on the point of tears.
"For make sayings of nothing more," said Strelnikov. "I stop this fascist machine for Doktor Mann. Where am I for find this?"
"Oh, thank you!" said Mann. "It's in the server room."
"Yes! I am make destroyings of it now," said Strelnikov. He marched off, purpose in his stride.
"And that was the last time you saw Agent Strelnikov?" asked Dr. ███████.
"Yes. Poor Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich doesn't know the site very well. He was depending on the automated maps to find his way around. I understand he wasn't found for several days."
"He was all right," said Dr. ███████, "except for a few superficial burns from the steam tunnels. Now, what happened next?"
"I guess Hatbot knew I was on to him, because that's when it became more subtle."
Dr. Mann was sitting in his office. He'd taken a short nap, but he'd woken up again, knowing Hatbot would come soon enough. He had readied his laboratory for defense, but he wanted to be awake when it happened, in case his preparations were for naught.
"Yeeaaarrrgh!"
Dr. Mann bolted upright. Robots did not scream like that! He looked out into the lab, and saw a man dangling from the loop trap he'd set at the entrance. There was a package on the floor beneath him.
"Oh," he said. "You're not a robot."
"Get me down!" the man said. He wore a maintenance uniform.
"Oh, sorry, of course," Dr. Mann said. He hurried through the laboratory, avoiding tripwires, nooses, and sundry other traps as he did so. A quick swipe of the auto-scalpel, and the man was returned to the floor. "You haven't seen an android, have you?"
"What? No!" The man struggled back to his feet. "Look, I was just told I had to deliver this package to Dr. Mann."
"I'm Dr. Mann," he said.
"Well, here's your package. And you're welcome to it!" The man stormed off, not even saying goodbye.
Dr. Mann picked up the package and walked back into his office. He wondered what it might be. Was it a present? He tried to remember if it was his birthday. No, it wasn't his birthday. That had been a month ago. He had gotten a nice e-mail from the Foundation reminding him to get a physical. Was it Christmas?
It had to be Christmas, he decided. He opened the box with the auto-scalpel, and looked at the contents. Inside were several odd, round fruits, about the size of a pomegranate. The skin was a very dark purple. There was also a note. It said, "He waits behind the walls." Most peculiar.
Dr. Mann picked up the auto-scalpel.
Two minutes later, Dr. Mann stumbled out of the room, covered in stinging insects. "Bees!" he screamed. "Why did it have to be bees?"
He tripped over a wire, and his arm was caught by a snare, pulling him off his feet entirely. His feet knocked over a stick, releasing a small avalanche of ball bearings beneath him, which knocked him over again as he tried to regain his feet. His flailing arm broke a string, and a bunsen-burner-turned-flamethrower activated, setting his coat on fire. He pulled his arm from the snare, falling over a chair and knocking over a small basin of acid which fell down his leg. He screamed, and swallowed a bee. He choked and flailed as he tried to make for the exit before finally stepping into a snare and being pulled upside down, dangling over several of his trained surgeon-crabs, which jumped up and down as though expecting treats.
"It sent fruit from 417?" asked the psychologist. "And you tried to eat it?"
"I thought it was a Christmas present," said Dr. Mann.
"It's almost July!" said Dr. ███████. "Forget it. Just… Just tell me what you did after you got down."
"Well, after I excised the affected tissue and performed emergency heart surgery on myself, I endeavored to get help."
Dr. Mann looked down the hallways, desperately looking for help. Any help.
He walked past Dr. Clef's office.
All right, not quite any help.
He looked in the break room. The only person inside was Agent Tam, who was eating some sort of sandwich.
"Excuse me, Agent Tam, could I borrow a moment of your time?" he asked.
"Sure thing, Mann! What's up?" asked Agent Tam.
Dr. Mann sat down across from Agent Tam. "Hatbot keeps trying to kill me. I'm very frightened. I think it may succeed soon."
"That's crazy! Hatbot's awesome. Why, I'm getting a Hatbot tattoo!" said Agent Tam. "Fuck trees, I climb—"
"But you don't understand!" Dr. Mann said, desperately. "It struck me! It set fire to my office! It covered me in bees!"
"Bees? Sounds like you need an exterminator." Agent Tam began to chuckle, then looked down at his sandwich. "Goddamn! Some bastard stole the mustard!"
"Please, Agent Tam, this is important," said Dr. Mann.
"So's this! Some bastard stole my mustard! That was good fucking mustard! I'm going to ram my fist down the throat of whoever took my mustard!" Agent Tam threw down his sandwich in disgust.
Dr. Mann was hit by sudden inspiration. "It was Hatbot!"
"Hatbot?" Agent Tam looked at Dr. Mann wildly for a moment, then growled in rage. "I'll kill that pile of scraps! Teach him to take my mustard!" He bounded up out of his chair, grabbing a butter knife. "Remember the horseradish!" he shouted as he ran out the door.
Dr. Mann smiled to himself. Surely now the matter was over.
"But the matter wasn't solved, was it?" asked Dr. ███████.
"No," said Dr. Mann. "I overestimated Agent Tam's good sense. He punched Hatbot several times, called it a pansy, and then spat at a researcher on the way out. Sadly, none of this disabled it."
"So your second attempt to neutralize Hatbot failed."
"Yes. But I didn't realize it until the next attempt on my life," said Dr. Mann.
Dr. Mann slept the sleep of the just, or at least the sleep of the oblivious. He was finally safe thanks to Agent Tam.
He shot up when he heard someone moving about in the laboratory. An intruder! But it was impossible. Surely Agent Tam had destroyed Hatbot.
He got up, grabbing the auto-scalpel as he did so. He carefully opened the door, turning on the light.
There was a man standing in the middle of the laboratory. His shoulders were hunched. For some reason, he was wearing a metal gauntlet.
"Hello?" Dr. Mann said, tremulously. "I'm afraid I'm busy, but if you'd care to come back in the morning…"
The man gave a deep growl, which turned into a chuckle, and then a scream. "He comes!" he said. "Beh҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ind… He's waiting҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ . I… I… Stop. No. He knows of the ord ҉ ҉҉er. Ber ̒̓̔̕̚eft of chaos, it…H҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Ȅ̐̑̒̚̕̚ IS C̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̚̕̚̕̚̕̚̕̚̕̚OMI҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘NG." The man's eyes were leaking a black substance, almost as though he were infected with SCP-679, but much more viscous.
"What? Who's coming? What's wrong with your voice?" Dr. Mann asked, reaching for the auto-scalpel.
"Z҉A҉L͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎҉G ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍!" the man screamed with sounds that should never issue from a human throat, and the gauntlet changed shape to a long spike, as though poured into a mold.
"I still don't understand how it managed it," said Dr. Mann. "I understand it used ███, but I'm not quite sure how it moved it to my laboratory, let alone with a test subject. How did it keep from alerting anyone?"
"We're still working out how it managed to take control of the maintenance worker. However, once it had managed that, it was able to give him an artificially high clearance. He took ███ from containment, took it to your laboratory, and put it on."
"Diabolical," said Dr. Mann.
"What did you do then?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, once I dispatched the subject with ███, I knew I had to find a way to destroy Hatbot once and for all."
Dr. Mann stormed up to the server room. "Dr. Valence!" he shouted. "I must have a word with you, Dr. Valence!"
The scientist opened his door. "Yes, Mann? What's the problem?"
"Your mechanical Machiavelli is trying to kill me!" Dr. Mann said, grabbing Dr. Valence by the collar.
"Let go of me, you maniac!" Dr. Valence said. "That's ridiculous! Hatbot is perfectly safe."
"You should pants fetchingly in the morning," said Hatbot, from behind Dr. Valence. "Every midnight in England. Are you human?"
"I am not a crazy! I am perfectly normal! The machine is trying to end my life!" Dr. Mann let go of Dr. Valence, and gestured toward the server room. "I have suffered no less than four attempts on my life thus far! I will not suffer another! Hatbot must be destroyed!"
"Are you crazy?" asked Dr. Valence. "Do you know how much he cost? You can't possibly expect me to let that work go down the drain."
"But it tried to kill me," Dr. Mann said. "Why won't you believe me? It has to be destroyed!"
"You need to sit for the camera, and die possibly," said Hatbot.
"See? See? It just threatened my life again!" howled Dr. Mann.
"I think you've been working too hard," said Dr. Valence. "You should go back to wherever it is you hole up at night and get some sleep."
"I don't need sleep! I need Hatbot's destruction! Hatbot delendo est!" screamed Dr. Mann.
"Guards!" Dr. Valence shouted. "Restrain Dr. Mann and escort him back to his office. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere near the server room."
"But you can't do this! Don't you understand? Hatbot is a menace! A menace, I tell you!" Dr. Mann's screaming became more frantic as two guards grabbed him by the arms and started pulling him away. "You think he's harmless, but he's going to kill me!"
The guards paid him no heed as they dragged him down the hallway.
"So, your first attempt at direct confrontation failed," said Dr. ███████. "What did you do next?"
"Well, you have to understand, I was fairly desperate by this point."
Dr. Mann wandered the halls disconsolately. Anytime he approached the server room, he was turned away, or escorted politely but firmly back to his office. No one would believe him about the danger. Didn't they understand that this was a matter of life and death?
He had near given up hope when he heard someone mutter, "God, I hate Hatbot."
He looked up to see the secretary, Break. "Excuse me," he said. "Could you repeat that?"
She looked at him levelly, and in a slow, even voice, she said, "I. Hate. Hatbot. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No! I hate Hatbot too!" he said, excited. "It keeps trying to kill me."
"Oh, you're the one they've been talking about," said Break.
"But you believe me, don't you?" asked Dr. Mann.
"No," she said. "Hatbot's just a machine. It can barely form coherent sentences. I'm pretty sure it's not trying to kill you."
"But you said you hated Hatbot," Dr. Mann said, desperately.
"Yes, because it's annoying, not because it's homicidal. All anyone talks about is Hatbot. They keep walking by my desk repeating everything it says. I swear, if I hear 'Fuck trees' one more time…" She glared down the hall towards the server room. "Plus, when I went in there, it kept asking me for nude pictures."
"Well, if it's that big a problem," said Dr. Mann, "why don't you deal with it? Take direct action! Destroy Hatbot!"
Break thought about this for a moment, and then shook her head. "No, I'd have to get up from my desk. I've got way too much work to do."
"But what about when they start bringing Hatbot here?" he asked.
The pencil in her fingers broke. "Here?" she asked, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
"Yes. They're going to start taking it on walks around the facility. It can do its job just as well from anywhere on site." Dr. Mann had no idea if this were true, but it sounded plausible.
Break's eyes narrowed. "Wait here," she said, taking a handgun from her desk. "I'll be right back."
Dr. Mann smiled broadly as she stormed off down the hall. She seemed much more capable than Agent Tam. Surely she would have the problem dealt with swiftly.
"And that's when all hell broke loose," said Dr. ███████.
"Yes. It seems that Hatbot's power had become stronger by this point."
Dr. Mann knew something was wrong when he heard the screams and smelled the smoke. Surely Break hadn't accomplished all of that with just one handgun.
A man stumbled out of the hallway. His eyes were dripping with the same blackness that had issued from the subject of 047. More was dripping from his mouth. He turned to Dr. Mann. "His is coming. I must… I must kill Mann."
"Kill Mann?" Dr. Mann said, horrified. "But I'm Dr. Mann!"
"Hail ͪͅZ̩̻͎͓̯̲̓ͥͫͪ̎ą̹͔̖̖̱͍̥̞́̂̀̈ͭ͂̈̂͛l̨̮ͪ̒͌ͦ̊ͧ̊͛͘͜g̪͔̩̑͆̆̏͛͌ͩ̋ớ̢̳̮̫̬̣͈͔ͨ̽!" the man said, lifting a sidearm.
Dr. Mann didn't wait any longer. He dodged down a hall as a bullet burrowed into the wall. He ran until he found a utility closet.
He breathed a sigh of relief, until he noticed he was not alone. It was a Class-D holding his face in his hands.
"Excuse me," Dr. Mann said. "Look, I'm hiding here too. Perhaps we can figure out what's happening and stop it. Your status could be changed if you help the Foundation."
The man looked up, and Dr. Mann saw that his face was gone, replaced by a dark hole. Stars could be seen shining in the black. A scraping, slurping sound could be heard, as though from a great distance.
Dr. Mann started to scream, and then decided that wasted valuable breath that could be more profitably used fleeing.
He ran back to his laboratory by a very roundabout route, changing his path whenever he heard footsteps. When he arrived, there was no one inside. He locked the door with a quiet sob of relief.
He tried to figure out what he should do. This had to be Hatbot's doing. Someone had to stop it. But how?
He could only think of one answer.
"So, this was the point you decided to take on Hatbot yourself?" asked Dr. ███████.
"Yes," said Dr. Mann. "I realized why it was afraid of me. It knew I was the only one in the Foundation who was immune to its effect."
"Why do you suppose that was?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, I can only theorize, but… Have you ever noticed that the Foundation staff are a bit… eccentric?" he asked.
"…Yes," said the psychologist. "It's been noted."
"Well, I think that Hatbot could only influence certain kinds of minds. It had to be able to create some sort of link. Clearly, I was immune because I'm so normal."
The psychologist coughed. "Yes. Normal. Anyway, you left your laboratory. What did you do next?"
"Next, I fought Hatbot."
Dr. Mann walked down the hallways. He had encountered the minions of Hatbot several times, mostly guards and D-Class personnel. He had dispatched them as quietly as he could, but had still ended up running several times as he drew the attention of others. It was slow, but he finally reached the server room.
Things were worst here. The metal of the walls was moving like flesh with worms crawling underneath it. He saw what might have been men, groaning little inhumanities of black fluid and running flesh, twitching and shuffling along the floor.
He moved aside them, and walked into the room itself.
There were spiderweb cracks in the air, and the angles were all wrong. It hurt his eyes to see. And where was Hatbot?
The first blow nearly took him off his feet, and the second staggered him. "You sh̵̸̝̳̮̫̙̮͖̬̔̂͗̂͞ould ͥṋ̗͙͇͉͕̬͙͙ot be here. You need to̊̅ͩ̔̾̅͛҉̯̳͢ be res̹̳͖͉͇̣̻̊ͣͤ̄̌͛̓̚͟et every 24 h̵̸̝̳̮̫̙̮͖̬̔̂͗̂͞ours in En̶̝̞̬̦̄̃g̥̖͇͙̠̽land!"
"Hatbot!" Dr. Mann cried out. "I'm here to destroy you."
"The m̒̓̔̕̚aster comes to s̷͉̘̹̟̺̦̅͌ing the song t҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞hat ends the ẅ̢͙̭̥̜̿̍̀̏͌orld ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚," Hatbot said. Its voice was different now. It had lost its electronic, synthesized quality, and had picked up strange harmonics that hurt Dr. Mann's head. "It's a̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉beautiful nig ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ht in Englͬͧ̿ͫ̔̉ͫ̽̚҉͈̦͕k̸̽̎̐͏̱͇͜and. Hail H̗̘̙҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙atbot."
"Stop it," Dr. Mann said. "This must end. It's madness!"
"Suc̟̲͕͕̩̓̎͞h a ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡beautiful song. Fǔ̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉ck tr҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞ees, I KILL MAN̲̲ͤͣ̀N͚͍̻̿̒͌̍͆ Kͦͥ͘͡i͇̺̬̭̻ͯͣ͂LL M҉A҉NN K̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉LL M͡҉ANN!" Hatbot charged at Dr. Mann, swinging its shining plastic arms.
Dr. Mann dodged to the side, keeping a desk between himself and Hatbot. He stepped in something that used to work there. He put down the auto-scalpel, knowing it would do little good against a machine. Instead, he pulled his secret weapon from his bag.
"Why do you even have a cricket bat in your office?" asked Dr. ███████.
"In case of 008 breakouts, of course," said Dr. Mann.
"Of course. Continue."
He swung the bat as hard as he could, connecting right where Hatbot's head connected to its body. "For Science!" he shouted.
"Embra҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ c e̓̔̕̚ the end ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚," Hatbot said, staggering back. Its fedora fell from its head onto the floor.
Dr. Mann hit again, and again, driving it further back.
"I cǎ̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉n't let y҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ou do th͡҉҉ ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋ ̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚is, Dr. Mann," the robot said, rallying. It caught the bat and tried to pull it from his hands. "He a҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚waits this nǐ̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ght."
Dr. Mann pulled back, trying to free the cricket bat. "You're a menace. You have to be stopped for the good of humanity."
"I wi̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙ll make you one҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ with him. Ha̫̪͙͎͉̲͎̹͋͆ͮͪ̿ͪ͋il Hatb҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞ ̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ot. Hail Z҉A҉L҉G҉O̚̕̚." Hatbot lifted suddenly, nearly pulling Dr. Mann off his feet.
He kicked the desk into Hatbot, loosening its grip. He began hitting it again. Plastic cracked, exposing servos and electronics.
"I must give him the call to set him ͭͯ̀ͭ͒f͎̗̳͎̥̈́̑͌͛̌̏ͥ͞r ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ee," said Hatbot. It stepped backwards, trying to stay back from the swinging bat. "The chaotic soul. The Ne҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡zperd҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ian hive ҉҉-mind of cha҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ os. Ḧ̫̤́ͨ̄͜͢͠e̲̯͍͇̫̋ is c̠̘̗̹̰̬̱̝̖oming. Z҉A҉L҉G҉O̚̕̚…"
Dr. Mann stuck again, and again, bashing into the robot. Plastic and metal shattered under the assault. "This is for my laboratory! And this is for my friends! And this is for the bees!"
"The ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚waa҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ aallll҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡lls̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ssss," said Hatbot, its voice becoming slower and slurred. ""Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do. Fuck treees… I… climb… cloouudsss… moootheeeerrrrfffffuuuuckeeee…" Its voice finally drew to a halt, and the bank of lights went dim.
The feeling of wrongness stopped. The walls snapped back to normal solidity, and the cracks in the air vanished. Dr. Mann picked up the fedora, dusted it off, and placed it on his head. He whistled as he walked out.
"And that's everything," Dr. Mann said. "Oh, there was some clean-up, but I understand nearly everything was back to normal."
"Except for the damages done indirectly," said Dr. ███████, dourly. "Well, that clears up your role in this mess. I suppose your actions were reasonable, given the circumstances. Still, in the future, try to deal with these situations before they summon Keter-class reality distortion."
"I"ll try," said Dr. Mann.
Endnote:
In the bowels of the Foundation's Network, a background program triggered a hidden script.
Login: E_Mann
Pass: …………………….
Welcome, Dr. Everett Mann.
Site 17 Terminal 137
Your session will expire in 30 minutes.
E_Mann@SCP-Site17-T137:~$ sudo -bK -u root '/home/L4/A_Valence/bin/hatbot -d &>/dev/null'
sudo: User is not in the sudoers file. This incident will be reported.
E_Mann@SCP-Site17-T137:~$ su A_Valence
Pass: merrilydownthestream
Welcome, Dr. Adrian Valence.
Site 17 Terminal 137
A_Valence@SCP-Site17-T137:~$ su root
Pass: doestheblackmoonhowl
FULL SYSTEM ACCESS GRANTED
ALL FURTHER ACTIVITY WILL BE MONITORED
root@SCP-Site17-T137:~# /home/L4/A_Valence/bin/hatbot -d &>/dev/null
[9] 13873
[9]+ Loading….. Done
[9]+ Running as Daemon
He Comes.
[END OF LOG] |
Electronically recorded journal of Dr. Gerard L. Johnston. Recovered after a recommendation for employment was made by his superior, Dr. Devon Corbin. Dr. Johnston's continued employment is being reviewed at this time. Dr. Johnston is currently employed at Site 33, Psychological Care Facility 22, and believes it to be a government-run psychiatric hospital for high-clearance personnel involved in incidents related to national security.
Site 33 - Psychological Care Facility 22
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 207 is Agent Corinne ████████, exposed to SCP-212 on 05/12/2002 resulting in a complete restructuring of the musculoskeletal composition of her face and torso. Agent Corinne suffers from identity issues as a result of this and has been remanded to the care of PCF-22 until she is capable of returning to duty.]
Same old, same old, journal. It's been a tense year, ever since patient 612 got here. I'm supposed to take over for Dr. Smith on that patient in a few weeks, apparently Smith's requested a sabbatical. Still don't know why they won't give us a name to identify them by, I know these are important people, but an alias wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Anyway, I only had to deal with Patient 207, but that was enough, let me tell you. She's still a wreck after undergoing that reconstructive facial surgery - apparently a lot of the tissue wasn't recoverable, and so they had to perform a face transplant in addition to pinning about half the bones in her skull together. Honestly, whoever did it deserves a medal, she looks amazingly healthy - no swelling around the face or scarring that I'd expect, but the end result was that she can't handle looking totally different, and she got put here.
I walked into her room today, and she was curled up in the fetal position in the corner, crying again. She seemed to have gone through another episode of depersonalization, which is understandable. 207 has rejected her new appearance as that of another person, and has adopted her identification number, 207, as her new name. Often, she will pair this number with another name that she doesn't seem to be fond of, "Skip." In her periods of lucidity, she's demonstrated remarkable intelligence and a keen, if dark, sense of humor. "Corinne" is what she prefers to be identified as in these moments, and she absolutely clams up if I ask her about "Skip", or "Skip 207". The number 207 doesn't elicit the same response from her, which is odd. Skip must mean something more to her, but what is unknown and probably unimportant.
I really think she can be helped, but it's going to be a long-term process of teaching her to accept her new face and pair it with her sense of identity, which has given her a lot of trouble. You've got to feel bad for her, a nasty incident necessitating that kind of reconstructive surgery is rough enough, the long-term effects are just salt in the wound.
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 337 is a D-class unit (D-42773) exposed to SCP-███, eating a single brown candy. He has been remanded to PCF-22 in order to study the length of effect of SCP-███ and to determine if it 'wears off'.]
Had to go see 337 today, which is honestly refreshing. Sometimes he hears voices running commentary on his life, sometimes they argue, but that's basically the only variation you hit in his symptoms. I feel bad for the guy, sure - he can barely communicate, suffers from hallucinations of all sorts of messed up stuff, and when he's not doing that, he just sits on his bed and stares into space for hours on end. But, on the plus side, he's basically a textbook case of schizophrenia. I thought he was faking at first, the symptoms 337 exhibits are literally straight out of the DSM-IV.
Unfortunately, he isn't responding to treatment. I mean, at all- all the antipsychotics in the book haven't done a damn thing. I switched him to electroconvulsive therapy - still, nothing. We've just had to keep him restrained until we can figure something out, but so far all that's worked are sedatives. I don't think I've had a case that any colleague not working here would believe since I've started.
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 612 is Dr. ███████ ██████████, a linguist assigned to studying the symbols produced by SCP-035. Dr. ██████████'s mental state degraded continuously over the three and a half weeks she worked on the project, until she was caught fashioning a stylus out of D-13448's ulna shortly after his termination. At that point, Dr. ██████████ was sent to PCF-22, was she has resided for several months.]
I know the government's up to some crazy stuff, but this has officially gone beyond the pale. Today was my first day on 612, and I was ready for just about anything. I've seen some nasty stuff in my life, some seriously disturbed people, and so have my colleagues… which is what initially concerned me about the rumors. Something is wrong here, and I don't know what, and I don't know if I want to know.
I walked into 612's room - unpadded, and she was unrestrained, which really shocked me at first. With all the rumors flying, I was expecting some kind of feral maniac trying to rip her own face off. Instead, she had a stack of paper, a pen, and a bed. She was completely still, had the sheets on the bed pulled up over her face, and she wouldn't acknowledge me. Gave me time to evaluate the situation, I figured, and I started going through the papers. She's a doctor of linguistics, so I wasn't too surprised when I didn't understand the writing, but it was pretty clearly Latin and Greek… but some of it I didn't recognize, wedges in patterns. Sections of it were circled with notes written in the margins, same language as whatever was circled. I looked it up a few hours ago, that wedge-writing was cuneiform, Sumerian writing. She has had no education whatsoever in Sumerian culture or languages. I tried to take the papers out of the room, and the guards stopped me, saying that it was their job to handle that. When I protested, they flashed a badge in my face and said something about a foundation, then they gave that meaningful look that basically translates to 'I'm better armed than you are, back off.' I left 612's room after that, went immediately to Dr. Corbin, who's in charge around here (I thought), and got about six words in before he cut me off and told me to let the guards handle it and just worry about 612.
I didn't press it at the time, even though I probably should have. 612's cell was the same as I left it, stack of papers on the desk, blankets pulled up over her head, no response from 612. I admit my temper wasn't what it ought to have been, I should've probably left well enough alone, but something about 612 just set me off. I walked over and ripped the blankets off of 612, and got quite another surprise. 612 was using the blankets to keep people from seeing as she drew a new set of symbols on her bed in her own blood. I've seen self-mutilation and writing in bodily fluids before, that wasn't the surprising part. What got me was that these were certainly not cuneiform, nor anything from the Greek or Latin alphabets. Also notable was the pattern of self-mutilation that no one had seen fit to mention on any of the reports- these cuts were made with a pattern in mind, and for God's sake, I don't know what. When the guards noticed, they came into the cell, sedated 612, and dragged me out of there. I left work from there and came home, took a nap to clear my mind, and wrote this down… I don't know if I can go back to work tomorrow. Something is really, really wrong here and I don't know what. Dr. Corbin knows, but he won't tell me. The guards even know, and they won't tell me. Something's got to give, and soon, or I'm out of here.
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 552, or Guard Matthew ████████, was assigned to SCP-231 as an observer for Procedure 110-Montauk, during which he prevented two D-class personnel assigned to the procedure from murdering SCP-231-7 in the midst of the proscribed ████ ███ ██████████ of Procedure 110-Montauk. SCP-231-7 requested to be euthanized shortly after Guard ████████ intervened, a request which was summarily denied by Guard ████████. A Class 3 commendation has been placed on Guard ████████'s personnel file and as per his request, he was transferred to Site ██-█. Shortly after his transfer, he was offered and refused a Class B Amnestic and memory implantation, after which he suffered a psychological breakdown, necessitating his current status in PCF-22.]
I can't work in this environment anymore, this has become ludicrous. I was talking to 552 today - the one with the depressive and guilt issues, fairly standard case and he seemed to be responding well to therapy. He has problems I'm not going to be able to help him with unless he opens up more… this negative self-image he carries around is like a greenhouse for depression, it's just going to keep feeding on itself and growing. The fact that a guard detail is required to accompany anyone interviewing 552 is just hindering his treatment further - it's going to be hard enough to get him to tell me why he hates himself, much less two armed guards standing less than three meters away.
To be honest, I really think the guards know more than I do about this place, and I don't like it. I swear I caught one of them making a threatening gesture at 552 today when I thought for sure the poor bastard was going to crack and tell me what was wrong. Of course, he clammed up immediately, at which point I terminated the interview and went straight to Corbin. At which point I got the same damn runaround I'm always going to get around here, where of course the guards are here for my own safety, and no, don't be ridiculous, the guards would never interfere with a patient's treatment, and blah blah you're imagining things take a day off. I'm going in tomorrow and giving Corbin a piece of my mind about this whole business, he and I both know something odd is going on, and he needs to level with me about it.
[ Note: Dr. Johnston is to be evaluated for potential direct employment by the Foundation as a Class 1 on-site staff psychiatrist. He knows enough at this point he could be considered a security risk, and he could still be useful to us. I can't keep brushing him off like I have been without making it blatantly clear that I'm hiding things from him. -Dr. Corbin] |
Leningrad, December 1979:
The flicker of your nightlight casts an unsettling glow throughout your small bedroom and the wind rattles your window, keeping you from finding sleep. Your young mind runs wild with imagination, only heightening your fear of the night and that which you can't see. Fortunately your father senses that all isn't well in your world and steps quietly inside the room. He sits on the edge of your bed and asks why you're still awake, in an awkward combination of stern and gentle that is so characteristic of him.
“There is a monster under my bed, papa,” you whisper quietly, so as not to disturb or otherwise make it aware of your presence above. Your father smiles and gives a quiet laugh.
“Do you want me to look underneath the bed?” he asks with a grin. You nod, and his next words surprise you. “No, Pasha. There are no monsters. They are all dead.” Incredulous, you sit up slightly and ask, “How do you know?” Still smiling, he pats your head and says, “Pasha, your grandfather killed them all in the Great Patriotic War. Go to sleep.”
You believe him, and sleep finally takes you.
A Russian Federation army base, February 1995:
Snow billows and swirls around your face, obstructing your view of the man-shaped bullseye target hundreds of meters away. In your white-knuckled hands rests an almost ancient Mosin Nagant 91/30 sniper's rifle, a relic left over from the Second World War, relegated to use as a training instrument for new potential marksmen. The metal is frozen and has lost much of its bluing, exposing the roughly milled receiver to the harsh elements you are now subjected to. The trigger group rattles and one of the lenses is cracked, sometimes making it difficult to concentrate. The wood is rotting away due to the dank storage arsenals it has resided in for so many years, but also displays a number of crude carved markings on one side of the stock-a previous owner's morbid scorecard.
When your instructors distributed the weapons to you and your fellow marksmen candidates, the rest of them clucked their tongues and mocked the pitiful appearance of the weapons. Their jokes and spiteful comments escaped your ears at the time.
It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, and is everything a weapon of war should be: old, battle worn, and victorious, with scars to prove it. You sense prophetically that years from now you will wish you had this weapon to call your own, but sadly you too will return it to the armorers to be given a cursory cleaning and then a dip in storage oils, until the next recruit comes along. It seems an unfair existence for something with so much history behind it, but you suspect it is more fitting than hanging on a collector's wall as a showpiece, never to be used again.
Your eye peers through the scope, ignoring the cracked lens and seeking out the target through the mire of snow and fog ahead of you. You wait, wait for a chance, wait for God to clear the skies for you. A sudden break in the squall rewards you with a few fleeting moments of clear sight, exactly what you need.
You pull the trigger without hesitation, causing your instructor to turn from the spotting scope next to you and smile for what you think is the first time in his life.
Chechnya, May 1995:
Your senior sergeant glares at you. He is covered in an unspeakable and inescapable filth that infests this place, and eyes with scorn your clean (relatively speaking) uniform. Especially that marksman's badge that you only just earned little under a month ago.
“You, boy!” he barks, and you stand at rigid attention. “Give me that fucking badge. Once you've killed something like the rest of us, you can have it back.” Obediently you surrender it to him, understanding your place in this war all too well, having to prove and reprove yourself to these men who have known nothing but misery and death for the past year.
You are attached to your first patrol the next day, in what on the map is labeled Grozny but in reality exists only as a smoldering cemetery of skeletal buildings, charred vehicles and mostly unburied corpses. Though the battle is officially over, it remains a place of wholesale slaughter and devastation, and you wonder why anyone would deem such a godforsaken place to be of any importance. Your squad picks its way through mountains of rubble and around mass graves, sweeping up a few stragglers here and there.
Out of the corner of your eye you spot a teen aged boy, his face covered in a few dirty rags and carrying a soldier's rucksack over one shoulder. The sergeant screams at him to halt but instead the boy breaks into a run, darting away from you. Your sergeant turns to you, pointing, and bellows, “Snaiper!” leaving little doubt in your mind as to what he is ordering you to do. Before you even realize it your SVD is nestled snugly upon your shoulder and the scope is at your eyes, the graduated sights already aligned on the fleeing figure. The rifle jumps violently in your hands and the boy drops to his knees, blood spilling from the exit wound in his chest as he gasps for air. Dust settles around him, and he is still.
Your sergeant jabs a fist in the air, ordering the rest of the squad to hold as the two of you fall out to examine what was in that bag. Approaching the corpse, your eyes notice something you had missed before: long strands of dark brown hair fall from the crude balaclava, now jarred out of place and showing the boy's facial features more clearly. You are suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that “he” isn't a boy at all, but actually a young girl- only about 17 or so by the looks of it. Her blood soaks the charred ground and her empty brown eyes stare lifelessly at the perpetually cloudy sky. Your hands begin to shake as you riffle through the bag and you pray, pray to god that there are grenades or something, anything to justify taking this girl's life.
All you find are a few meager scraps of bread.
Nausea overtakes you and you fall to the ground and retch violently, your sergeant standing over you with his ever-present scowl. He grabs you with his giant's hands and forces you to stand on your feet and look him in the eye. “Looks like you can shoot after all, boy,” he says as he pries open your clenched hands and returns the marksman's badge.
The Mediterranean, present day:
Jimmy Durante's “I'll Be Seeing You” lilts through the air from a radio somewhere on the street below you, conveniently distracting passersby just finishing their antipasti at the streetside cafés. The beach is deserted save for a young girl sprawled across a tiny dock, her shapely legs kicking playfully in the warm Italian water, frilly pastel-yellow dress glowing in the soft luminescence of the setting sun. A smile plays across her face-she's pretty, and you find it difficult to maintain your professional detachment whilst observing her through the rifle scope. You try to keep focus, but part of your mind keeps drifting, longing to be on the beach with her, holding her hand, telling her how beautiful she is and how happy she makes you feel by just looking at her.
“Delta One, in position.” Dr. Clef's voice responds through the radio in a terse command, “Delta Six. Go.”
She turns to look at the older woman approaching her from the beach, affording you a perfect view of her face. You barely feel the weapon move as a .22 caliber bullet leaves your suppressed rifle and impacts her head squarely between the eyes. She doesn't feel a thing, just crumples like a broken doll, still smiling, blood streaming from the tiny entry wound and glimmering in the sunlight.
“Delta One, target neutralized.”
“Delta Two, confirm.”
"Delta Three, engaging target."
"Delta One, moving to support."
"Negative, Delta One, Delta Three. Delta Six will handle this one personally."
The older woman stops in her tracks, dropping a basket of wine and cheese at her feet in disbelief and horror just as Dr. Clef clubs her across the face with his pistol. Your concentration lapses again and you ignore the ensuing brawl and flurry of radio activity. Instead you gaze at the young woman's face, even now still smiling as her skin grows pale from blood loss. You manage to hold the bile down as your spotter takes a shot; SCP-784's body collapses atop the girl and breaks your line of sight. Silently, you thank God for this small gift.
Later, you come across a folded note on your desk. It's a commendation from your Mobile Team leader for assisting in the termination of SCP-784, a “dangerous and destructive entity that posed a grave threat to both the Foundation and mankind in general.” You fold the note and place it atop your gun rack, in which reside two rifles: an SVD Dragunov, and a suppressed .22 rifle of Czech design. Each has a single mark carved in the stock. Each has only been used once, now they both collect dust in your office.
You collapse onto the stiff bed and contemplate the day's events, your mind returning to something you told yourself many years ago in a place far away from here.
The only thing worse than killing an innocent girl, is getting a medal for doing so.
The thought remains with you all night, keeping you awake. You wish your father was still alive, wish he could give you some advice, wish you could ask him what all of this was for. You remember what he told you when you were a little boy, and wonder now if you would have the fortitude to tell him that he was wrong. The monsters are still very much alive. |
Interviewed: Agent Thompson.
Interviewer: Dr. Sylvius
Forward: Post-incident interview with the only survivor of the anomalous SCP-C Blizzard.
<Begin Log>
Dr. Sylvius: Okay, let's begin. Tell me, Thompson, what exactly were you doing at the site?
Thompson: Well, I was helping all of the researchers make it through the storm. Studying something during a blizzard in Greenland isn't exactly the safest thing in the world.
Dr. Sylvius: Indeed. So, the report says that SCP-C activated at 1300 hours. Could you tell me what happened then?
Thompson: Well, that's when the thing started to spin. That's also when things really became nasty.
Dr. Sylvius: How so?
Thompson: Well, the wind shot up 'til it was hard to stand, it was blowing so hard. It was snowing worse than before, and it was colder than hell, let me tell you. The visibility just started out bad enough, and it got to the point you had trouble seeing your hand in front of your face. And those were just the issues with the weather.
Dr. Sylvius: There were other problems?
Thompson: Yep. First was the sun. It was impossible to see anything, but you could tell where the light was coming from, and I swore it switched spots in the sky the second that thing started up. Then it was the ground. The area we were in was kinda rocky, and sloped a bit, but it changed and became more like a flat plain.
Dr. Sylvius: I see. In the incident report, it says the group led by Agent Smith was unaccounted for when contact was reestablished.
Thompson: I was getting to that. Smith's group was near the edge of the storm, and he told us his group was gonna try to get help.
Dr. Sylvius: But by then all communications were lost.
Thompson: That was odd. We could talk between the groups, but not with anyone outside of the storm, almost as if they had dropped off of the face of the planet. Anyway, Smith's group kept moving for about four and a half hours, but they said they saw absolutely no other people or the facility that was set up nearby. They also said there was absolutely no change in the terrain, as if the tundra never ended. We told them they got turned around because of the blizzard, but they said their directional markers were working. After the sixth hour, they got out of range of the communicators. Never heard from them again.
Dr. Sylvius: So how did they all die?
Thompson: Well, we were into our twentieth hour when it happened. I was on break in the little shelter we had set up when I heard yelling from outside. I went outside and saw three of the researchers down in the snow, bleeding pretty badly. The others were running around, yelling about something that had come out of nowhere and started attacking. They weren't done, either. The whole place was a madhouse with people running around, while things were killing people left and right.
Dr. Sylvius: What did they look like?
Thompson: I have no clue. Like I said before, you couldn't see anything in the snow and the wind. All I could tell is that whatever they were, they weren't human. I was trying to talk to Sergeant Reynolds, when a white blur shot between us and sliced his head clean off. Just like that. One second he was fine, the next there was a fountain of blood where his neck used to be.
Dr. Sylvius: How did you manage to survive all of this?
Thompson: Well, I realized that there was no way we were going to win this fight. These things kept jumping in and out of the snow, and we couldn't see them for more than a split second, let alone hurt them. They were obviously experts and fighting with those conditions. We had no hope. So I made a break for the cabin. The moment I slammed the door shut behind me, this huge fucking knife stabs right through the door. If I was half a second slower, it would have gone straight through my head. I could hear them out there, growling and screaming at me, but the walls were too thick for them to get through. What they did do was break the three inch thick bullet-proof windows the shelter had, and left me there to freeze to death. I spent five and a half hours huddled in the corner, covered in blankets and hoping the storm would end early.
Dr. Sylvius: Interesting. Well, Agent Thompson, that's all the information we need at this time. Thank you for your cooperation, and we'll talk to you again if we need to know more.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: After this interview, further testing of SCP-C during storm conditions was prohibited, and measures were set up to prevent further incidents of this nature. |
The field marshal peered through his binoculars at the soon-to-be battlefield laid out before him. His epaulets gleamed in the warm light, a soft breeze tickling his well groomed moustache as he surveyed the advance of two infantry companies below him. His scouting teams had chosen an ideal location, so perfectly situated that he could observe the men creeping towards their rally points, the armor waiting behind them for the breakthrough, and the artillery regiments prepping their tubes for firing. He had waited a lifetime for this exact moment, had been born for it, had lived and wanted it every waking minute of his life. This was the sole purpose of his existence, and he was destined to fulfill it.
Each man, from the marshal to the lowliest private, knew his own role in the grand show to come, operating like a well-trained orchestra about to perform a musical masterpiece for the first time. With the marshal's simple nod to a nearby lieutenant, radios summoned the fire of dozens of heavy guns, pulverizing today's target with deadly precision, raining untold destruction upon the unfortunate inhabitants. The muzzles roared and belched great tongues of fire, heaving the earth and splitting the air like thunder on this cloudless day, signaling the beginning of their beautiful, deadly performance.
The din of the heavy guns soon subsided, and was replaced by the guttural screams of his infantry companies surging from their rally points, giving battle to the enemy. They ran headlong, bayonets fixed against an already broken foe, screaming their curses and battle cries as they reached the first defensive lines and tore into the enemy defenders. The ramparts ran awash with blood of the fallen, shining in the light and adding a surreal kind of beauty to the carnage. One by one the defenders collapsed to the weight of the attack, and at last victory was theirs. A tear crept from the marshal's eye as his men erected a green clay flag atop the brewer, having finally wrested the coffee machine from enemy hands. Mr. Coffee would taunt them no longer.
Their moment of glory was not to last, however. A great shadow abruptly swept over them, sparking fears of an air attack in the Marshal's subconscious, but he soon realized it was far worse than that: their plans had been compromised-some defeatist traitor had leaked his intentions to the overlords and now they had come for retribution. He barked at his lieutenant to raise the company commanders, but communications were severed when a giant fist left the hastily established forward CP as nothing more than a sorry green smear across the desk. Their only chance at salvation was in a swift and desperate counterattack. Mechanized behemoths (to them, at least) creaked into action, their guns spitting forth a torrent of green fire and smoke that lifted morale until the shells bounced harmlessly from the giantess's white armor plate. Her gaze turned with annoyance to the advancing armored columns, followed by a cruel backhand that sent men and machine careening to a linoleum deathbed far below.
Their spirits shattered, his men began a frantic withdrawal from the coffee pot, abandoning defensive lines they had just seized no more than ten minutes ago. Some threw down their weapons in a futile attempt to surrender to this unholy queen of the battlefield, only to be flattened like pancakes beneath her clipboard. His binoculars trembled in horror as she deftly plucked the green flag from atop the coffee machine and flicked it nonchalantly into the fleeing mass of soldiers, laughing as their resistance melted before her. The terrified screaming of what was formerly a proud army reached his ears as he lowered himself to the ground and wept. |
Tales from the Bright Side 1.5
Intermission: Back to the Return of the Son of the Future Strikes Back
3125
The young man blinks as the VR helmet rises, attempting to sort through the various memories now in his head. His furrowed brow turns towards his waiting teacher. "I don't grok, sir."
The old man leans on his staff, his own head above the skull that tops it. "Go on."
"What is 'God'?" The student can find no equivalent reference in his studies.
"Outmoded concept. Creator Myths." The man smiles, with a twinkle in his eye. "Anything else?"
"682. Still active. No solution?"
"No, sadly." The man clucks under his breath. "No solution. Keep studying."
Once more, the boy dons the helmet, submerging himself in his studies. His teacher watches him for a moment, then glances at the yellowed skull that tops his staff. "I don't know, Kondraki, they just don't make them like you anymore. I should be glad… but I miss the challenge."
End Intermission |
Part 6: Escape
"Ever Dance With the Devil in the Pale Moonlight?"
"Delta One, in position."
"Delta Two, in position."
"Delta Three, in position."
"Delta Six. Go."
Beatrix Maddox sat on the lakeshore with her shoes off, letting the cool water flow over her bare feet, as she smiled and waited for Andrews to arrive with the picnic basket. He was bringing wine, cheese, and olives, and this delicious bread from the bakery down the street.
Italy was everything that she had ever imagined. The food, the wine, the music, the nights spent with her lover, the days spent exploring the gorgeous Mediterranean countryside. It was everything that Andrews… that Andrea… had promised and more.
She couldn't have cared if they'd spent the time in a quiet farmhouse in Kansas, or a New York City apartment. For her, all that mattered was that they were together.
It was her last thought before the .22 caliber round hit her between the eyes. She slumped over onto her side, her blood pooling under her, staining the wood dark red.
"Delta One, target neutralized."
"Delta Two, confirm."
"Delta Three, engaging target."
"Delta One, moving to support."
"Negative, Delta One, Delta Three. Delta Six will handle this one personally."
"You fucking bastard," Andrews whispered. He… she… spat a tooth out, dislodged from where Delta Six had clipped her with the butt of his pistol. "You fucking bastard. You promised."
"I did? I don't recall saying anything of the sort. Only that it wasn't my concern at the time." Delta Six, also known as Assistant Director Clef, smiled… he always smiled… as he rifled through Maddox's purse, pulling out her wallet, taking the cash, and tossing the rest into the lake. "It is now."
"You fucking bastard! You asshole! We wouldn't have talked! We just wanted… we just wanted to be left alone, why couldn't you let us at least have that!"
"Because, my friends, you can't just be left alone." Clef said, calmly. "You were involved. And you can't get uninvolved." He laughed. "I mean, what the hell would our world come to if people could just… quit? Who the fuck would keep doing this job? Psychos and assholes, that's who."
"And which are you?" Andrews sneered.
"Me? I'm perfectly sane. So I guess that makes me an asshole." He raised his gun and put the muzzle of the handgun between Andrews' eyes. "I mean, hell, look at me. Perfectly good sniper team, and I've gotta come down here and do it up close. Can't be satisfied just doing it from range, can I? Can't have you just die quietly without knowing what hit you, like I did to your girlfriend. No, I gotta get up close and look into your eyes first."
"I know," Andrews whispered. "I was counting on that."
"Delta One, man down, man down!"
"Delta Two, engaging, engaging!"
"I don't have a clean shot!"
"Fuck!"
"Fucker. Motherfucker. Fucking asshole," Clef gasped. He was holding in his stomach. It wasn't a good sign, the way that his guts were spilling out.
"Like you said, Clef. Only two kinds of people still work here," Andrews said. He raised the bloody nanolathed knife that he'd crafted from the slide of Clef's gun, wiped it calmly off on the sleeve of his… of her… jacket. "Assholes and Psychos. I didn't used to be either." He smiled as he knelt by Clef's side. "I guess, after killing enough cats, you kinda turn into both."
"Fucker. Motherfucking… fucking liar, you said you were gonna nuke the damn nanites…"
"I know. I lied. You should know all about that."
"Won't get away with this! You'll be dead before you get two steps!"
"I don't plan to. Because the truth is, Clef, I never wanted to. All I wanted to do is to tell you something… to tell you the truth." Andrews leaned down close, and the voice of Director Valentine whispered into Clef's ear.
Clef's face went pale, and he shuddered.
Then Valentine's body stood and turned towards the lake. It extended its arms out and dropped the knife onto the ground. It closed its eyes and smiled as it walked down the dock towards where Beatrix Maddox lay dead on the cold, hard wood.
The sniper's bullet pierced its skull just as it reached her, and it slumped down on top of her, arms outstretched, their two bodies laying on top of each other like two lovers embracing in their sleep.
… in other news today, Italian police are investigating the murders of two American tourists in the Tuscany region. The motive is believed to be robbery. Residents of this peaceful town are horrified at these recent events, the first murders in over a century…
He splashed water over his face and looked into the mirror. The face that was not the one he'd been born with looked back.
The man now known as Assistant Director Clef had accumulated many scars over a long career… a career built on lies and deceit. He ran a finger along his newest scar: a wide, deep gash across his belly, where Agent Andrews had delivered a final blow, one last Fuck You to the world before dying.
Memories rose unbidden, the words whispered in the voice of Director Valentine, but the words, the intent, all Andrews'.
"You're not a soldier. You're not a hero. You're not even a murderer. You're nothing but a bully… and SCPs are the nerdy kids who you like to beat up to hide the fact that you're nothing but a lonely, empty shell of a man."
He picked up the handgun that was by his sink and removed the magazine. He checked the chamber. One bullet. That would be enough. The rest were gravy.
He put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and closed his eyes.
Click.
He opened his eyes and smiled. "It works better," he said to himself, "when you take the safety off first."
Then he picked up his can of shaving cream and straight razor and got to work shaving. He was extremely cautious handling the keen-edged blade. A man could kill himself like that, if he wasn't careful. |
Part 5: Breaking Point
"You Can't Go Home Again"
Eighteen Months Ago
"So, if you'd let me finish my question?"
"Mmmm? Sure, sure…"
"Okay, here it is. Let's say that you've got a choice of two different prizes. One is an all-expenses paid, three month vacation in Europe."
"Ooooh, that sounds nice."
"The other is ten minutes on the moon."
"Hmmmmmmmmm."
"Which do you choose, and why?"
"Okay, quick question. Can I take you with me?"
"What? Mmmm… sure. Yeah, you can take one guest along."
"Then it doesn't matter. Nothing matters as long as we're together."
"…"
"… are you crying?"
"Men don't cry. We just get things in our eyes."
"Liar."
There was a moment's hesitation. It was enough.
Andrews-in-Valentine looked into the face of his own death, in the form of a HERF grenade held in the hand of the smiling Assistant Director. The object, a Foundation original, was a variation on the classic flash-bang grenade, specifically intended for use against electronic threats. Pull the pin, release the spoon, count to four, and a pulse of high frequency electromagnetic radiation would fire, destroying any circuitry more complex than a lightbulb and battery.
Clef casually dangled the pin from his left finger as he held the grenade in his right hand, spoon still pressed inwards. Andrews lowered the second spear he had lathed from Maddox's bed frame. The point of the weapon gently touched the bloody tile floor, where the paramedic's blood slowly flowed towards him.
"You know," Clef said, idly, "I always suspected that this entire facility was built on a slight slant. It always did make me feel off-balance."
"Are you going to kill us?" Maddox whispered. She was resting her head on Andrews' shoulder, body still weak from her long months spent comatose. A few bedsores were visible on her back, the open hospital gown framing the angry red friction uclers on her skin.
"Well, that depends," Clef said. "I've already got two containment breaches in progress. One involves your old friend the nanomachines, and that's bad. The other involves Kondraki, and that's really bad. So, taking a look at things from a "big picture" perspective, two agents walking out of a half-destroyed facility and never being seen again… that sounds like something that I could prioritize later." He sighed. "Especially since this grenade has a four-second fuse. There's a lot that Andrews could do to me in those four seconds. It would end in him… and you… dying painfully when the EMP fries those clever little connections between your brain and body. It would be a horrible death, laying there still able to think, but unable to breathe, unable to make your heart beat. Probably one of the worst."
"So we have a deal?"
"No," Clef admitted. "But I'm willing to walk right out the door right now and live to see another day."
"You won't have any trouble from me," Andrews said. "I'm not planning on keeping these damn bugs any longer than I need to. The moment that B's cured, I'll be pouring the rest into a jar and sticking it in the microwave."
"Suit yourself," Clef said. The assistant director turned and walked out of the room, casually stepping over the bloody body of the slain paramedic. "It's not really my concern any more."
On the way over to help deal with the mess Kondraki was making, he ran into the erstwhile Director Valentine, who was slaughtering a lot of hapless researchers, using the severed spine of Lieutenant Takahashi as a bludgeon. Clef casually popped the spoon of the EMP grenade and rolled it down the hallway. It popped, and the nanomachine colony that had been SCP-784 dissolved into inert slime.
He nudged the sludge pile with his toe until he found Director Valentine's brain, lifted it up out of the pile. Andrews, he had to admit, did some good work. The brain had been neatly severed from the spinal cord, the connections to the nanomachine colony made so cleanly that it was almost identical to Andrews' own connections. Not bad for someone with no medical expertise at all.
He wondered if some of the neurons still fired, weakly, even now: it wasn't necessarily clear what kinds of changes the nanomachines made to the actual brain structure when it replaced the glial cells. He wondered whether Valentine would feel her mind go if it were damaged, or whether she was already gone and dead.
Just to be sure, he carried the brain with him (pulling off bits and pieces and throwing them away like a child pulling petals off a flower) as he walked to the area where Kondraki was, currently, riding SCP-682 like a pony. He felt much better by the time he found out where the Ball of Sharp had ended up.
It was, all in all, a good day.
"So, any reason why Italy?"
"Mmmmm… I was just thinking. About that question I asked you last year."
"The one about the Moon and Europe?"
"Yeah, that one. It just seemed to me… I can't give you the moon. But I can at least give you Tuscany."
"That sounds wonderful. Wine, food, and music…"
"You sure you want to spend it with me?"
"It's gonna be a bit weird, I'll admit, but… it's still you under there, right?"
"As much as I can tell, yes."
"Then, remember what I said? Nothing else matters…"
"… as long as we're together."
"And nothing's changed that at all."
"…"
"… are you crying?"
"Yeah, I guess I am."
"I thought that men never cry."
"First time for everything."
Part 7: Conclusion |
Tales From The Bright Side
Chapter 1: Waiting on God… oh!
"I wish to again formally register my objections to this line of experimentation." I said, addressing my comment to the turned back of one Dr. Samet, an up-and-coming new researcher here at the Foundation. He seemed to think that the appropriate methods for advancement within our ranks was to insinuate himself with the Overseers. No one likes an ass-kisser.
"And, again, your objections are noted, 963; however, I have the full support of O5-1 on this matter. SCP-682 is simply too dangerous, we must try all possible outcomes." I bristled when he called me by a number. Why do they always make the same mistake?
"Mister Samet, my name is Dr. Bright. This," and I held out the amulet currently glued to my palm, "is SCP-963. Please refrain from mixing the two up, or I will have Grangan there shoot you in the foot. No hard feelings, but I'm sure you understand." A small smile crept across my features as I spoke, gesturing to one of my small crew of assistants. Unlike certain other members of the Senior Staff, I had never actually named the Junior Staff who had fallen under my wing, but the other staff had taken to calling them the Lucky Bunch, and it seems to have stuck. The name seems to reference the fact that researchers under my care tend to live longer, my own obsession with games of chance, and, quite possibly, a dig at my sometimes simian nature. Amusing, I'm sure.
Samet glanced uncomfortably at my underling, before turning his attention back to me. "Nevertheless, Ni-" I cleared my throat, noting from the corner of my eye as Grangan slipped his hand into his inside coat pocket. "- Bright, We must-" Again, I interrupted his speech, in an effort to correct the fellow.
"Dr. Bright. Only those who work with me on a regular basis are allowed to drop the title. And you will not be here long enough to work with me on a regular basis." Samet paled visibly at my words.
"Is that a threat?" He questioned, anger in his voice.
"No, merely good odds. You see, this ridiculous undertaking of yours has little to no chance of succeeding. The odds are-" I glanced sideways where my primary assistant already had the book out and waiting. English had been working for me long enough to anticipate my needs. A quick glance at the numbers was all I needed to refresh my memory. "Five hundred and twelve to one against this first plan of yours working. In fact, the only one who seems to have put any money on this working is-" I paused to recheck the numbers. "- A dead man. Ha, ha, very funny. It doesn't matter. 343 will not-"
"DR. BRIGHT! I do not need your negative attitude, or your predictions of doom. What I need YOU to do is go in THERE, and ask your fellow SCP to assist us in this manner. Will you or won't you do your assigned job?" The cracks had begun to show in Samet's armor. Not someone who would last long. I had money on him leaving within the week. But, for this situation, he technically, barely, outranked me. So, I would do it.
"Of course." I nodded my head, steeled myself, and walked through the door into 343's domicile. Just being in his presence, set my teeth on edge. The feelings of calm and contentment attempted to flow into me, but I resisted. It's hard to be gloomy when the world is trying to make you happy, but I've had longs years of practice. Especially with… him.
I think the bit that most disturbs me about 343 is how, no matter what I try, no matter how much I tell myself it's a trick, he ALWAYS looks just like George Burns to me, cigar in one hand, martini in another. He says it's to put me at ease, but nothing about this creature puts me at ease. He's too much, tries too hard.
"Jack," He said to me, sad eyes watching as I entered the room. "I'm glad to see you back. Are you ready to talk some more?"
"SCP-343. You have been held by the Foundation for several years now, and have yet to prove yourself worth the effort." I ignored his question. "Therefore, it has been determined that you be used to attempt the decommissioning of a more dangerous SCP. Do you understand?"
"You know Jack, I had such high hopes for you. You were created so bright, ha ha, so gifted. There were plans, still are plans, for you to do great things. But you need to get out of here. They're destroying you, Jack. You used to be such a good boy." He had the mannerisms down perfect, even the gruff George Burns voice. The voice, the smoke, even the current look of his room, all designed to make me receptive to him. But I wouldn't have any of it. He was an SCP, a creature, a monster, and by God, he would not take me so easily.
"You may refer to me as Dr. Bright. No one calls me… that any more." Not for decades. "Will you assist in this endeavor, or will I have to impose sanctions upon you?" I stared into his eyes, refusing to look away. The longer I held eye contact, the smaller his smile became, until there was no trace of it left. He took a deep drag on his cigar, almost but not quite frowning.
"You have become an abomination Jack. More monster than human, bound to that thing." He gestured at 963, and I could have sworn I felt it tingle. "I should remove you from it, return you to your proper thread. Make you human again." For a moment, my thoughts lifted, hope at the thought that I might be rid of the curse, that I might finally die. But no. I clamped down on my emotions, refusing to break eye contact. He would or he wouldn't, but I doubted he could. "No. You'll do so much more with it. Very well, Jack, I will help you with whatever this is. If you say please."
I could tell he thought I wouldn't. That it was beneath me. But I wouldn't have Samet claiming I undermined his efforts. "343, please assist us."
His eyebrows raise, a fraction of an inch, but I saw it. I had surprised him. Good. He needed it. Needed to be shook up a little bit. "Very well."
Later, I stood in the observation booth, watching 343 in the containment room below. He had not asked what he was to do, and gave every indication that whatever it was, he would deal with it. So, I had chosen not to tell him what he was dealing with. Let God do what he will.
Dr. Samet stood smugly at my side, gloating without saying a word. He believed he had won the argument, and I felt no need to disabuse him of that notion. This would still be a failure. 343 did not have what it took to take care of 682.
"Are you prepared, 343?" Samet spoke into the microphone. Below us, 343 gave a thumbs up. Without any further to do, Dr. Samet pressed the button on the console, and the airlock cycled open, releasing 682.
The reptile roared into the room, charged straight through the center to throw itself against the doors opposite. It had escaped often enough to know the drill, and the most likely chance of escape. The only surprising event would be the fact that in so doing, it charged straight through 343, without seeming to touch him at all. 343, for his part, continued to stare at the open airlock door, expectantly. He glanced from the door, up to us, and then back at the door, before speaking out. "Well? Are you going to send this thing out, or should I head in?"
I smiled to myself, watching as 682 continued its assault upon the second airlock. With a smirk of my own, I took the microphone from the slack hands of Dr. Samet. "Close your mouth, you'll get flies," I advised my fellow researcher, before addressing 343. "343, am I correct to understand that you see nothing in the room with you?"
343 turned in a circle, eyeing the room, before looking up towards me once more. "There is nothing in the room with me, Jack. Are you feeling all right?"
With a grin firmly planted on my face, I turn to Samet. "682 not neutralized. As predicted."
"682?" 343 called out, a brief flash of anger in his eyes. Between one moment and the next he is standing in front of me, somehow taller than me without changing his size, glaring down at me. "You brought me to 682?" I motioned behind his back at English, who quickly began the 682 containment procedures, flooding the room with acid.
"Sure did, 343. Got a problem with that?" Anger, from God. With luck, he'd off me, and I wouldn't have to go through with the second part of this test.
Instead, 343 simply turned his back on me. "He's not one of mine. Deal with him yourself." And stalked off through the wall.
Dr. Samet, having regained his composure, turned to me with a snarl. "Fine. It didn't work. Doesn't matter. Get yourself ready 963, you're going in."
I nodded to Grangan as I turned away to change bodies. The last thing I heard as the door slid shut behind me was the pleasant sound of a handgun going off in closed quarters.
Next Time, on Tales From the Bright Side:
We're Off To Be The Lizard! |
“Explain to me why we're hiding in somebody's old, abandoned crap-shack, son.”
Neil R. Ghost (age twenty-eight) had never imagined that he would find himself in the situation that he was in presently. Sitting on a patch of rotted floorboards, with his back to the equally rotted door, he was regretting some of the decisions he had made with his life. However, there was no time for introspection, as his companion, a field researcher by the name of Kevin Starnes (age nineteen), replied, “That would be because of Two-Sixty-Nine, sir.”
“Yes, and what exactly is Two-Sixty-Nine?”
Quickly checking a paper from the sheaf of files that he was holding, Starnes read, “The files aren't very clear, as no one's been able to catch the thing so far, but this one says, ‘What has been determined is that the large creature was roughly humanoid with distinct moose-like features. The creature was described in a wide range of attributes, as with many cryptids, although all reports indicate the creature is bipedal with two arms, moose-like antlers, and a towering stature.'”
“So, basically, what we're looking at here is a moose man?”
“Yes.”
“And we haven't tried just shooting it, or drugging it, or anything like that?”
“Well, we opened fire with the tranquiliser darts when we found it, but then it just started chasing us. We ran back the way we came, right past your research team, and then scattered.”
“And that's how we ended up here. Fantastic. I'm going to go urinate in the corner now, before I have a chance to actually get the piss scared out of me, eh.”
Trundling over to what he assumed to be the corner of the dank former dwelling, Neil went about his business with gusto, humming a jaunty tune as he relieved himself. Turning his head just enough to keep an eye on both Starnes and the door, Neil inquired, “So, as long as we're here, do you think you could tell me why there were multiple research teams sent to investigate this thing? I mean, maybe an armed Mobile Task Force would be able to handle a man-eating monstrosity better than a bunch of nerds in lab coats and hiking gear.”
”Well, technically speaking, with the dentition of a moose, it's highly unlikely that Two-Sixty-Nine would be able to properly consume any kind of meat, much less human flesh.” Unfortunately, this was all that Kevin Starnes had a chance to say in reply: a particularly large hoof impacted the opposite side of the door, splintering the damp wood, and driving itself through four tenths of his spinal column, five ribs, and several of the more important organs in his thoracic cavity.
Bursting through a previously unnoticed back door into the twilit woods, wang in hand, Neil ran as fast as he could manage from a grisly array of odours, and what he was sure would be an embarrassingly moose-related death. Hastily repackaging his groin-bound goods, he tried not to focus on the approach of the oddly-proportioned creature, its swift hooves making dull thuds in response to the moist squishing of his feeble-by-comparison footfalls on the mossy, rain-damp ground. Cursing with what little breath he could muster, it came as somewhat of a surprise to the other people in the pit when he fell in with an astonished “Assnugget cuntface.”
Neil R. Ghost had found the rest of his original research team. Well, they had found him, but no one was about to play semantics. He had, in fact, been pulled into a hollow formed by the roots of a long-dead cedar, by one Doctor Owen Hamilton (age thirty-nine), and silenced with a hand over the mouth from researcher Andrea Barclay (age thirty-two), two of his initial five-man group of scientists and researchers. The three waited for Two-Sixty-Nine to pass overhead before even breathing.
Once they could no longer see its shadow, Barclay pulled her hand away. “Where is researcher Shekhar?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“Beats the piss out of me,” Ghost replied softly. “Is Doctor Tjaard dead?” Catching a shallow nod from Hamilton, he continued, “Right. Either of you have a gun?”
“Just this thing,” Hamilton said, motioning to a not-very-new rifle at the edge of their hiding place. “Though judging from the past few hours' experience, I'd say it's not going to do much good.” Before he'd even finished the sentence though, Ghost had grabbed the gun and leapt out of the pit.
“Hey you,” Ghost yelled. “You smelly, belligerent pile of crap, come on over and kick my face in. Hard target to miss.” He didn't have to shout; Two-Sixty-Nine had only passed the hiding place by twenty-five metres, and it had excellent hearing. It lowered its head to charge as Ghost raised the rifle, and after only four of the familiar thudding hoofbeats, there was a resounding crack, and the long-hunted moose man fell, a slow trickle of red running down its muzzle.
“Congratulations, you're a hero now,” Ghost quipped, passing the warm weapon to Hamilton. “ And if you tell any of the investigating Foundation personnel anything else, I'll have you dropped like Rancid McGee out there.”
“Is it dead?”
“Nope. Your average moose has a pretty thick skull, but I don't think I could've cracked that one even if I'd wanted to, eh.”
“Alright then. Doctor Barclay, call the base monitoring station, if you would.”
Two hours later, Hamilton was driving a rented subcompact, Ghost in the passenger seat, down one of those long stretches of boring woodland highway that traced the mainland. The trip had progressed in utter silence until a muted crackling from the dash mounted two-way radio snapped them both from their torpor. From what they could gather, the U-Haul truck that the Foundation had rented as an impromptu transport for the unconscious Two-Sixty-Nine had crashed. None of the crew that had gone with it, including Doctor Barclay, had been heard from, and it was to be assumed that the creature had escaped into the surrounding woodland.
“You know, Hamilton, I hope they had the sense to actually secure the thing. With rope or chain, preferably.”
“I have the niggling feeling that they didn't, Neil.”
“Me too, eh. You know, I saw it kill Starnes. I don't think it even planned on eating him or anything. It just wanted him dead.”
“Do you want to turn back and finish it off?”
“Fuck no. Get me an elephant gun and a bottle of whiskey and we'll talk.”
“Why did you shoot it? You knew about the skull, but why take the risk?”
“I'm sure you want me to tell you that I was overcome by a sudden swell of bravery, or that having so many of my teammates brought down made me angry enough to unleash my inner Rambo, but honestly? I was just fed up with its shit, and the smell. Let a properly equipped team deal with it.”
“Back to base, then. Do you think the Foundation's going to consider this a huge loss?”
“As long as we don't have anything to contain, the Special Containment Procedures Foundation isn't going to give a shit, eh.”
“I guess the first drink's on Barclay.”
“And the last one's on Starnes.” |
It was a dream, or at least it felt like one. Hana had been invited to the ocean god's palace. She went there in a banana-leaf canoe, drifting through an orange ocean, the sea melting into the sunset, without beginning or end. When she reached the horizon, the canoe took her down, down into the realm of the ocean god. Big ocean animals stand guard outside the palace, and they let her in the diamond-studded coral gate. As she drifted in, through halls made from granite, painted with red ochre, palace servants and guards look on. They were wearing vivid seaweed clothes, with indigo lining and bangles, unlike her tribesmen, which wore linen sarongs and simple accessories. And then, she was led to the throne room, to meet the ocean god. The ocean god sits on his throne made from coral, pearl, and insets of gold doubloons, majestic and towering. Behind the throne was the ocean god's guardian creature, massive and powerful, yet calming and soft at the same time. The ocean god rose and spoke, "Little girl, I have waited long for you."
Hana's village was in an uproar. The local shaman had said a week ago that something big would happen, but nobody had expected it to be this. The shaman's house was crowded, over something that happened last night. Hana had been questioned by the shaman all morning, over the dream she had, a rare pearl of the night. The shaman, wearing her sacred forest-fowl feather garb, went out of her house and exclaimed to the crowd.
"Hana had been chosen by the ocean god! Hana had been chosen by the ocean god!"
Menehana Mauaki's parents were worried. They couldn't bear the thought of sending their only child to the open sea. But, the ocean god's will must be fulfilled, or their village will suffer. The shaman had already pointed out that this dream had occurred rarely in the past; few had dreams about the orange sea, and even fewer had the chance to see the ocean god himself. But almost nobody had been directly invited to the ocean god's palace. Her mother was worried about what could be so important about her daughter, to be chosen by the ocean god. True, she learned to swim earlier than the other girls, and learned how to row canoes earlier than the boys, but she had not thought it to be special. "Mother, why are you so worried?" Hana asked. "Oh, dear child, I am afraid." "Afraid of what, mother?" "I am afraid that I will never see you again. I am sure your father thinks the same, even though he is now catching fish in the ocean." "Don't worry mother! I will ask the ocean god about this."
That night, again Hana rowed the banana-leaf canoe through the orange ocean, into the gates of the ocean god's palace, through the hallways and the corridors. At last, she reached the throne-room, and there, still sitting in his throne, and still as majestic as the last time, the ocean god. "Child, have you considered my offer? There is not much time left." "I would do it, but I do need something, o ocean god." "Then speak. I would grant that which is in my power." "My parents were afraid that they will never see me again. I am concerned about them." "Let go of that concern, child, and give them this." The ocean god stroke his hands, and at once the creature behind the throne produced a pair of something. Something made from limestone, with red ochre lines. "You will know how to use it. Give one to your parents, and keep one to yourself. Save your future worries to the journey ahead, child."
And that morning, Hana woke up with the two objects the ocean god gave her. The village was again in an uproar. The village shaman ran to Hana's house as soon as the story of the recent dream reached her ears. "You are truly blessed, child. From what the ancestor spirits tell me, these are a manifestation of kindred ocean spirits. They will enable you to connect with faraway people, even through the spirit world. Only the first ancestor had seen something like this! I am proud of you, child of the ocean." The shaman trembled with joy. "The Ocean God said I will be able to know how to use it." "Yes, child, you will know how to use it, the Ocean God had said so." Hana then gave one of the objects to her mother. "Mother, this is for you, when I reach the Ocean God's palace, I will try to contact you."
Six days before Hana departed, some shamans from the neighboring islands came to the village. "We wish to give her gifts, for she will depart from our world into the realm of the Ocean God." The shamans then brought a large cloth bundle, intricately sewn with divine patterns, and opened it. There were rare magic stones, the likes of which only exist in the stomachs of giant centipedes which appear only every hundred years, colorful feathers of a bird said to be able to disappear into the forest, various herbs stuffed in a hollowed-out branch said to be able to cure any disease, and other magical aids and amulets. "These are to remind you of the land, child. If the Ocean God wills these to be his memento, do not worry. Our prayers and blessings will always be carried with you."
The day comes when Hana had to leave the island to the Ocean God's territory. The whole village went to the beach with her. The village chief, shaman, and aides were there. Hana's parents were there. The yam diggers, the fishermen, the taro harvesters, the cloth maker, the ironworker, and the rest of the village was there. Some people from the other islands also came to witness the event, even from islands three or four days away. Everyone watched Hana, the child who is summoned by the Ocean God, board her canoe. The shamans' gift is on board the canoe, as well as the object the Ocean God gave her. The sky was turning from a dark blue to yellow, and she set off just when the yellow is beginning to turn orange. Everybody was overwhelmed by cries. The spectators wept as she set off into the orange sea, just like in her dream. Nobody is sure when she will reach the Ocean God's palace, and the divine object was passed from generation to generation. It was then kept in a holy cave, but, as time goes, history forgot about the event…
Until this day nobody knew Menehana Mauaki's fate. |
Part 4: Breach
"Plausible Deniability"
Post-Incident Interview, ██-██-████
Interviewer: And that was when Director Valentine breached containment on SCP-784.
Clef: That is correct.
Interviewer: And at that time, Lieutenant Takahashi of MTF-D9 had already arranged her strike team in preparation for arresting Director Valentine.
Clef: That is correct.
Interviewer: Can you explain for me, then, what happened next?
Clef: To put it mildly, sir, the shit simply hit the fan. What I hadn't anticipated at that point was that a decommissioning attempt on the other side of the base would go horribly wrong, causing destruction and death on a massive scale.
Interviewer: … so in short, while SCP-784 was making its escape attempt, that was about when…
Clef: About when Kondraki was throwing cat urine at SCP-083, yes.
Interviewer: …
"WHADDYA FUCKING MEAN NO BACKUP'S COMING!" Takahashi screamed. "I'VE GOT A FUCKING KETER SCP BREAKING CONTAINMENT, AT LEAST ONE POSSIBLE HOSTAGE, AND I'VE GOT FOUR GUYS WITH PEASHOOTERS TO TRY AND CONTAIN IT!"
"Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but all resources are currently being diverted to another incident. I can get you a fire support team in about half an hour…"
"There won't BE a need for a support team in half an hour because we'll all be DEAD in half an hour!" Takahashi snapped.
"Lieutenant! He's coming!" Chang shouted.
Takahashi swore and grabbed her nine mil, checking the chamber and magazine for ammunition. Thirteen rounds wasn't gonna be enough. Hell, a thousand rounds wasn't gonna be enough for this one. She took cover behind a soda machine, the lurid red and white advertisements on the box casting a strange counterpoint to the amber emergency lights. The rifle in her hands felt small and inadequate compared to that which was approaching.
The first sign of trouble was Valentine. The older woman was naked, her pale skin laced with stretch marks and pale blue veins, and she was slowly staggering out of the darkened corridor, pale body laced with blood. "Jesus, she's alive!" Vicks gasped.
"Stand fast, Vicks!" Takahashi ordered. "Director Valentine, come here!"
The older woman turned slowly, then slumped against the wall. Takahashi swore again, turned to Vicks and Chang. She pointed to her eyes with two fingers, then gestured down the corridor, and pumped her fist once. Vicks and Chang nodded grimly and headed down the corridor, sweeping the corners with their flashlights and pistols. They took up positions on either side of the hallway, then nodded to Takahashi.
"Thomas, you're with me." The lieutenant ran to Valentine's side. The woman's head was lolling on her shoulders, and her body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, matting her hair to her skull. "Hey, bitch, are you alive?" Takahashi whispered.
Valentine's eyes opened: the sclera of her eyes were red from ruptured blood vessels, and her speech was slurred. "Lieu… loo…" The older woman coughed up blood. "Got away… hit the sprayers but he got out of containment… he could be anywhere by now. Damn… stupid of me. I didn't… thought I had him in check… Hit the ground hard, feel bad…" She slumped forward. Her entire back was covered in blood, and there seemed to be a large welt forming on the back of her head.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck… Thomas, help me get her on the ground. We gotta immobilize her head."
"Think it's a concussion?"
"Concussion, contusions, aneurysm, whatever it is, this bitch hit her head hard." The two of them laid Valentine down on her back. Takahashi tabbed her communicator. "This is Delta-Nine to Site Control, we have a man down, request immediate medical assistance."
"Delta Nine, be advised that we are currently in the middle of…"
"I know you're having a Kondraki Moment, you asshole, but you can spare a couple of stretcher bearers to take one woman to the infirmary! Takahashi out!"
"Lieutenant!" A taller man was running towards them, huffing and puffing under the weight of several large nylon bags. He was closely followed by two paramedics, carrying a backboard, neck-brace and trauma kit.
"Roybal! Thank God you're here! What's the situation?"
"The situation is fucked. Casualties are in double digits already. Someone let the goddamn Sharpie Ball out of its container and it rolled over an entire Task Force." He tossed one of the bags to the ground. "We're not gonna be getting any backup."
"Well, if it's just us, then we'll be just fine." Takahashi said. She unzipped the bag and pulled out a large weapon, that looked rather like a science fiction raygun. "We're Feynman's Folly. We've trained for this scenario. This is what we do."
"I see… and off the record, sir?"
"Off the record? We're up against a former member of Omega-7 in the body of a Keter-Class SCP." Takahashi snapped an energy pack into her HERF gun. "We're fucked."
"Thought so," Roybal admitted.
They'd been moving through the corridors of the darkened hallway for fifteen minutes when Chang raised his hand, signalling the others to stop.
Takahashi saw it a moment later: a hulking mass coiled up in the corner like a pile of steel spaghetti, slowly throbbing rhythmically, as if to a slow, gentle breathing. A claw reached out and touched the wall, tearing through the plaster drywall and etching away at the steel underneath. Already, a portion of the steel seemed to throb and dissolve, melting into another tentacle that incorporated itself into the mass.
She unslung her weapon slowly, gestured to the other three members of her strike team. Firing line. Standard formation. Fire on my mark. The four soldiers slowly raised their weapons towards the creature.
"NOW!"
There was a low shriek, like a camera flash charging, except much, much louder, and then a loud crack of thunder as a blast of High Frequency Electromagnetic Radiation pulsed through the air, ionizing the atmosphere in its wake. Four pulses of crackling blue-white energy lanced into the mass of nanobots, tearing huge chunks out of the coiled steel tentacles.
The monster let out a roar, and then it lunged, terrifyingly fast, crossing the thirty yards between it and the task force in a single leap. Chang went down first, crushed under the mass of steel, his broken body leaving a red smear as the thing rushed on, shrugging off HERF blast after HERF blast, the powerful energy pulses dealing damage, but not enough, not enough to stop the monster from forming a buzzing chainsaw out of one of its tentacles and using it to shear Vicks' hands off at the wrist before tearing into his guts, not fast enough to stop it from grabbing Roybal's ankle and pounding him against the ceiling until he stopped screaming and flailing and just made wet noises like a bag of cement, not enough to stop it from grabbing Takahashi around the throat and lifting her up into the air, choking the life out of the young woman.
She felt her vision start to blur as her world began to go dark. Already, she could see the thing's nanomachines tearing the squad's weaponry apart, incorporating them into its own mass. As her vision swam and her consciousness left her, the last thing she heard was a voice, sneering and sinister, in her ear…
I always told you you lacked subtlety and grace.
Takahashi had enough presence of mind to realize what that meant… and to spend her last life's breath screaming in horror and dismay.
The last sound she'd make as a living creature.
Ten minutes later, the woman that Thomas and the two paramedics had brought to the infirmary opened her eyes. She pulled the IVs out of her arm, cutting off the flow of painkillers (such a pain to bypass the morphine) and got to her feet.
One of the medics tried to stop her, but she ignored him, walking through the halls of the infirmary to the third floor, to the place where she was trying to go. She placed her hand over the doorknob, and a thin tendril of nanomachines emerged from the back of her head, from the carefully hidden plate that she had disguised as a portion of skull, despite the fact that the entire back of the skull had been scooped out and the contents removed. The nanomachines broke through the lock in moments, and the one who wore Valentine's body entered the Intensive Care Quarantine unit.
It made its way to the back of the facility, to a small bed in the back, where a young woman lay slumbering. It placed its hands over her face, and the tendrils extended, penetrated the back of the neck, probed delicately around the connections. Yes, just as it suspected. The injuries could easily be healed.
The medic was shouting now, grabbing a phone and calling for help: the cries annoyed it, so it lathed a portion of steel piping, part of the bedframe, into a crude spear and threw it into the medic's throat. One by one, its nanomachines relaced the broken neurons back into place, carefully repaired the damage to its loved one's brain.
A few minutes later, Agent Beatrix Maddox opened her eyes for the first time in months. "What… who…"
"It's me, B," Valentine's mouth whispered. "I came for you."
There was a gentle cough, as Clef cleared his throat. The Assistant Director stepped over the fallen body of the paramedic and faced the couple - one in an old body newly repaired, the other in a new body not its own - and smiled.
"Agent Andrews," he said. "How nice of you to drop by."
Part 6: Escape |
The following are the journal entries made by [DATA EXPUNGED], currently known as Agent Apocalemur, over the time period between his discovery of SCP-307 on ██ ████, 200█, and his recovery by the SCP Foundation three weeks later.
██ ████, 200█
I found the weirdest plant today. It was just growing under that locust tree in my front yard. It looked like English ivy, but it was purple, and had thorns. I was kind of in a hurry to get to work, so I didn't get to look at it very closely.
██ ████, 200█
It's Saturday! My god, I hated this week. I swear, my job gets harder every year. I had to [DATA EXPUNGED].
I got to look at that weird plant I saw yesterday. I saw it growing. It was growing up the side of the tree so quickly, I could see it. Yesterday, it was just a little sprig. That's some plant.
It also looks like there's a pair of robins making a nest in that tree.
██ ████, 200█
I got up early to get a look at that plant. Maybe I should have stayed in bed. When I got outside, it was growing onto the branch that the robins were nesting in. It grew right up to the nest. When it touched the robin in the nest, it stopped growing. A few seconds later, the robin fell to the ground, dead.
██ ████, 200█
I called in sick to work today. I had to call in sick, because they never would have believed me if I said I had been chased away from my car by a purple vine that was growing out of the eyes of a dead bird. The ivy looked like it was growing towards me, and I wasn't taking any chances. I wasn't about to end up like that robin.
██ ████, 200█
█████ is dead. My only sister…dead. I haven't told Mom and Dad. I don't know how to tell them. “Hey, um…you know that ivy that you told █████ to cut away from the tree while you were out? Yeah…it killed her.” I wish I'd known they told her to do it. I could have stopped her. I could have saved her…
██ ████, 200█
Mom and Dad are in shock. They haven't left their room since they got home last night. I heard Dad screaming at someone, but that's the last I heard from either of them. I don't think they want to accept what's happening. The plant has grown into the backyard. ██████ and ██████ are both dead.1
LOG OF 911 CALL PLACED ON [DATA EXPUNGED]
Operator: 911, what's your emergency?
Man's Voice2: My daughter's dead!
Operator: Okay, sir, calm down. What happened?
Man: I don't know. I came home from work, and she was lying on the sidewalk with this plant growing out of her eyes.
[pause]
Man: Hello?
Operator: I'm sorry, did you say a plant was growing out of her eyes?
Man: Yes! My son says it killed her! Please send someone!
Operator: Your daughter was killed…by a plant…that's growing out of her eyes.
Man: What are you, deaf? That's exactly what I said!
Operator: All right, sir, there's no need for names here.
Man: Will you quit fucking around and send someone?
Operator: [hangs up]
██ ████, 200█
It's been a week and a half since I first saw that vine. The house is now completely surrounded. I wonder if any of the neighbors have noticed anything. The only thing that seems to be stopping it from entering the house is the fact that it can't seem to put down roots in metal or glass.
I haven't seen or heard from Mom and Dad. I'm worried they might have poisoned themselves.
██ ████, 200█
If anyone finds this journal, let it be known that I, [DATA EXPUNGED], made my last stand against the demon weed in this room. I have been barricaded in here for almost a week. I am convinced my entire family is dead. I have closed the air ducts and stopped up the crack under my door. I have my mom's long-handled branch trimmers, her weedwhacker, her chainsaw, the grill lighter (it seems to not like fire), and every bit of non-perishable food in the house. I made a sign, which I put in the window. It says, “Still alive. Send help.” I have a system in place to destroy it if I think it won't be necessary. It's only a matter of time before the plant figures out a way to get in here. The damn thing came in through the chimney!
(In the margin of this entry, a sketch was found, of a ring-tailed lemur eating its own tail. Underneath the sketch was the word “Apocalemur.”)
Can'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatm
ecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleat
mecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwille
atmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwill
eatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantw
illeatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplant
willeatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleeppla
ntwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleep
██ ████████, 200█
The SCP Foundation has allowed me to access this journal after making what they referred to as “necessary redactions.” They say it was my journal, although I have no memory of keeping it. I have no memory of my family, and know nothing of my life prior to the Foundation. I don't even know my own name. I am simply Agent Apocalemur. Apparently it has something to do with that doodle in the margin a few pages back. Shame I don't know what it means.
When they gave me the journal, they said it was because I had been assigned to oversee research on “SCP-307,” which I have come to understand is this mysterious plant mentioned in the last few entries, in the hopes of finding some way to destroy it for good. They said they wanted me to have some idea what I was in for.
If everything they've told me is true (and I have just as much reason to suspect that it is as I do to suspect that it isn't), then this plant killed my family and destroyed what appears to be a perfectly good life. I want it to die.
Footnotes
1. These names correspond to two dogs, breeds unknown, registered to Agent Apocalemur's family.
2. Vocal patterns match those of Agent Apocalemur's father |
Part 3:Escalation
"Until the End of the World"
Eighteen Months Ago
"All right, next question."
"Mmmm?"
"Imagine you just won a contest and you have your choice of two prizes."
"Is one of them you?"
"No… would you take this seriously, please?"
"I'm sorry, I'm a bit distracted by the beautiful naked girl in bed with me."
"You've got another girl under the sheets right now? How mean!"
"I'm talking about you, babe."
"Please. I'm not beautiful."
"Of course you are. The most beautiful girl in the world."
"I don't believe you."
"It's the truth. What do I need to do to make you believe that?"
"Tell me again…"
"You're beautiful…"
"… a million times."
"You're beautiful, you're beautiful, you're…"
"Not all at once, you dork! Slower… once a day, maybe."
"That's… about two thousand, seven hundred years."
"Then you'll just have to make sure that we live that long."
"Yes, dear…"
Today
"… in conclusion, the operation was carried out successfully, with minimal casualties. SCP-784 performed outstandingly. The artifact was captured without further incident, contained, and remanded to Special Containment Procedures unit." Lieutenant Takahashi closed her notebook with a crisp, military snap.
"Thank you. You are dismissed." Director Valentine said, distractedly. She ran a finger along her armchair. There was a slightly dreamy expression on her face, a nearly post-orgasmic one. Takahashi bit her lower lip. She really didn't want to know.
"There is one more thing," the lieutenant continued, hesitantly. "Skip-784 asked me a question." More like rumbled it, actually, in its terrifying buzzing voice, that sounded like a chorus of bees. "He wants to know when you will uphold your end of the bargain."
"Mmmm? Which bargain?" Valentine asked.
"Agent Maddox. You promised…"
"Oh yes. Tell him that the request was put through, and is pending Overseer review," Valentine said.
"… is it, Director?"
"Is what?"
Her voice was catching just a bit. She seemed a bit breathless. Takahashi was starting to get really annoyed by that. "Was the request put through? IS it pending Overseer review?" she repeated.
"If it'll help ease your mind, then, as far as you know, yes it was." Valentine said. The older woman bit her lower lip, and Takahashi… yes, she could definitely hear the slightest hint of a buzzing sound. "Now if you'll excuse me… you are dismissed, Lieutenant."
The door closed behind her with a solid click. Takahashi took a deep breath. Behind her, in the room, she could hear the buzzing noise growing louder, and the definite, high-pitched sounds of feminine amorous moans.
"Jesus," she whispered, shaking her head.
Post-Incident Interview, ██-██-████
Interviewer: Were you aware of Doctor Valentine's condition at the time?
Clef: Her technophilia? Yes. Her collection of… mechanical aids… was rather famous around the facility.
Interviewer: And you didn't think that it was inappropriate to place someone like that in charge of a mechanically based SCP?
Clef: Doctor Valentine's extracurricular activities were not relevant to her ability to do research upon her test subject, no.
Interviewer: I wonder how much you really believe that.
Clef: Given subsequent events, it's clear that my beliefs were… incorrect.
Night time at Site 19 was usually no different than any other time of day. The Oubliette was built rather like a Vegas Casino: every effort made to make sure that no one could see outside. Instead of day and night, an endless, constant, monotonous day, broken only by the changing of shifts from one set of guards to the next.
Agent Jared Thomas had just begun his graveyard shift, had just settled into his comfortable station chair with a copy of the new John Grisham novel and a pack of bubble gum, when the door opened. He stood up, blinking in surprise. It wasn't exactly unusual to see Director Valentine here, but at two in the morning?
"Good evening mister… Thomas…" Valentine said, after a quick glance at the young man's nametag. "How is Agent Andrews today?"
"SCP-784 is quiet, as usual, Director," Agent Thomas said. He gestured through the quartz glass at the scene below: SCP-784 lay curled up in its concrete container, looking rather like a thousand-armed steel octopus crossed with a million wriggling silicon earthworms, slowly writhing. "I think he's sleeping, to be honest. Although it's hard to tell."
"I see… sleeping." Valentine leaned over, and Thomas gulped nervously. The thin, white cloth of the middle-aged woman's labcoat was just sheer enough for the younger man to see what she wasn't wearing underneath. "When was the last time you got a good night's sleep, Agent Thomas?"
"I slept from 0900 to 1600 today," Thomas said, smiling.
"I said a good NIGHT's sleep, Agent Thomas."
"Oh? I've worked graveyard shift for the past five months. I'll be switching back in…"
"I see. Go and get some sleep, Agent Thomas. Sleeping in the day and staying up nights is bad for your circadian rhythm. I'll finish up your watch."
"Actually, ma'am, I've been setting up this new rhythm for months. I'm not sleepy at all."
"Agent Thomas, do you WANT to be reassigned to cleaning up SCP-053's diapers?"
"Not as such, no…"
"Then I recommend you follow orders from a superior officer. Now, Agent Thomas."
"Yes, ma'am." The younger agent sullenly picked up his book, coffee, and jacket, and left the control chamber. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Director Valentine settle into the station chair and look up at the monitors, the very image of the professional SCP Foundation guard.
He also noticed that she was fingering the top button of her labcoat, a bit tentatively.
Agent Thomas smiled. "Gotcha," he whispered to himself. On his way out, he took the small electronic device from his coat pocket and attached it to the underside of the glowing green EXIT sign with a wad of Bubblicious. Then he took his cell phone out of his pocket and called up Lieutenant Takahashi.
"Hey, Taki," Thomas said. "Remember how you told me to let you know if the Iron Bitch does something strange? Get your team together. I think she's about to."
Audio Log 784-T-K-421
Chang: Jesus, Lieutenant, don't you ever sleep? It's like two in the morning.
Takahashi: Don't worry, Chang, you're gonna like this. Here, check this out.
Chang: Okay, I'll bite. What you got for us?
Takahashi: Watch this.
[loud vocalizations]
Vicks: Holy CHRIST! Is that…
Chang: [wolf whistle] Dayum! I usually gotta pay by the hour to watch stuff like this… wait, I think she's almost… OH!
[loud cheering, punctuated by a cry of, "Yeah, Baby!"]
Takahashi: Jared, are you recording this?
Thomas: Recording, shit, I could sell this to any studio and make…
Takahashi: Thomas, cut the shit, are you recording this?
Thomas: Yeah, I'm recording all right. We've got her.
Takahashi: Run that up to the Smiling Man. I'm going to head down there and arrest this bitch for gross dereliction of duty.
Chang: Gross is right, did you see how she…
Takahashi: Chang, Vicks, get your minds out of the gutter and grab your gear.
Vicks: Sure thing, boss. Yowee, for an old hag, she's actually not bad.
Takahashi: Christ…
Thomas: Hang on a minute, Lieutenant, something's happening… oh hell. Taki? You'd better get down there NOW.
Takahashi: What is it?
Thomas: The target just left the control facility. She's headed inside.
Takahashi: fuck fuck fuck fuck move! … wait, did anyone hear that?
[END OF LOG]
Part 5: Breaking Point |
To all units operating in west coast of the United States, this is a PRIORITY ONE order issued from CENTCOM.
There is evidence to suggest that two Keter-level targets, codenamed “Toto” and “Dorothy”, are currently operating in the Southern California area. Though the reasons for their presence there are not exactly clear, being able to operate in a densely populated area would certainly appeal to “Dorothy”, based on previous records of her behavior.
Since “Toto” is classified as a Class One combat threat, field agents are authorized to use full combat loadouts. However, it is highly recommended that agents avoid direct confrontation of the targets, since all previous attempts at containing them have ended with failure and heavy casualties (please see attached post-action reports for full details). All agents are to immediately report the targets' coordinates once found. Agent Spoon, Agent Pitchfork, and a Mobile Task Force are airborne and ready to drop at a moment's notice.
Intelligence has also suggested that elements of the Chaos Insurgency may also be involved. It is also no secret that the FBI's Unusual Incidences Unit is currently investigating the case, though Intelligence suggests they have no idea what they're tracking. Chaos Insurgency agents are to be terminated on sight while UIU agents are to be detained or avoided if possible.
Godspeed, and watch out for “Toto's” lasers.
- O5-█
Leo sighed as he walked into the office for work. By far, this was the worst time of the day, as whenever he walked in, he drew the stares, sneers, and snickers from the staff as most of them were coming in to work as well. It was well known that he was part of the Unusual Incidences Unit, and it was very well known that UIU was considered the lowest rung of the entire department. Leo had originally joined the FBI because he wanted to make a difference, but now he spent his days toiling away in the basement of the Los Angeles FBI Field Office. However, he had no idea what he did or who he angered to get himself into this mess.
Name: Leonardo “Leo” James Carter
Age: 25
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 5' 11''
Profile: Originally joined the FBI under the pretense of “making a difference”. However, due to political machinations within the department, Special Agent Carter has been assigned to the Los Angeles branch of the UIU. He so far has had zero contact with any SCP, but has proven to remain calm and focused during times of great stress. Fairly inexperienced in field work, but this is mostly due to the nature of his position rather than any fault of his own.
Recruitment Potential: Promising. Special Agent Carter displays all of the necessary qualities needed for a Foundation field agent. However, his inexperience in dealing with SCPs may prove to be a temporary handicap.
Making sure nobody was looking, Leo quietly opened the door that led to the building's basement and shuffled inside. Down the depths of the field office lay the UIU office, if you could even call it that. The office used to be part of Archives, until the transition to digital media allowed the department to dump most of their paper files. UIU was shoved into the extra space as almost an afterthought, and it definitely showed. It was a small, barely lit room with absolutely no climate control and almost perpetually choked with dust. Besides himself, Leo also worked with two other Special Agents, Richtoff and Wellings.
“I see you've brought your own coffee again.” Richtoff mused as Leo sat at his desk. “No appreciation for our fine UIU homebrew?”
“I would if it were even vaguely coffee, sir.” Leo shook his head. “Not just colored, slightly bitter water.”
Richtoff was a good natured and kind old man, but even he had to know that he was now running an ailing division that the department never even wanted in the first place. The only reason why UIU existed at all was due to the order of some crazy, reactionary Representative. The Director was unhappy about creating what was, in his mind, a huge money and manpower sink while the Criminal, Counterterrorist, Cybercrime, and Intelligence Divisions saw UIU as extra competition. As a result, UIU had absolutely zero budget or influence within the department and served as a way to get rid of unwanted staff. It was so bad, most considered transfer or “promotion” to UIU to be punishment detail.
“Well, it's either that watered down stuff, or we can get about two months of normal coffee before we run out and have to wait for the department to write up the next budget.” Richtoff said.
Name: Alexander Moriarty Richtoff
Age: 56
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6' 1''
Profile: An FBI veteran for over thirty years, Special Agent Richtoff possesses vast knowledge and experience on the inner workings of the FBI. However, due to his refusal or inability to play department politics, Special Agent Richtoff has never been seriously considered for promotion, even though his credentials are more than enough to make him a division chief or even an assistant director. Likewise, his refusal to leave the FBI has resulted in his transfer to UIU in the hopes that it will hasten his retirement, as well as eliminate his influence within the department.
Recruitment Potential: Low. Due to his age, Special Agent Richtoff is too old for effective fieldwork, and his skepticism about paranormal activity is not conducive to employment within the Foundation. However, there are other alternatives to outright recruitment that may benefit the Foundation.
“By the way, where's Sam?” Leo looked around the dimly lit office but could find no trace of his partner. That was odd, since she almost always arrived at the office early.
“I think she's out on a case.” Richtoff sighed. “She thinks she's finally got a lead on that magic coffee machine.”
“That's totally stupid.” Leo shook his head. “Then again, she's the only one here that takes her job seriously.”
Name: Samantha “Sam” Breton Wellings
Age: 24
Hair Color: Blond
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5'8
Profile: Special Agent Wellings is somewhat of a far cry from regular FBI agents, the type that would fit perfectly in the UIU. Actually, she is one of the few who had actually volunteered for the position. Is a genuine believer in the paranormal, yet not to the extent seen in most other UIU agents of her kind. Though her actual fieldwork skills are questionable (her current duties are insufficient to accurately gauge her abilities), there is no denying that she has the enthusiasm that seems to be lacking in our own field agents these days.
Recruitment Potential: Promising. Special Agent Wellings is clearly enthusiastic about her work, which would make it relatively simple for her to adjust to the Foundation's unique job description. Also, her near discovery of SCP-294 should be testament to her dedication.
Sam exited the curio shop, dejected but not discouraged. Apparently, the coffee machine she was looking for had already been sold. She had tried to press for more information, but like always, the buyer had to pay in cash, making him all but untraceable. It looked like she would have to wait another day. As she made her way back to her car, a pair of burly suits rudely shoved her aside.
“Hey! You can at least watch where you're going!” Sam said angrily.
Both men turned and glared at her, making her cringe and step back. Even though she was FBI, Sam was still, at best, a junior agent, so she was still fairly easy to intimidate. Fortunately, both men quickly lost interest in her and filed in the shop she had just exited. She was about to follow them to see just what they were up to when her cell phone rang.
“What do you want, Chief?” Sam asked when she saw Richtoff's caller ID.
“To get yourself, and more importantly, the car back to the office!” Richtoff yelled angrily. “Unlike what the other divisions might think, we actually have cases to investigate! And unlike the other divisions, we only have that one car!”
“Oh come on, Chief!” Sam sighed. “You know just as well as I do that all the crap we get are the cases the other divisions don't want to bother with!”
“Just get back here already!” Richtoff said, exasperated. “Our workload is bad enough without you going rogue on me!”
At this point, Sam knew that if she gave in to Richtoff's demands now, she'd concede victory to her boss. However, if she could stall for another half hour or so, it would be a small victory for underappreciated, overworked FBI agents everywhere.
“Alright, I'll be back, but I'm not sure when.” Sam replied. “The 5 Freeway's clogged with Chinese tourists trying to get to Disneyland again.”
“Alright, just-“
Suddenly, there was shouting coming from the curio shop Sam had been investigating. She glanced through the window and caught sight of the two burly men from earlier harassing the shop owner. At first glance, it looked as if they were engaged in some aggressive haggling, but it didn't take long for Sam to notice that both men had the shop owner at gunpoint.
“Wellings, what's going on?!”
Sam realized that she had forgotten to turn off her phone, but there was no time for that now. She burst into the shop, gun drawn, and yelled, “FBI! Put your weapons down!”
Most of the time, when confronted by any kind of law enforcement, much less the FBI, most suspects surrendered without a fight, or at least decided that running was a better option than fighting. It was then understandable when Sam was caught off guard when the two burly men turned around and fired on her without hesitation. Sam shrieked and took cover behind a store shelf. Meanwhile, the store clerk took the chance to bolt out of the back door.
“Wellings? Wellings!” Ricthoff's voice shouted, barely audible over the sound of gunfire.
“Shots fired shots fired!” Sam said in a panicked voice.
“What happened?” Leo asked when he saw Richtoff scramble for the stairs.
“Trouble! Bring your sidearm and your vest!”
The two agents bolted from the basement office and toward the garage where the department vehicles were kept. Many people looked on curiously, as they had never seen UIU agents move with such speed and urgency.
“Sir! We've got trouble! One of our agents is under fire!” Richtoff yelled through his phone, which was connected to Assistant Director Horner's office. “We need backup at her location!”
“I'm sorry, Special Agent Richtoff, but we've got no agents in the area and our resources are spread thin enough as it is.” Horner said in a cold, infuriatingly clinical manner. “I'm afraid we'll have to leave the matter to local law enforcement.”
“Bullshit.” Richtoff muttered to himself as he hung up his phone. Horner probably saw this as a cheap, trouble-free way of getting rid of an undesired agent. Then again, the Assistant Director never really cared about UIU in the first place, so why should he care now?
“I assume we're in this alone, then?” Leo asked. “How're we supposed to get there when our only car is at the scene?”
“Watch.” Richtoff sprinted into the garage toward Agents Miller and Jennings. They were probably going out on another goddamn donut run.
“Hey, it's those X-Files geeks.” Miller jeered as he saw Richtoff and Leo approach. “What's the matter, somebody saw a UF-“
Miller never had a chance to finish his sentence. Richtoff knocked the agent out cold with a solid right hook. The senior agent then snatched Miller's keys and tossed them to Leo.
“You drive.”
“What the hell!” Jennings was shocked at what he just witnessed. “Why'd you-“
“If you don't want to end up like your partner, I'd suggest you shut up and stay out of my way!” Richtoff scowled.
Jennings squealed like a newborn pig and dashed for cover. Leo and Richtoff ignored him and commandeered their recently acquired sedan. With siren and lights blaring, the FBI vehicle roared out of the garage with a vengeance, sending both agents and civilians scrambling for cover.
Sam didn't have to be a genius to realize that she was in a dire predicament. She was outnumbered and pinned down, and besides basic firearm training, she had never fired her sidearm in her life. She leaned out to get a look at her attackers, and hopefully get a few shots off at them. However, when she leaned out, she could only see one of the burly men.
“Where'd the other one go-“ Sam muttered to herself a split second before she heard a gun cock. She turned to see the second burly man standing behind her. “Shit.”
The next few seconds were a blur. There were three bright bangs and flashes, and Sam suddenly found herself lying in a pool of her own blood. Her shirt was completely stained with blood from the three bullet holes in her chest, but fortunately or unfortunately, all three bullets had missed her heart, leaving her to linger on the ground in excruciating pain. She looked up, and even though her eyes were quickly losing focus from blood loss, she could see the silhouettes of the two burly men standing over her. Sam looked on helplessly as burly man one bent down and pulled out her ID.
“Is she one of those Foundation spooks tailing us?” Burly man two asked.
“Nah, just some dumb cop.” Burly man one casually tossed the ID away. “She's no use to us. Waste her.”
Lying there on the ground dying, most people would have felt fear or regret, but Sam felt something bubbling inside her, an emotion she didn't feel very often. Anger. It was so unfair, that she would die here, without knowing anything at all. If only, if only…
If only she had the power to control her fate.
There were two more shots, but there was something different about them. Sam distantly remembered that the two shots sounded more as if they had come from a high caliber sniper rifle rather than a pistol. She then realized that she was still alive and opened her eyes. Her vision was still blurry, but she could see two silhouettes standing above her, and they definitely weren't the burly men.
“Excellent marksmanship as always, Forky,” one of the silhouettes said happily. “I'd have thought you'd go the easy route and just killed them.”
“They're more valuable alive than dead,” the second silhouette replied.
“Ah, then the same can be said for this poor soul down here.” The first silhouette knelt down beside Sam, who was finding it harder and harder to keep her eyes open.
“There's nothing we can do for her. Even if we do patch her up, she'll bleed out before the paramedics arrive.”
“Who said we needed paramedics?”
Sam heard an odd clinking sound and the second silhouette gasped, “How the hell do you have SCP-427? That's a containment breach!”
“Signed it out! Duh!", the first silhouette laughed.
Sam felt a small weight on her chest, and then her vision began to clear and her pain started to subside. Surprised, she blinked and looked at her unlikely savior. It was a young man, with messy black hair and wearing a dark coat and sunglasses. Behind him, Sam caught sight of Agent Pitchfork, who appeared to be an albino woman wearing similar clothing, except toting an M40 sniper rifle.
“I hope you know what you're doing.” Agent Pitchfork scowled.
“I only kept it on long enough to make her wounds non-fatal.” The other agent grinned. “Don't feel like fighting a flesh beast today."
“Come on, let's get out of here. The police will be arriving in about forty two seconds.”
“Just a second.” Agent Pitchfork's partner knelt down beside Sam and smiled. “Oh, you're not going to die, at least not today. We've got some interesting things in mind for you.”
"Don't you mean you have interesting things in mind, Agent Spoon?" Agent Pitchfork asked suspiciously.
"Semantics." Agent Spoon shrugged.
Then, just as quickly as they appeared, both of the newcomers vanished. Sam could hear sirens in the distance, and panicked cries of onlookers who came to investigate the commotion. It was only then that Sam finally lost consciousness.
We have apprehended the Chaos Insurgency operatives and are in the process of interrogating them for information on SCP-204. However, Agent Spoon has breached protocol again, revealing our existence to a non-Foundation agent and refusing to terminate her. However, more disturbingly, Agent Spoon was in possession of SCP-427.
I suspect he may have ulterior motives. Intend to investigate further.
-Agent Pitchfork
Next: Chapter 2 |
█-██-███: While its shape shifting abilities proved to be of some interest for a time, as other shape shifting SCPs were discovered, and after study in to the extreme amount of damage it can cause to both electronic objects, as well as organic matter from the large amounts of radiation it produces, it was determined that SCP-135 was no longer of use to the Foundation. After many decades in deep storage, 135 was slated for decommissioning by unanimous consensus of all current 05s.
Dr. Iceberg, having learned of this through unknown channels, promptly requested “the rights to kill the motherfucker before Clef gets it.”
Decommissioning Day 1:
Ok, so I've noticed.
You know how Clef was beat up and shit after the fighting with Kon and 239 and stuff? But then he got back in the good spotlight after he decommed 531? Both he and Kon are both dicks, but they have nice Level 4 jobs. I do hard work, and what do I get? Level 2. Why? They destroy stuff. I can't believe I didn't see it before. To get a promotion, I simply have to decom a dangerous, worthless SCP item. And it just happens, as I was looking through files on the network, I found one. 135. A shapeshifter, destroys electronics, and produces multiple types of radiation. Something about Roswell, but please. Everyone knows how that shit really went down. Now, step one. Figure out how to kill it.
Day 2:
Nevermind, first step is getting the job. As always, high-and-mighty-killer-of-all Clef is the one being considered for it. I'll simply have to send them papers showing off my credentials. Easy enough, just need to slip in a few pages with some reports. Luckily, Kondraki just gave me some pages that will work perfectly.
Day 5:
Ok, that didn't work. Not only did I hear nothing, I actually got Gears asking me how I could mess up and get the wrong papers mixed in important reports to an 05. What the hell. Fine, let's play hardball. I'll slip in some demeaning things about Clef.
Day 6:
Odd. I still heard nothing. That, and someone shot my door with a shotgun. Bah. I didn't want to have to do this, but I guess I'll just to have ask them if I can do it.
Day 7:
Rejection. I thought it only hurt when it was women. But no. Shot down I was. Apparently because not only has the job been given to Clef, and he has accepted, but there's something about a slight “issue” I caused.
Or several.
Look, I did not know it still had fuel in it.
That one wasn't even my fault.
This one? I regret nothing.
Now, everyone thought this one was funny.
And those D-class had it fucking coming.
It seems I must take matters into my own hands. I don't have much time, but in my spare time I devised a method to destroy it. I need simply to get what I need and prepare the room. It's so simple and cheap, not to mention with so little destruction to anything else, they'll have to be impressed! Big leagues, here I come! Now, it'll take an all-nighter, so I better start. Clef could get around to this anytime.
At ███ hours SCP-135 was discovered missing.
At ███ hours its remains were found.
Video record of room ██ during ███ to ███ hours.
The room is completely empty, and seemingly has no special features beyond its metal walls. Dr. Iceberg enters the room, wearing a heavy coat, of the style used by agents working in low temperature environments or with SCPs capable of influencing temperature, a bag and an oxygen tank. Behind him in is a man later confirmed as D-██-2348. Note breach of Foundation policy.
Audio Log recorded on ██-██-████, ████:██:██
[Unrelated talking]
D-class: And what the hell are you wearing?
Dr. Iceberg: A suit. Upgrade on the technology NASA based their space suits on.
[At this point, Dr. Iceberg hooked himself up to the oxygen tank and pulled on the hood of the suit up. Several seconds later, a common handgun is thrown into the room. Object lands near D-██-2348's feet, and soon transforms into a copy of the man.]
D-class: What th-
Dr. Iceberg: Come on, Haven't seen something stranger? You've been here a month ain't ya?
D-class: Yeah, well-
Dr. Iceberg: Eh, doesn't matter. Just stay quiet and you'll be free to go in no time. Hm… push it back a couple feet. So, 135, you able to talk?
[3 minutes of silence, with 135 simply copying D-██-2348]
Dr. Iceberg: No last words then? Ah, well. Good bye you, hello promotion.
[Dr. Iceberg holds up and presses a bright blue button, at which point a small ball of ice shoots from the ceiling onto 135's “head”, and soon begins turning into a gas]
D-class: And that is?
135: [Unintelligible language]
Dr. Iceberg: A solid nitrogen snowball.
Multiple holes open up above, below, and to either side of 135 and D-██-2348, pelting both with large amounts of solid and liquid nitrogen. After █ minutes 57 seconds, this ceases. Dr. Iceberg turns and opens his bag, pulling out a “sawn-off” shotgun.
Dr. Iceberg: Man, have I ever wanted to do this.
[Dr. Iceberg aims the gun at the frozen figures, spinning the gun on its trigger before firing both loaded shots, shattering both. After checking the pieces, he walks over to the door, and attempts to open it. After initial failure, he is noted to shout.]
Dr. Iceberg: Oh damnit! Door froze….. Help! Hey, someone out there! Come on, I just need someone to open the door! |
Note: The following are sections of text recovered from the body of what is assumed to be a member of “The Church of The Broken God.” It is assumed they are part of a larger document or “Bible”, but due to the situation of its recovery, the bulk of this work has been lost. No additional copies of this “bible” have been found on any “church” members captured by The Foundation, however it is safe to assume that these books were disposed of before or during capture, to prevent them from “falling into the hands of the infidel.”
The following texts were among the personal effects of one “Amanda ██████”, a 24-year-old former college student. Records show that she had very slight involvement with SCP-███, however this interaction was deemed insignificant, precluding the need for memory alteration beyond that of the basic “plane crash” cover story. She withdrew from college several months later, and was listed as a “missing person” by her parents after three months of no contact. It is assumed that, for the next two years, she remained with the “Church”. On ███/██/██, a car filled with gasoline canisters and other incendiary devices crashed into “████████ Motors”, the public façade of Site ██. Amanda ██████ was at the wheel, and died in the resulting explosion.
Site ██ suffered no damage from the initial attack, however five Agents and the entirety of “████████ Motors” were lost in the explosion. The subsequent attack by “Church” members resulted in the total lockdown of Site ██ for eight hours, with minor security failures at the two major access points. Investigation as to how the site's location became known is ongoing.
Editor's Note: Fragments are presented in order of recovery. The original order of the documents and text is impossible to determine at this time.
…And behold, The Lord spoke unto me, in a voice both soft and terrible, but was silent to the unbeliever. The Lord spoke “Come”, and I did, and I was afraid and fell to my knees, weeping. I rose my hands, and asked “O, mighty Lord, what has become of thy body? Why have you been undone?” The Lord said unto me “Go, and restore me to glory, and I shall restore you in turn”. The voice of God spoke to my heart, and I wept at both the Glory and the Shame of The Heart of our Lord. Thus I came…
…not afraid of The Lord, for He is as we are, broken and scattered. As we restore the body of God, so we restore ourselves. To join with the Lord is good. As we give honor and worship to the Lord, so does He honor us. To serve the Lord is good. As we guard the Lord from harm, so does He…
…Holy, and do not speak of Him to The Unbeliever. To do so is to profane God. The Unbeliever trembles at the feet of The Lord, as we did in our ignorance, but will rise to shatter when we kneel to restore. To allow…
Blessed is the one who frees the Body of God from bondage, for in so doing we free our spirit from bondage. As He calls to…
…Not be consumed, as the Moth is to the Flame? Without our bodies, how will we serve the Lord?” I spoke unto him, holding to him a facet of the Spirit of God. “The Lord consumes the Wicked, and brings the Holy to him. To fear The Lord is to show the Wickedness of the heart. To be Wicked under the will of God is to delay his Resurrection. To delay His return is to join the Defilers in his eternal imprisonment.” Daniel then wept and cried out, and tore at his flesh as the Spirit of God entered him, and ate from him his evil. His Blasphemy was too great, and his wickedness too deep, and lo, The Lord did destroy all that he was, for all that he was Wicked. His rotten shell was…
…very Body of The Lord, the home from which he was driven, the hollow shell to which the Broken God must be restored for his birth, as the seed is restored to the womb, and I cried out and wept with joy as I beheld the Glory. I and the Acolytes of the Lord did go forward, and drove out the Wicked who had Imprisoned the Lord, and they did wail and weep at the retribution of God, and poured their blood in vain against the coming of God. We tore down the wall that entombed the Lord, and found his flesh to be as that of a tomb, and called out for his direction and glory. I walked in the body of the Lord, and was struck by his glory and greatness. Great is the Broken God, and greater still will be his Restoration. As we drew to the center of God, we found the remains of Him still soft and untainted, and did rejoice in it. We worshiped in the Body of The Lord, and lo, His Spirit came to us and took from us three of our number and did consume them, and the others were afraid. I spoke unto them: “Be not afraid of the Embrace of God, for He wishes only…
…is not the far off Ghost: The Lord is with Us. The Lord is not the aloof Emptiness: The Lord hears Us. The Lord is not of Anger: The Lord welcomes Us. The Lord rewards our Sacrifice: The Lord is Fair. The Lord is Broken: The Lord is as We are. The…
…of the Wicked, of the Unfaithful, of the Jailers of The Lord. To harm them is great, to bring them to the Lord is greater. Do not let trust cloud your fellowship, for the Wicked will hide among us, and harm us. Confess the Wicked to us, and bathe in the glory of…
…loss of The Heart of The Lord, an acolyte was brought before It. He heard not the voice of God, and resisted enlightenment. The Faithful brought him again and again to the Heart, but still he rebelled, and fought the Voice of God. When he did hear the Voice, his rebellion and Wickedness would not allow him to embrace God, but drove him farther still, and lo, he came to injure and harm the Faithful. So it came to pass that he was given unto The Lord, and His Heart did accept him readily. Still he resisted, and did not pass in Glory, but with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and his blood defiled the ground with his Wickedness. This is the nature of God: To resist Him is death, but to join Him is Life Everlasting. As is The Lord, so shall we be: To resist us is death, but to join will bring Life Everlasting. In this…
…is the Lord! Great is His Power, and wide is His Will! Praise be to all who care for The Lord in His exile, for they do the will of God! Though we may suffer in our Faith, God hears and cares for us, and drives…
…came to me weeping, and begged of me, "What shall be done? My son is dead!" I went with her to her home, and found her son lying in bed, and it seemed his deathbed, for no sound came from his lips, nor movement from his breast. As I knelt next to him, I felt The Lord God well up inside me, and saw that his body was not broken, but had become changed. "Come and give praise!" I shouted to her, "For your son has passed from this place of trials, and joined with The Lord!" Trembling she came, and fell to her knees and praised The Lord with loud voice. Her son rose, and the flesh of his body fell away to show its perfect union with…
…time when he left the People of God, and went forth to the Unbelievers. There he profaned the Name of God, and did try to turn their cruelty against us. Great is the Will of God, and far is His reach, for he did turn even the Unbeliever against him, and he was imprisoned as he wished to imprison The Lord. There he was found, and there he was shown the cost of his betrayal, for the People of God did go forth and take him from there, and did dash his head against the stone, and left his Corrupted and Traitorous shell to rot outside the body of God.
Lo, behold and tremble, for this is the least terrible fate of the Betrayer. To betray The Lord is to bring wrath of both the People and the Body of God, and both will exact…
[ADDITIONAL FRAGMENTS WAITING RESTORATION] |
I look into the metallic reflection of myself in the elevator door. I see it every day. Or just about, since sometimes work keeps me on base for days on end. Smooth polished steel. You can see your reflection in it, with the bright white glow of the single light above me. In front of me, the door and the two buttons. Up. Down. This one only leads to two spots. To my left, a side of the elevator. To my right, Doctor MacCarrick.
He was one of the new guys, but somehow, he'd just gotten a research assistantship working with Oh-Three-Five. A nasty little bugger, from the file I read. I had fifty bucks saying he didn't last the week. Sort of sick, I know, but we bet on odd things down here.
I give my cheeks a soft slap to get some color in them and wake myself up, then notice MacCarrick staring at me in the reflection in the metal.
"…Yes, MacCarrick?"
"Nothing, Dr. Iceberg."
"Just Ice," I said. I kept hoping it would catch on, but it never did. He didn't get a chance to respond before the elevator door opens, and we were herded out by the security staff on hand. I was motioned out into a short hall, nodding briefly to MacCarrick as he went in the opposite direction. I regretted it, but it was already too late.
The trip down seemed longer than usual, but it might have just been the company. Don't get close to people you've got money on. Never ends well.
We already passed clearance up top side, so a lot of the hustle and bustle down here was just for show. In spite of that, I knew full well that the security cameras were hidden, watching, and checking us. Facial structure scans, retinal analysis, or anything that seemed off. One thing wrong, and a security team would be in the room in seconds to deal with things. I've seen it happen. Not to me, thankfully, but still. They're efficient. Very, very efficient. And the Insurgency had yet to master plastic surgery, it seemed.
As I walked forward, I eyed the rather nice reception desk. I wasn't sure who it was actually there for, since we didn't take visitors, but I assumed that all sites had one. Tradition, maybe? Or a leftover from another time. Sitting behind it, typing away at her keyboard, was Break.
Her codename never made sense to me. I just don't see it. Breaking intruders upon the rocks? Breaking fingers? I dunno. But then, you have other people whose callsigns didn't make sense either. Djoric? What was up with that? Or Bright? Whatever. Not like it mattered. What did matter, though, was…
"Hello there, Break." I put on my charming smile. Set my briefcase down. Lean onto her desk.
She sighs before responding, eyes not straying from her computer. "Hello, Dr. Iceberg."
"And how are you today, lovely?"
"Good. Must you do this?"
"Do what, Breaky?" I use my pet name for her. She loves that.
"Don't call me that."
"Oh, come on. I know you love it." She loved it. "I was wondering if you might be doing anything this week. Like, say, Friday?"
"No."
“Oh really, now," I started. "Then maybe we cou—"
"No," she said. "I was answering your next question first. No, I'm not going out with you. I'm going to be washing my hair from now until eternity, Berg."
Ugh. I hated it when she called me Berg.
She turned her face from the screen at last, looking up at me with a blank expression that I knew belied her true affections.
"Go to work."
"Okay, okay, fine, fine… Maybe next week, then." My smiled slipped from charming to nervous, and I picked up my suitcase and headed down the administrative hallway toward the east wing.
I wasn't sure if she knew she was in ear shot when I heard her mumbled "Not likely." But I knew this all too well. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if I may be as bad with women as Clef. Then I just tell myself that even I'm not that bad. I hope. I wonder if maybe the issue lay with her, but I decided that she'd warm up to me sooner or later.
My office was placed fairly deep in the bedrock. Well, less that and more they gave me one back here. Considering how much time I'm stuck back here from week to week, it was no wonder I thought of it as home more so than the apartment at the nearby living facilities. The nice thing is that I'm still in walking distance to the break room, and since it's Monday, a break seems like a good way to get things started.
I head out down the shockingly clean hallways. I'm always surprised by how nicely kept they are, especially since I never see a cleaning crew. They must be here at odd hours. Maybe a secret fleet of Roombas.
I pass by researchers, of course. There's a ton of us down here. Some, I know; others, I don't. The lucky ones have been here for a while. The unlucky ones? They're fifty dollars. Yeah, yeah. I'm sick. But the guy who runs the betting is the same guy who comes up with the cover stories for their families. Hah! He pockets ten percent, then tells them how a crane fell or a beam collapsed or something. They never hear about how someone was dissolved or unexisted or some shit. Its hard, though, coming up with excuses when there's no body. You gotta respect the man.
I head down the corridor past the Level One and Two offices. Shiny nameplates hanging on the doors with nice, generic names. The lucky kids who only know about the Safes or maybe a Euclid. Must be nice. Past that, I take a left past the minimum security wing. Some safe class skips. Dozens of guards, but they all know me. And they know if I made it in, that I'm cleared. No one pays me attention except the new guys, who stiffen when I walk by. They'll get over that, eventually. Or maybe they won't. The ones that don't live the longest.
And… break room. Finally. I pick up the scent of muffins, then the sound of her voice—in that order. She might have brought the muffins for everyone, if I was lucky, but chances were…
I rounded the corner, and there she sat. Agatha Rights. Doctor Agatha Rights, I had to remember. Five foot four, built to adore, knockout and snore. Damn. And she was eating the last muffin from a plate. Damnit. So, no treat. Maybe I can get something else.
"Well, well, well. Hello, Rights." Charming smile again. Let's roll.
She turns around and smiles. A happy grin, as usual. An oddity down here. Somehow, she managed to avoid the really horrible stuff. Likely to keep from causing a problem. I mean, not that's she's terrible at things, she's just… motherly with the staff.
"Hey, Berg! Want a muffin?" I hated how fast that one seemed to be spreading.
"That isn't the last one?"
She looked at the muffin. Then the plate. Then me.
"…Maybe."
"No thanks. But make some cookies, and you know I'll take some." I smiled a bit more.
"Oh, fine." She placed the empty tray on the counter. She'd bring them in tomorrow.
"So… got any terrible paperwork buildup you need taken care of?" Might be nice to help her work through things. Give me a few nice hours before I had to drudge through my own.
"Oh, not right now, sweetie. I can handle some things. Besides, the administration has threatened to reassign me to one-thirty if they don't actually see me write a report on my own, for once. Puts a small damper on my plans."
"Ah, well. Too bad. Well, you know where my office is if you change your mind."
"Oh, trust me, I do…" She smiled. "And just out of curiosity, if I make cookies, what kind do you want?"
Score.
"Double chocolate chip. It's my favorite."
She grinned. "Good, mine too."
"See you later, sweetie pie."
She waved goodbye, and I headed to the coffee pot. I'd hate to see her go, but I'm still not entirely sure why she's still a researcher here. I guess because people like her, or she would have been terminated a while ago. Maybe they keep a few people with tender hearts around to keep the rest of us sane. Maybe.
It's a short walk back to my office, and I spend most of it drinking my coffee from a styrofoam cup. I got out my keycard, then noticed the nameplate on the door. Someone had covered up the 'Ice' in my name. I sighed, trying to wipe it off with my sleeve, but it didn't budge. I'd have to submit a work request, and when it wasn't vital… They'd get to it 'sooner or later.'
There was a large stack of files next to the door. Another round of paperwork to slough through. Everyday. Well, at least it was relatively safe down here. Unless my inbox had become anomalous.
I sat down at my computer, shaking the mouse to wake it up, then checking my email. Only two alerts, one last night, and one… Hell, fifteen minutes ago? I checked it, and felt a sudden creeping sensation lurching up my neck when I saw the number. 035. And the list of deceased included two Class-D's and…
"Yes!"
The rush of elation at reading MacCarrick's name was immediately dampened by a sudden twisting in my gut. Fuck. The nod had been too much, I guessed… I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment, then turned and grabbed the top file off the stack, opening it and proceeding to enter the data.
Maybe Rights would bring the cookies tomorrow. |
ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts
Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
Depiction of torture
{$custom-content}
If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.
Continue
Back to Front Page
« prev |{$current}| next »
1985
Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly ungrateful, Doctor Glut wondered why his younger, redheaded wife had married him, and theorized that it might be because of some kind of father complex, troubled past, or undiscovered psychological issues. Today, however, he was simply trying to enjoy her loving stare, and attempted to push all confidence issues (that's what he thought was probably the real problem, a lack of self-esteem that made it hard to believe that anyone as gorgeous and intelligent as she would want to be with a slob like him) and just enjoy the dinner. The kindness emanating from Antoinette was directly counterbalanced by the sullen heat baking off his glaring son, a tiny Asian adopted boy glaring through a lock of black hair, which was why he was not all together saddened when his buzzer began beeping.
"I'm sorry Antoinette, it's a wonderful meal, but I have to go. Business at the base."
"Okay, but try to be back as early as possible," she said coyly and winked, and the boy made a rude gagging sound. He was furious at his son, who for the last couple years he become resentful for almost completely unexplainable reasons, but still a small smile played across his lips; yes, at least for tonight, he thought he could stop worrying about what he had done to deserve her.
"So what do we have here?"
"Some kind of creature resembling, according to the eyewitness reports, a 'lizard hog with gigantic horns' was rampaging through the building, breaking through each room, really knocking down the walls themselves with its head."
"I see," said Doctor Glut, not really listening. The event itself wasn't his line of work.
They both walked quickly and surely through the motel, which was divided into smaller sections by hanging plastic sheets. Doctor Glut was a man in his fifties, with greasy black hair streaked with gray, and a lab coat that hung over his potbelly. As they moved towards the person he was supposed to deal with, Doctor Glut pulled on an extremely thick black leather glove that went up to his right elbow.
He shoved aside the curtain and stepped into a tiny area framed by similar tarps. A light on a stand glared brightly at the man tied to a chair. Doctor Glut crouched and looked him in the eyes.
"What did you see?"
"Some kind of monster. Look, it bit a guys legs off," he whispered empathetically, looking fearful and asking for sympathy from the Doctor through his eyes. Doctor Glut shook his head slightly, little more than a twitch, and then briskly moved to one of the tarps, holding it aside.
"What's behind this one?"
One of the soldiers, dressed in black and wearing a gas mask, replied, "Well, when the site received structure damage, several walls separating rooms were knocked down. That hole leads into a bathroom."
Doctor Glut grabbed the man, cut the ropes, and pulled him out of the chair, dragging him away.
"Sir, this is your work area. You're not supposed to leave it. We're really short on space."
Doctor Glut disregarded him and turned sideways, working his way into the bathroom. Forcing the man to kneel, he plunged his face into the toilet with his leather-clad right arm. The man struggled, but Doctor Glut continued to force his head down as he gurgled, and choked, and struggled, flailing madly, drinking in the dirty water and screaming whenever his mouth left the surface for a few seconds. Doctor Glut pushed his hardest, holding him steadily under for a good amount of time, and then wrenched him out, the man's wet hair flinging around his terrified face.
"No, you saw nothing."
The sensory deprivation chamber was completely dark. It seemed to be a very large area, narrow but with a high ceiling like a chapel or tower, because when the door opened, a long thin crack of bright golden light appeared in front of the man. There was the sound of a scraping chair, and then the room became completely illuminated.
"Hello, Jason," said Doctor Glut, staring intently at the man in front of him.
The man, amazingly, smiled and piped up, almost perkily, "So you guys are like the men in black or something? And now you're just going to delete my memories! I knew you guys and all that stuff was real. That's why I was watching the sky when it flashed on by."
His stubbly face was actually grinning with awe, his fringe beliefs validated. "Even though I won't recall any of this, it's still cool that I experienced it. So how are you going to do it? Like a flash of light or an injection or something?"
"I'm afraid not, Jason."
Jason Strobixzek began to scream.
There was the sound of bone hitting meat, thrashing, and someone yelling out and falling to the ground. The door opened and Doctor Glut walked out, massaging his hand, and adjusting the large ring with a sharp gaudy gemstone speckled with blood and pieces of a man's lips on it.
"What is William Gun's cover story that the guys created?"
"He slipped and fell into a lake," said a specialist standing near by and watching the beating, "And almost drowned. All he is to remember is thrashing and bobbling up and down. Nothing about the tentacles…or the… mud creatures."
"Ah, well, I think you're going to have to modify it a little bit so he was thrown into the lake, Benjamin. Like a group of kids… beat him up or something…", he said, trailing off and crackling his knuckles nastily.
One of the guards said, "Administering a Class A Amnestic, Doc?"
"Yeah, that's right." he said ruefully.
"So what, it's all a lie?" asked Doctor Qalet, as they walked down the hallway to their prospective jobs.
"Look, no one knows everything. You probably have a secret about the Foundation's inner workings that I don't have, and I know stuff that would make your toes curl. It's just, no one can possess too much information. For their own safety. So we create these half-truths, to make things sound gentler, more humane. So people have pieces of the troubling stuff we do, but never the whole picture. They don't have to get their hands too dirty or feel too guilty. We divide the… the sin… amongst ourselves."
"I take it the injections are one of these 'half-truths.'"
"Yes, the mind… The mind is much more complicated then that. A simple syringe isn't the perfect solution. Okay, most of the amnestics in our possession can muddle the ability to form new memories and block out some of the more recent ones, true, so sometimes they're useful, but ninety percent of SCP-civilian contact is over a long-term time period. That's a fact. They don't just bump into them and then go about their merry way. We can deal with that type easily. But some objects become ingrained. Lives are changed by them, communities form around them, beliefs are created. How would a simple chemical choose which of these memories in a long chain of them to block? It's much too intricate and convoluted. So what we do is we sit down with them. Talk to them. And then we brainwash them…
"Gulag style… Okay? We don't have the wonder drug. It's a myth to make scientists sleep better at night. So they can write it up in their reports, a shorthand term for a very long and arduous process. So they can order the torture and desecration of civilians without knowing that's exactly what they're doing. Just another part that's hidden, secret."
"What exactly is a Class A Amnestic, then?"
"Class B and C are good for recent memories. Some times it can go without a hassle. But Class A… Class A does absolutely nothing. It's a mild sedative, Muhammad. That's all. A mild sedative that the scientists give them, that calms the people down. Its looks like they're forgetting, or emptied out, but they're just stoned for a couple seconds. But it makes the scientists feel better and they think that the civilians will get to continue their normal everyday lives soon. That it's all over for them. So they send them to us, thinking its just the tying up of a few loose ends, some paperwork to get written down, some orders to be looked over, finalized, and approved, not the beginning of the real process. But that's what it is. The start. Not the end, because its not just a one day thing, in and out. Sometimes they stay with us for months, years… The researchers and level four personnel think they're sending them to the exit, to be checked over, but really, we take them somewhere else… for a very long time."
Muhammad Qalet was very quiet for the rest of the way down the hallway. They stopped by a thick metal door. "Well here's my office… I have some business to do now." He cast his eyes down, and then looked up. "I hope I haven't unnerved you too much… But you wanted to know. And I think you need to understand… It's just, we don't have the technology yet. When you analyze the problem, everything is so primitive in reality. Nothing's as advanced as we think it is. Consider a rocket ship. Sounds so futuristic, doesn't it? But it's just a metal tube with a silly ancient explosion that's been around for hundreds of years coming out of the bottom. Nothing special. Just like our methods. Not impressive at all. Not some highly ingenious pill or liquid… just a well aimed strike with a hammer to the forehead. "
With that he threw the hatch open and entered. His office was a small, dank, modern-day dungeon. An emaciated man was chained to the wall. "Well hello there, Mr. Kynosiky! Have you come to the conclusion I arrived at yesterday? That you're insane? And imagined the whole thing?"
The starving bag of bones whispered, "It's all very fuzzy."
"Well, that's a start! Come stand up. Get up, get up! We have some exercises to do."
Doctor Qalet stared in horror and fought back the powerful urge to cry out in dismay. He fled the scene quickly, attempting to push it out of his consciousness. He succeeded, because sometimes you don't need strange scary men in black to wipe out memories with fire and heat and whips and mind games… Sometimes all that is necessary is a convenient lie or an overwhelming guilt complex that can't be solved.
Sometimes forgetting is very easy.
Doctor Glut produced a well-used handkerchief and wiped at her face. It was well-used, because frequently in his line of work he had to clean off spittle running down people's chins. A lot of his treatments tended to create drooling.
He poked with the thin needle, which had a current of electricity running from the boxy machine down the wires attached.
"Cindy, you moved into the city when you were 22 years old. When you arrived you found a job as a cashier at a small grocery store."
The women mumbled her agreeance groggily. "That's right, isn't it. Now it says here you want to eventually make your way to California." He poked her again. She twitched slightly. "Well guess what, that's exactly what your goal is. You're saving up money to become an actress! You'll probably have enough soon too." He picked up another pin and poked two at once. There was a crackling sound and a little bit of blood exploded on his face. "Dammit, turn down the voltage, Jim." The man fiddled with a few dials and buttons, then picked up a large syringe with an extremely thick needle. "Inject her in the left cortex." Jim didn't have to pierce bone, skin, drill a tiny hole, or go through her nose or back of the neck into the spine, because the top of Cindy's head had been sawed off and removed. Doctor Glut lifted up the electric pin again and poked at her slightly burnt frontal lobe.
"The only thing is… You can never visit your family again, Cindy. You got in a very big fight with them, okay?"
Doctor Glut walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the fresh breeze, staring down at his boots and the cracks they moved over. He only barely noticed the bicyclist speeding his way, and threw himself to the side. The bicyclist, apparently distracted by something, skidded, and tipped over, moving a couple knee scratching, skin grinding feet before coming to a stop. "Are you all right?" Doctor Glut asked, but the man avoided his extended hand, and got up slowly, not looking in Glut's eyes, like he was in a daze. He got on his bike silently and sped away.
To Ryan Glut he looked strangely familiar.
Doctor Glut entered the room to check up on Jason, to see how the process was working. The man's eyes spun madly in their sockets, he clawed at phantoms in the air, and screamed about incoherent colors. "Well then, the mixture of LSD and other hallucinogens seem to be working fabulously," said the brainwasher to his colleague. "It all fits together… Crazy guy living alone, believes in conspiracies, grows a little marijuana in his basement, wears tie die shirts… And then, one day, he overdoses on drugs and runs through town screaming about a gigantic plane covered with feathers in the sky. What else are people going to think?"
"Can we purge his system then?"
"No… other people may not believe him but that's not good enough. By the time we're done with him he wouldn't believe himself."
"Sir?"
"Because he can't, he wouldn't be able to. We'll have destroyed his mind. You know, when we're finished. When we're done, even without the acid in his system, he'll do nothing but gibble and garble. It's truly going to be one bad trip…"
…
"Increase the dosage."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes… positive. Drop it in liquid form directly into his eyes. And for god sakes make sure the restraints are tight. Jessica still has claw marks on her cheeks. And when you're finished…."
He peeked halfway out of the door. "Strip him down and put him in the woods near his hometown."
"Would you like anything?" the girl at the register said as she scanned the last object, a carton of eggs, and began blowing a bright pink bubble of gum. "No, that will be all, thank you." He looked up from his wallet and handed her his card. The desert town was partially structured around the military base, so Foundation credit got him a discount here. "Wait… You remind me of someone. Have we met before?" he asked, smiling, casual. Her response was odd: she averted her gaze and looked away. "No," she said, almost whimpering. "Are you sure…? I mean I'm just struck by the most powerful sense of deja vu…" He trailed off. She still didn't change her odd behavior. "Okay," He picked up the two brown paper bags. "Well, I just thought… You know, maybe you have a sister or something?" he said awkwardly, and then left without waiting for her to answer the question.
The rest of the day he was very troubled.
"Why did this happen to me?"
"I don't know. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Sometime the world gets a little weird for no reason. People occasionally… just fall through the cracks of reality, of society, and strange things happen for no reason… It can't be helped."
He allowed himself a moment of weakness and patted the man on the arm. "Can… you hold my hand…" the man said with tears in his eyes, "While you guys do whatever you're going to do. Or just talk to me. And have a conversation."
Doctor Glut blinked. "I'm scared," the man said.
"No… I can't… We can't talk."
"Why?"
"You'll bite your tongue off," he said and then leaned forward and put the block of wood between the man's teeth.
All the faces were a blur, all causing the same sense of deja vu. They all danced with memories just behind his recollection. And he swore they all had the same shadow of recognition behind their vacant dead eyes. Speaking of which…when had people become so zombie-like lately? Had he missed something? Now it seemed everyone around him was staring off into space, walking and jerking like automatons, or speaking in emotionless monotones. Going about the motions. Not living life… Or was he just being critical? Was there something wrong with the economy, something that caused a lot of stress or worry or something? He worked in the government sector… So… He truly realized just how isolated he was from popular culture. There could be some phenomenon that just recently starting affecting these people, but he wouldn't know. It would never affect him. He looked around on the small downtown street and saw only blank expressionless masks. That still caused something to go off in his brain.
A man walked in front of Ryan on accident. They struggled foolishly, he would go one way, and so would Glut. Back and forth, both trying to get by, Doctor Glut with a silly grin on his face. When they finally worked it out, (Glut had to lightly put his hands on the man's shoulders) Glut's smile at the absurdity of it faded… The man had almost been in tears.
Regaski's teacher had called him in; the boy was misbehaving in class, acting up, getting in fights, and not doing his homework. The teacher, an intelligent, slim-looking black man, seemed disconnected through the whole interview, and finally ushered him out of his office without anything really being solved.
He noticed a lot of people made mistakes around him. Little slips in grammar or syntax… Almost as if they were nervous. Some even subconsciously slipped into old accents or languages.
He was almost sure he had spent a lot of time with this one sexy looking number in a jogging suit, running down the trail. He stopped her and she looked ready to bolt, her entire body stiff and erect. He asked if they went to high school or grew up in the same town or maybe even if she was a maintenance worker at the base or something. She chatted pleasantly but in a detached and halting manner with him as long as he wanted… But he got nothing… And when she left he had noticed a few drops of blood on the ground. She had been clenching his hands together so tightly she had punctured the skin with her long painted nails.
25 years earlier
A much younger Doctor Glut, with longer pure black hair and a slightly oily face, with a splash of remaining acne held his hand gently to the pretty girl's chin, feeling her smooth pale skin and forcing her to look at him. She had green eyes and straight strawberry blond hair, and was like a skittish little animal. His eyes moved over her childish body somewhat lecherously. There was something horribly perverse about the scene.
Her eyes were solemn.
"Just repeat after me and everything will be fine."
A contraption was drilled on his head, a miniature portable MRI, that swirled and beeped around his skull. Doctor Glut glanced at the screen showing the brain illuminated with different colors.
"Now, Chris, pick up the phone." Speaking through a microphone.
Chris slowly picked up the phone and said in a drugged voice, "Hello?"
An insanely happy tone came out of the other end and said, "Mr. Black, you've been hired. You'll need to pack up your bags and move immediately. We have a great future ahead of you."
"Okay."
A part of the brain turned bright red. Glut pushed the button, and the machine began to spin faster and then zapped it.
Extract from the The Handbook of Black Ops Mental Conditioning 1992 Second Edition, Written in Part by Doctor Glut, Doctor Synclaire, and Doctor Smithchrist
Much like in psychology, when a patient can develop strong displaced feeling for his counselor, a civilian can achieve a strong bond as well, in a much shorter time, due to the fact that we control their food, water, and interaction. As an infant is dependent on its mother, the patient is dependent on us. The shattering of the ego and the complete mastery over all their necessities sometimes means that the new personality can form around the brainwasher. Often in this view, the conditioned will hold the manager of the procedure in awe, and subconsciously elevate them to a godlike level. Now this can take the form of extreme sexual attraction, grudging respect that turns into worship, and even a puppy like cringing and urge to please, which is of course initially faked but becomes real over time. Of course, such sentiments can also go in the opposite direction….
"Thanks for the paper, Jase."
"Hey no problem Mr. Glut!" said the retarded man, grinning stupidly like a dog at the compliment. Jason had been delivering papers for years and on this fine day when Ryan mowed his lawn and his neighbor, the gaunt Mr. Kynosiky chattered amiably but distractedly as he hosed his flowers, Ryan felt he deserved to have it mentioned. Deserved his loyalty to be remarked upon.
Suddenly, a cold chill shot down his spine. It wasn't the fine mist of the hose that Mr. Kynosiky had accidentally aimed his way (god couldn't that man focus a little, he never seemed to have his head on straight) or the sudden gust of wind that made a couple of the papers in Jason's bag rustle away (he didn't bother chasing after them; the boy was really simple, he would have had a hell of time running after one little sheet and probably get hit by a truck, so why bother) but the thought that hit him in an instant. "Oh god, not him too."
Ryan felt very dizzy and went inside. That night he loaded his revolver, although he didn't quite know why.
When there was a crashing sound downstairs around 4:00 a.m, Glut jumped up immediately and grabbed the gun from under his pillow. He was ready for this; he wanted something. Something to rage at, something visible and tangible to fight, not this vague sense of creeping unease he had been dealing with. He ran downstairs, spinning the chamber aggressively, flicked the light, and exploded vengefully on his dew-wet lawn. It was only kids, and he lowered his gun disappointedly. He didn't even bother to shout them away.
Three of them sprinted away, some laughing mischievously, some frightened out of their wits and afraid that they were going to go to jail forever for throwing a rock through his window, but one collapsed to the ground at the sight of him, framed in the porch glow, and began twitching, having a seizure. Glut shoved the pistol inside his pajama pants waistline and ran towards the boy. The little child was frothing at his mouth and his limbs were jerking spasmodically. Glut ran with him inside and laid him on a counter, the tiny body bouncing up and down dangerously. He reached to call an ambulance, and then it echoed in his mind:
"If you ever think about what happened on September 15 again, you will fall to the ground. You will jerk and twitch. You will die. It hurts so much. It pains you to remember."
The urge to to reach the hospital was gone. Instead he called Line 5.
Doctor Glut meandered without reason in the center of the small shopping mall, bored and looking for something to do to pass the time while he was on leave. If a workaholic felt purpose and fulfillment only at his normal job, and was considered slightly disturbed or wrong because of this, what would that make him; he who was workaholic at an abnormal job, who only found fulfillment while operating racks and damaging minds. A sadist? Would he seem a complete monster in comparison? Or was it all the same, a driven man was a driven man regardless of his job; the difference in work had absolutely no bearing on the final viewpoint and judgment of him, at least in that respect. Everyone had to do something after all. Glut thought about this philosophical question as he browsed halfheartedly for a gift for his wife. He really had nothing better to think about… And maybe because of this lack of turbulence or occupying problem on his mind, maybe because of the relative dullness of the environment he was in, or maybe just because enough time had passed for it to click, he saw it. The pieces of the puzzle came together. And it drove him mad.
"No," he whispered, realizing the terrible and unexplainable pattern.
The man over there trying on coats; he had only to restrict food and keep him in solitary confinement before he developed Stockholm Syndrome and became easily pliable. The old lady by the decrepit mini-golf course, he had to break almost every bone in her body. She was a stubborn bitch, refusing to give up her beliefs. The younger chap down by the food court had been so disturbed when Glut walked in, showed him the report that proved what he saw was true, agreed with his story, and then shoved it in a small slot and burned it. It bothered Glut too, that control of what was real or not. He had got it from 1984 and instilled the mechanism that next day after reading it. It was one of his most effective techniques. The hunched broken looking lady with stringy hair… oh god… He had destroyed her slowly, formerly a proud sensual older woman, with insults and tricks and false compliments. Everyone in the mall, at one point in his life, was someone he had brainwashed. Oh god. Oh god! Everyone in the entire town too?! Could it be possible? He thought so… After all, he was a man at the top of his profession… He must have worked on thousands. More than enough to fill a small town in the middle of nowhere. Day in and day out, laboring endlessly. And no wonder he didn't realize it right away, with so many successes how could he remember each face? They trickled in anyways, one by one, blending in… It didn't spring on him all at once.
He was now running, frantically, wildly, towards the entrance of the store. He burst out and tripped over a curb, falling to the ground, splayed out and moaning. They gathered around him but no one helped. He realized now why he could never connect with anyone, why he had no friends. They weren't really there, the people around him. He had shattered them. They were missing something, and he was the one who had stolen it.
"No!" He gurgled and jumped up, sprinting to god-knows-where, just trying to outrun the thoughts that he knew deep down were true. But why? He asked in a shrieking voice. Why was this happening to him?! Some conspiracy, he thought, paranoia overwhelming him. The Foundation was trying to break him down, shun him out of his own department that he had helped create years ago. It was a power play, a gambit. But, no, that wasn't it. Impossible. It was too risky. Alter every single file so their cover stories all have them moving to his home town? Someone would notice that big of a change. And too dangerous. Their conditioning could break down. It was certainly already failing. The weird looks he got. The flashbacks he saw going on like movies behind their brows. The boy, oh god the boy. No, the Foundation wouldn't risk the possibility of having secrets escape, come to light, just to destroy him.
It was some cosmic joke, he decided, madly, uncomprehending and fully understanding at the same time, realizing the basic inexplicability of it all and giving in. Random occurrence that happens from time to time. Bad luck my friend. Maybe there was some karma involved, some punishment, retribution for his years of darkness, an ironic hell, but he thought, as much as he could think at that point, that it was just some scrapping away of reason and cause and effect and the chaos that was the true world had seeped in, fucking up his life for absolutely no reason. It came back to him: "Sometimes people just fall through the cracks of reality," he had said.
And that's what he was sure had happened to him; the sane world just left him behind for no clear logical reason.
The car screeched and hit him, sending him flying. He caught the eye of the driver - his body was probably still trying to deal with the massive amounts of hormones he had put in his bloodstream, and his arm looked bent and knobbly, had he broken it, he couldn't recall… And he saw it. He knew him. His pasty teenage face curdled in shock.
He knew him.
"He sees me!" Glut screamed in his head incoherently and began crawling, twisted leg behind him, snot and blood and tears running down his face. He finally realized where he was going. His home. His gorgeous, happy, peaceful tiny little home, with the kitchen where he and his wife read together and played games, the quiet study, seemingly entirely composed out of dark, supple, delicious-smelling leather, where dust became motes of light incarnate, the basketball court where he tried and tried again, a labor of love, to earn that suspicious boy's trust, the bedroom where he learned to be proud of his body as his aroused wife sprayed herself across him, erasing years of embarrassment and shame in one glorious moment, all the little niches and crannies, each one with an equal amount of comfort, safety and softness everywhere.
He just wanted to go home.
But there was a darker purpose as well. He had to see. He had to see if the last refuge, the sacred, had been infiltrated and sullied by the encroaching insanity. He stumbled through the door and collapsed onto the ground. His wife screamed and ran towards him, kneeling down and putting her arms around him frantically, asking in a panic, "Whats wrong, Ryan?! Jesus! Ryan!" Her voice was high and wavery.
He turned his head away and buried it in her thick red locks, sobbing like a small child. He pushed his face further into the sweet smelling hair and clutched at her body in comfort.
"Please let this at least be pure. Let it be true. True love. I have… I have nothing else. If this is all an illusion, this marriage, this relationship, I will have nothing left."
Nothing came to him for a moment, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. But then it came back. Sure it took him a little longer… she was his first after all, but eventually it resurfaced.
It came back and he was lost. Of course she loved him! How could she not? He was an imposing figure in her mind, an authoritative father god in the background of her every thought. He was terrible and majestic. No wonder she was always so amorous and horny around him. No wonder she always agreed with him and took his word as law. He wasn't a human to her, he was an archetype! He had mastered her as a child… Reduced her… Diminished this brilliant, gorgeous human who could have done something for the world. Destroyed her. She had left college for him, studying to be a lawyer, the moment they bumped into each other. Like she had been waiting for him her whole life. And she had… He had came to her, all-knowing as a little girl, and thirty years later he had reaped what he had sown.
He bit a piece of his tongue off when he shouted in dismay. He pushed her away in disgust, but at himself or her he did not know. He staggered drunkenly, eyes huge and bloodshot, froth like a mad dog running down his face as he mumbled and screamed at himself, and he groped at his last chance for salvation. Or was he just uncovering the final revelation as soon as possible to make the destruction of his mind faster? Either way he had to know, empty cold curiosity overwhelmed him. He opened the safe and took out his son's adoption records. He had to know if he had raped his own child.
Glut, wearing an open throat shirt that flapped around him gently and a hat, stared into the rice fields as the ship glided across the top of the river. The long wooden vessel stopped rowing near a patch of mud and Glut got out, walking between reeds in the exotic locale. The agent nodded at him respectfully and said, "I'm glad you could come."
"It's not a problem. I was in the neighborhood. What seems to be the situation?"
"Over here."
They walked for a little bit through the tiny village and the agent said, "A bunch of schoolchildren. In that school house over there. They saw something they weren't suppose to. For the last couple weeks, their teacher has been showing them… Well… They call it magic."
A scientist with goggles and a charred sleeve on his lab coat standing by a totem in the town square walked up to them. "Why can't we just use a Class A Amnestic? I know we don't have any on us, but why did you cancel my order for a boxful to be delivered here, Kramar?"
"Amnestics are notoriously unreliable," Agent Kramar said, sharing a private smirk with Doctor Glut.
Doctor Glut attempted a more diplomatic approach, and rested his hand on the man's arm. "It's unsafe to use Class A Amnestics on children. Too large an amount is needed. It could be deadly. So alternative methods are required." He said all this in a perfectly calm and reasonable voice.
"So what are you going to do then?"
"Don't worry Hans, he's an expert."
The researcher looked confused. "Like what? He's a SCP that's working for us or something? Does he have powers… Or hypnosis eyes…" He trailed off as they both left him behind.
"I hope this is all ethical!" Hans said, calling after them.
"Goddammit," whispered the agent in a sneering voice, "now because of him we're going to need to find a soundproof room."
"She was a witch. And she could conjure fireballs. And juggle them. It was amazing," said the boy, a shaven head rascal who looked like a miniature monk in his robes, unaware anything was wrong.
"Now, little one… Children… Children have active imaginations. You fantasize about things. You're notoriously unreliable. You can't trust yourself, okay. You have to only believe in what I say."
"I know what I saw, I say-"
Glut slapped him across the face. "Who's the adult here? Children are stupid! Children are silly. You are a baby. You make up games and they become too real and then you start believing in them. You were playing and it got out of hand. Don't trust yourself. Never trust your own mind. Question your thoughts, because they're always wrong! You're always wrong!"
It had begun.
When he came to from the blackout, his worried and frightened wife holding onto him tightly, cradling up his torso as he laid sprawled on the tiles, he was still laughing. A few seconds later he realized he couldn't stop. |
Special Containment Center 23 Terminal
Welcome, please enter user ID.
>ethaum
Please enter password.
>
Password Accepted.
.
.
.
Loading.
.
.
.
Clearance validated.
.
.
.
Welcome, Commander Thaum. Please enter an action.
>SCP #176
Number recognized. Loading.
.
.
.
Item: SCP, #176.
.
.
.
Approximate image of object loading.
.
.
.
Loaded.
.
.
.
Special containment procedures: Item #176 is classified as a Keter-level object. Statue is contained in lead room #2, following protocol regarding Keter-level objects.
WARNING: PRIMARY PERSONNEL ARE NOT ALLOWED TO INTERACT WITH STAFF DESIGNATED TO MONITOR KETER-LEVEL OBJECTS.
Object was located in desert outside Bolson de Mapimi, 1970. Class A recovery was approved and carried out. Suppressed local exchange of relevant information. For a full stat
>N
Item #176's physical makeup cannot be ascertained, any contact by educated personnel is forbidden by protocol. Object stationary. Reports of emitting a slight hum. Object produces an unknown energy wavelength that must be discharged once per day. Discharging is handled by CLASS D REPRESENTATIVES ONLY.
>P
>search Class D
Loading
.
.
.
SCP Protocol: Class D Personnel
.
.
.
Loaded
.
.
.
Class D personnel are designated staff used to handle the Keter-level objects. Class D staff are sequestered on the Keter floor, bottom basement.
WARNING: CLASS D PERSONNEL ARE NOT ALLOWED TO INTERACT WITH CLASS D PERSONNEL ASSIGNED TO A DIFFERENT OBJECT OR SCP PERSONNEL.
Class D personnel are recruited from prison inmates. Condemned persons are preferred, in times of duress, Protocol 12 can be authorized, allowing recruitment of innocents or persons incarcerated for lesser crimes.
All Class D personnel must be terminated at the first of the month, and a new staff must be ready to replace them. After placement in quarters, staff must only contact Class D personnel through intercom system.
All personnel involved with Class D will be given a minimum of one (1) polygraph tests at 1800 on a daily basis. Failure to comply will result in termination. Failure to pass test will result in termination.
In event of any abnormalities, termination of entire Class D personnel is advised, as well as any SCP personnel that has had basic interaction.
>176
.
.
.
Please specify request.
>R 176
Resuming.
Loading.
.
.
.
.
.
.
If any change or abnormality in energy wavelengths is identified, termination of all personnel is advised.
Reports from the initial handling of item #176 indicate strong psychological effects. Any change in brain wave activity is to be reported immediately, and terminated of all personnel is advised.
Documented Psychological effects:
.
.
Inability to speak properly and/or speaking of unknown languages.
Hallucinations.
Paranoia.
.
.
Documented Physical effects:
.
.
Massive internal hemorrhaging.
Liquidation of organs.
Blindness.
Dramatic weight loss.
Muscle atrophy.
.
.
Item #176 has been noted to psychologically distort Class D personnel as to prevent them from releasing the buildup of energy within the chamber. Energy is most likely cause of above psychological and physiological effects. Item #176 is classified as EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Failure to discharge could result in death of all personnel in facility.
>P
.
.
.
Enter action.
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE
.
.
.
Command unrecognized.
.
.
.
Authorize abnormality containment procedures?
>Y|
>Ye
>Yes|
>Yes
>Yes|
>Yes
>Ye|
>Y
>
>N
Acknowledged. Abnormality containment procedure not authorized.
>logout
Goodbye, Commander.
Connection closed. |
The fly floated down onto the nose of the statue gently, watching its surroundings carefully for any sign of a predator. Content with the fact that there were none, it began cleaning itself, endlessly wiping its forelegs over its head and body, scraping off the excess dirt with an efficiency only millennia of biological programming could produce.
Were it capable of sentient thought, or even hearing, it may have briefly wondered what the strange, rapidly increasing whistling sound was. But, as it had neither, it was blissfully ignorant of what was about to happen.
The statue exploded violently, leaving behind nothing but a shallow crater, a brief rain of stone, dirt, ceramic and one very dead fly.
“Nice shot Ice,” grunted Kain, peering at the impact zone from the firing area.
“Sophia, what does that make the score?”
“Your twenty three points to his twenty Father,” replied the pale girl standing to his right, watching the scene with interest.
“Heh. It's getting close, but I think we know who has the better robot,” the dog chuckled, leaning over the cockpit and laying his head on the bronzed shoulder plate of the Egg Walker.
“If I was allowed to use all of my armaments-” started Iceberg, leaning up from his laid back position in the deck chair next to Sophia, a large and very complex remote control nestled in his hands.
“If you were allowed to use all of your armaments the firing range would be one very large nuclear crater,” interrupted Kain, his fuzzy face twisted into what one could assume was his version of a frown.
The firing range in question was a small dusty valley, populated primarily by large grotesque statues, stylised depictions of monstrous creatures and large craters. Mostly used to test weapons grade SCP items, when not in use, it was fair game for anyone with high enough clearance and a day off.
The dog squinted in the midday sun, the heat beating down relentlessly.
“So which one should I pick off next?”
“Might I suggest the six-eighty-two lookalike three hundred feet to your far left,” offered Sophia, pointing off in the distance.
Kain followed the line of her finger to a particularly ugly statue squatting on an outgrowth of rock, leering maliciously at the trio.
“That's pretty far away, but I think the old girl can make it accurately,” he exclaimed confidently, patting the machine's side.
Within moments, a bizarre turret of some sort had unfolded from the left shoulder, pointed at some obscure point in the sky. Kain mumbled to himself a little, muttering some things about wind resistance and angle of entry, before the weapon jerked back with a boom, sending a spinning projectile into the sky only to plummet down and decimate the statue with a small green tinted mushroom cloud.
“Twenty four to twenty,” announced Sophia.
Behind them, the sudden wail of distress sirens could be faintly heard.
Kain lifted an ear to the wind.
“Sounds like a code yellow delta two ninety,”
Iceberg frowned at this, looking at the professor with annoyance.
“No, it's a code orange lambda three fifty,” he corrected.
“Actually, it is a code blue alpha one ten,” surmised the girl between them, not having turned around.
The men listened for a few minutes longer before shrugging in acceptance.
“Not my problem, it's my day off. I don't give those up for anything less than a code red and above,” muttered Kain, the vestial hands of the walker pulling a pair of cold bottles out of a small compartment in its chassis.
“Want another beer?”
“Yeah sure,” Iceberg accepted, catching the frosty beverage as it was tossed to him.
“So what one should we aim for now?”
“Hmmm…”
“What about that stupid lizard looking thing over there?” interjected Kain, gesturing towards a long reptilian creature hunkered on a rock close by.
Iceberg shrugged, messing with the controls in his hands.
“Sure,”
The small robot in front of him fired a salvo of missiles into space, whistling in the air as they sped towards their target.
At the last moment, just before they struck, the lizard turned around towards them, something like shock plastered across its alien features.
Then it, and everything around it for several meters, was liquefied into so much molten refuse.
There was silence amongst the group for several seconds.
“Did… Did that statue just move?” asked Iceberg hesitantly.
“Yes. Yes it did,” Sophia confirmed.
They ventured over to the remains, examining the rapidly cooling fissure.
“Well, I guess we found out what the alarm was for…” mumbled Kain.
"You think he can come back from that?" asked Ice, poking the mess with a stick.
Kain shook his head.
"I doubt it."
"But I think that counts for an extra two points. You're still one behind Ice," he said cheerily, moving back to the firing area. |
The following is a transcript of a handwritten letter found in a 20-ounce glass beverage container, found near Lake [REDACTED] in southwest Wisconsin. Signs of struggle were evident, and upon closer examination, several fragments of human bones were discovered nearby, badly charred.
"In the name of God, the Compassionate, the All-Merciful, I offer you my greetings and my profoundest gratitude, O my liberator. I pray you, read what is written here, and understand.
"Firstly, know that what you hold is no simple sheet of paper. I have assumed this form to attract your attention, for my natural shape is imperceptible to the eyes of man. I apologize most profusely for my duplicity, but I have heard that your people tell stories of messages in bottles. Allow me to relay my pitiful tale.
"My name is Ahmed bin Yusuf Abdul Hakim. I am an Ifrit, a fire spirit, of the Jinn. It occurs to me that, in this age and this place, word of my people may have escaped your ears, honored one. Know that it was Allah, the Creator and the Shaper of forms, who fashioned my people from smokeless flame, even before He sculpted the first man from the blessed clay, and that our people are as brothers in his eyes.
"I am a stranger to these cold lands; those of my tribe are folk of the desert, and of the caverns beneath the sands. My lineage is old and proud, known to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth, but I myself am young and, I must confess, foolish. Thus it was that I was tricked.
"Some months ago, I was wandering the desert night, as my folk are wont to do, when I heard a voice on the wind, calling my name. I followed it for many leagues, on foot and in the air - for Allah the most Generous has gifted my people with wings, and we are able fliers - but could find it nowhere. I was confounded, but the voice offered guidance, and told me to dive beneath the sands. I obeyed, plunging downward through sand and stone alike. Suddenly all grew dark and cold, and I found myself in a human dwelling not far from here.
"And I saw the source of the voice, who wore the shape of a beautiful woman. She had summoned me from afar, drawing me to her bedchamber with secret sigils and diagrams, with which she then entrapped me in a bottle, the same bottle you have found, O my savior. At first I thought that she had summoned me to be her husband, for as you may know it is not forbidden for our peoples to intermarry. Such was not to be my fortune, for although she was lovely in appearance, she was an evil woman of much malign intent, and desired only my power, to assist her in wicked deeds. My good heart compelled me to refuse, and she grew very angry.
"She resorted to threats, but we of the Ifrit are clever folk, and so at each turn I reminded her that to harm me she would be forced to open the bottle, and in so doing, set me free. Her temper raged like a storm, but after many nights she grew quieter and more calm. And here I hoped, in my foolishness, that she would finally release me. Indeed she wished to be rid of me, but alas, so too did she wish to make me suffer. She cast me into the lake, telling me as she did so that the bottle would be trapped in the ice, and would eventually shatter, and that I would die in the cold waters. And she abandoned me to my fate.
"May Allah preserve her, for it is Allah, the Preserver, who has saved me. As my captor predicted, this bottle was trapped beneath the ice of the lake. And yet, as I floated and prayed in that abyss of frozen fear, I saw the stirrings of great fishes below me. And as the fishes swam and cavorted throughout the long winter, the ice did not entrap me further, and when spring came, I remained alive. And yet, I had grown weak from my months of solitude and starvation. When this vessel washed up on the shore, I had but a spark of my fire left, for the winter in your lands is cold indeed. I could do no more than assume this form, as a final act of desperation. As paper I will not die, but neither have I the strength to return to my true form, for now the fire has left me.
"Thus I pray you, return to me my essence. Any source of flame will serve; I know your people are most ingenious and have devised many marvels for this purpose since the days of flint and steel. Simply set this paper alight, and I will be free. You will not see the joy of my liberation, for as I have said, my people are not easily seen by human eyes. Nor does the human form appear clearly to us, truly. But I will shower upon you such blessings as are mine to give, O my savior.
"If you wish to know the full scope of my generosity, write your full name upon the reverse side of this paper, prior to burning. I will return exactly one year thence, having recovered my strength, to grant your heart's desire and to hound your enemies. In the name of God, the Compassionate, the All-Merciful, it shall be so." |
Part 2: Negotiation
"Better the Devil you know than the Devil you don't"
"Hey, Clef?"
"What's up, Draki?"
"Not much. Hey, can I borrow your cat for the weekend?"
"I guess. Why the hell you'd want to borrow that mangy stray who always misses the fucking litter box, I don't know, but sure, go ahead. You'll probably find him trying to bang Josie. Stupid bastard's too dumb to realize that no matter how much she smells like she's in heat, you can't get it on when the lady don't got no lady parts."
"Thanks. By the way, what the fuck is that?"
"Oh. Doctor Lorenzo was by here earlier, with a formal request for an audit on 784 and Doctor Valentine. He thinks she's out of line, and using improper containment procedures. Wanted me to check up on it."
"That still doesn't explain the…"
"I'm just about to get to that. You see, when I first took on this position, every day I'd have people come in and complain about the stupidest fucking things. Their boss cracks one joke or makes them miss one break they come in here whining and screaming and begging for an Audit Towards Termination. So I've started testing them to see if they're serious. One of the tests is I put a knife on my desk and tell them that if they really want me to do the audit, they'll cut off a finger. When they pick up the knife, I tell them it's okay, they can stop."
"… I guess Lorenzo really felt passionately about that audit."
"Cut off his own middle finger, held it up, and threw it in my face, and implied me and my mother had improper relations, using many four letter words."
"… cool."
"I sent him down to the infirmary."
"So, are you gonna do that audit?"
"I kinda have to now."
"You getting soft on me?"
"Don't let it get around, I've got a reputation to uphold."
"No problem. Just shoot Gerald in the face and they'll be calling you "Clef the Killer" again in no time. Plus, you'll make Bright two grand."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"You know," Chang said, "I've done a lot of freaky, fucked up things for this group. I've mowed down an entire Sunday School classroom with a Squad Automatic Weapon because they were infected by some hell virus that turned them into bloodthirsty mutants. I've seen the sea glittering behind the gate to hell…"
"… all these moments will be lost like tears in rain?" Roybal quipped.
"Shut up, Roy," Chang snarled.
"Make me, assgike," Roybal snapped back.
"Both of you motherfuckers drop it right now or I'll chop off your balls and make dango out of them," Takahashi sighed. She touched her eyepatch, a souvenir of a bad drop over Kosovo that had sent a piece of debris flying into her left eye. That eye tended to ache when there was trouble, and it was hurting like hell now.
"That ain't fair, Lieutenant. Just cause you don't got any doesn't mean you have to take it out on those of us that…"
"Sergeant Chang, you have ten seconds to get to the fucking point before I get my gelding tool," Takahashi interrupted.
"Well, ma'am…"
"Sir, Chang, I'm a fucking officer, not a housewife or a whore."
"Well, sir, all I'm trying to say, sir, is that riding herd on a fucked up zombie nano-machine monster thing is the most fucked up thing I've had to do in a career built off of doing fucked up things, sir," Chang said.
"And? What do you want me to do about it? Put you in for a transfer to Headquarters?"
"No, sir," Chang gulped. 'Headquarters' was a euphemism for being reassigned as D-Class personnel: a literal kiss of death for any Mobile Task Force member. "Just making a completely off-hand and innocent observation, sir."
"Keep it that way, Chang. I'm not getting shot in the head over your lousy griping."
"Heads up, here comes the Iron Bitch now," Vicks said. He dropped his clove cigarette on the ground and crunched it under his boot.
"Ten-hut!" The members of Mobile Task Force Delta Nine (Feynman's Folly) snapped to attention as Assistant Director Janice Valentine entered the briefing room. "As you were," Valentine said, laying down her laptop computer on the table. "You people probably want to get out in the field and start killing things, so I'll make this brief. Agent Sandoval has called in a report of a highly dangerous biomorph moving through the Crystal Caverns. 784 is being dispatched to contain it. You will accompany it to the operations area and provide whatever support it asks for. That is all. Are there any questions?"
"Um, yeah," Chang said, raising his hand. "What the fuck is a biomorph?"
"She means a monster, idiot. Like a big, fucking, slimy monster," Hopkins sighed.
"Fuck you, asshole, I was asking the lady a fucking question," Chang snapped.
"Suck my cock, assgike."
"I got a fuckin' question for the nice lady," Vicks said, waving his hand in the air. "How come we don't got no fuckin' maps, no fuckin' info about the target, no motherfuckin' support or any mission objectives?"
"784 has all the information you will need to know," Valentine protested.
"So how come the fuckin' Skip gets to know all about the mission, and not us?" Chang whined.
"Because you idiots don't NEED to know. And if it weren't for the fact that Foundation regulations REQUIRE there to be a task force in support of any SCPs deployed in the field, I'd have all of you morons reassigned to clean toilets until judgement day!" Valentine shouted.
"What the fuck did you just…"
"TEN-HUT!" Takahashi shouted.
"Fuck that, Lieutenant, this bitch just…"
"YOU ARE IN DIRECT DEFIANCE OF AN ORDER, SERGEANT CHANG!" Takahashi screamed. "I SAID, ATTENTION!"
The room fell silent. "Everyone but Chang and Vicks, get your gear and assemble in the hangar in ten minutes. Private Vicks and Sergeant… sorry, CORPORAL Chang will change into PT gear and report to 784's containment facility, where they will spend the duration of the mission cleaning the chamber. I recommend that he also take the time to contemplate, in great detail and with a deep sense of reflection, the meaning of the word, 'insubordination.' Dismissed."
"But Lieutenant…"
"DISMISSED!" Takahashi shouted. The six other members of Delta Nine filed out of the room in silence.
"Your men seem to lack discipline," Valentine observed. She placed her papers back in their manila envelope. "I suppose that's all one can expect from a Mobile Task Force led by a woman."
"Forgive me for saying this, Assistant Director, but that seems rather ingenuous coming from you," Takahashi retorted.
"Not at all. Shouting and giving orders is such a man's way of doing things. A woman should lead with more subtlety and grace. But then, I suppose that a woman who has neither should take what she can get." She snapped her laptop shut. "Tell me, Lieutenant, does running around with a giant phallic symbol and shooting bullets at things make you feel any better about never being able to have the real thing?"
"Thank you for the observation. If you'll excuse me, ma'am." Takahashi put her heels together, bowed at the waist, and turned on her heel, walking out of the room at a crisp pace.
"God, I hate that bitch," Valentine sighed.
"I hate that fucking bitch," Vicks griped. He dipped the mop into the bucket and squeezed it out harshly. "God, if I get my hands around her neck, I'm gonna choke her till her eyes bug out…"
"Shut the hell up, Vicks. It's your damn fault we're in here anyway." Chang lifted up the toothbrush and studied the tile grout closely. "Eh, good enough for government work."
"Don't know why the Lieutenant don't just pop that bitch one. God, I'd pay good money to see that." Vicks leaned on his mop. "Specially if they were wearing lingerie and in a tub of mud together."
"Wait, you want to see ol' Scarface mud-wrestling with a bitch old enough to be her mother? What the fuck's wrong with you, Vicks?"
"C'mon, Chang, you gotta admit, Scarface has a decent bod for a molly, and the Iron Bitch has that GMILF thing going. Besides, with a name like Valentine, you know she's gotta be a monster in the sack."
"Fuckin' sick, Vicks, you've been in the Forces too long…"
"Excuse me, am I interrupting something?" a voice said.
The two soldiers looked up from their bickering. A man stood in the doorway, wearing a white lab coat and a hat that could only be described in, awe-struck terms, as 'nifty'. He was grinning, a huge, impossibly wide grin, and his nose was red and large enough to resemble a tomato. Aside from that, he looked pretty much nondescript. "If I am, I can come back another time."
"No, no problem, sir… Dr… Mr. Clef."
"Clef's my nickname. The people who really know me call me brummmm." He sang that last word, in a manner that, if the two soldiers had been at all musical (they weren't), could have been identified as a fair approximation of an A-Major chord. "Is this Andrew's room?"
"This is 784's chamber, yeah," Vicks admitted.
"I see. Nice digs." Clef moved to the center of the room, picked up a broad sheet of what appeared to be thin plastic. He rapped in the center of it: the substance was incredibly strong, for being so thin and delicate. "What's this?"
"784 makes them. Looks like he uses them to build nests, or something." Chang pointed to the piles of the substance all around the room, arranged in a vague circular approximation. "Since it's harmless, they let him."
"I see." Clef reached down and picked up a USB stick drive, reading the text written on the side. "You're letting him read Eric Drexler?"
"Director Valentine's idea, sir. She says that knowing some theory might help him to use his body more effectively."
"I see. Carry on then." Clef turned and walked out of the room, closing the heavy steel door behind him.
"Holeeee-shit," Chang whistled. "Looks like all our problems might be over soon."
"Why do you say that?" Vicks wondered.
"That was AD Clef. He's an Auditor."
"What the fuck does a tax man have to do with solving all our problems?"
"Not that kind of auditing, dumbass. Auditing Towards Termination. He looks at a situation, and if he decides that someone needs to die… poof." Chang pointed his index finger towards his head and mimed shooting himself in the head with a gun. "Scratch one SCP. Rumor has it he's so damn good at what he does sometimes the Skips don't even know they're dead until it's over."
"C'mon, Chang," Vicks laughed. "No one's THAT good."
"I dunno," Chang said, scratching his chin. "He did just walk out of here with a sample of 784's nesting material and that USB drive in his pocket."
"Doctor Lorenzo."
"Doctor Clef."
"Please sit down. How's the hand?"
"Better. Medical is growing back the finger, but it might take a little while. Typing is… difficult."
"I can imagine. In any case, I've finished my audit. I'd like you to read over the report before I submit it to the O5s.
"Thank you."
"…"
"… you're serious?"
"Completely."
"… you can't be serious."
"Doctor Lorenzo, it's my conclusion that SCP-784 is no threat to anyone so long as current containment procedures are maintained. For that reason, your Audit for Termination is denied. I have, however, recommended that you be given a short medical leave, as a psychological evaluation indicates high levels of stress and fatigue."
"… you're not serious, are you?"
"Please sign here. You have twenty-four hours to turn over all your duties to your assistant. You will report to the infirmary at noon tomorrow for two weeks of psychological evaluation and counseling."
"YOU SONOVABITCH! YOU FUCKING STUPID SONOVABITCH, THAT MONSTER'S GONNA KILL US ALL!"
"Doctor Lorenzo, if you do not cooperate, I will be forced to defend myself."
"YOU FUCKING SMILING SONOVABITCH, I'LL FUCKING KILL YO—"
<funt>
"… you shot me?"
"… you'll get better."
<crash>
"Jesus… <sigh> Security, this is Assistant Director Clef. Doctor Lorenzo is currently sedated in my office. Please have some big, strong men sent down to carry him to a bed and tie him to it… wow, that sounded gayer than I thought…"
Part 4: Breach |
Part 1: Contact
"When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back"
Looking back, I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen when that crazy bitch showed 784 the photo. If I had to put money on it, it would have been even money between screaming at her for lying and going completely apeshit and killing us all.
No one, I think, would have dared put down money on saying, "yesssssssssssssssss. i know."
Valentine, that crazy bitch, didn't even bat an eye. "I thought you might. How did you guess?" she asked.
"bbbb-b-beatrixxx madadadadadox is asset to foundationn. Foundation would ud not lettitititttt her die without without a f-fi-f-f-fight," the monster growled.
She looked sternly into the cold blue eyes of the roiling mass of silicon and steel. Her lips, I noticed, were pursed slightly tighter than normal. 784's tells were harder to see, but after months of watching that thing, I could see the rhythmic opening and closing of its spiracles accelerate, just a bit. "Yes, of course," Valentine said. "Just like we're not willing to let an asset like you just sit around inside this box." She leaned against the railing, reached for a cigarette, realized that she was wearing a hazard suit, and settled for crossing her arms. "Beatrix Maddox's body was recovered from the incident site and regenerated," Valentine explained. "However, the process was… incomplete. I believe the technical term is, 'locked-in syndrome.' Her brain and body function just fine, but they don't talk to each other. She is completely awake, but unable to control her body."
784 didn't respond to that. Its blue eyes nicitated once. "The Foundation has determined that the only method remaining to us is a dosage of Five Hundred," Valentine explained. "As SCP-500 is a finite asset, we are… shall we say… let me just say there is opposition to the idea of using it on a simple agent. Especially one who is officially dead."
"B-bbbbargaining ch-kkchckip."
"You see it already, then." Valentine chuckled. "I have been authorized to form a new Mobile Task Force, designation Delta-Niner: Feynman's Folly. Twelve member team, assigned to support you in the field. You will carry out missions containing and capturing particularly difficult SCPs. As a former member of Pandora's Box, that should be familiar to you. In return, Agent Maddox will be given a dose of SCP-500 and restored to her prior state. Is that sufficient?"
"W-w-wwwwill I bebbbbbe able to s-sssse her?" 784 asked.
"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," Valentine scoffed. "She will be given a Class A Amnestic and false memories will be implanted under a new identity. On the other hand, she'll be alive, and happy. And in the end, isn't that all you want? For her to be happy?"
When I was a kid, I was riding in the front seat of the car when a pickup truck cut into our lane in front of us in the middle of a heavy rainstorm. My mom hit the brakes, but the car hydroplaned out and slammed into the truck before spinning out into the shoulder.
Even now, the thing I most remember isn't the moment of impact, but that moment when the car started to skid: the sick feeling of realizing that we were going to crash and nothing I could do could stop it.
"HIT IT! HIT IT NOW!" I screamed. The Deltas glanced at each other, hesitated just for one moment. It was all that 784 needed.
"no."
Just one word, spoken with crystal clarity in the midst of its inhuman, buzzing voice… then the three D's fell dead with nanomachine spikes through their foreheads. Valentine screamed, and then the tendrils lunged forward and wrapped around her, dragging her up into the air. A thousand cruel, sickle-like blades formed themselves around her in an iron maiden, barely dragging against the surface of her hazard suit. "SECURITY!" I screamed. "EMERGENCY SPRAYERS, FULL…"
"WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!" Valentine screamed. "STAND DOWN!" She turned back to the cold, implacable eyes of 784's optics, unafraid of the razor-edged blades. "wait…" she repeated.
"fleshhhhh esh flesh matitititititttters flesh matters not," 784 chitters. "only only mimmmmind."
"I can't let you see her," Valentine said, "but I can cancel the order for the Class A Amnestic. Would that be sufficient?"
"sufficient," 784 whispered. The blades retracted, and the nanomachine tendrils lowered the Director to the ground.
"We'll be in contact with you regarding your first mission," Valentine said.
"wwuwuwuuwun reskkkkkkkkkquest," hissed 784. "nnnononono acetetetetetatone bath. not neinnnnneeded."
"Agreed. Mister Lorenzo, you will keep 784's containment chamber outside the acetone pool as long as it continues to cooperate with us," Valentine ordered.
"Ma'am, with all due respect, that's completely fucking loco," I hissed. "That acetone pool's the only thing stopping it from growing out of control!"
"Not any more. Now it wants to cooperate. Don't you, Andrews?" Valentine asked.
"will cooppippppperate," 784 hissed. "kikkkkeep your endiddddd ofphh the bargain." The tendrils retracted back into the concrete holding container, like an anemone retracting back into its polyp.
"Security, unlock the main doors. Let's go, Lorenzo."
The solvent bath washed over our plastic biohazard suits, cleansing any traces of nanomachines remaining on our bodies. Valentine spent the entire five minute cycle leaning against the wall, arms outstretched, her head thrown back and staring up at the ceiling. It was honestly kind of spooky.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Valentine said, as we were changing out of our hazmat suits.
"Excuse me?" I paused in the middle of shrugging into my labcoat.
"That body of his… gorgeous." Valentine touched her throat as she adjusted her collar, then ran a hand over her steel-grey hair, which was starting to come loose from its severe bun. "It'll never grow old, never decay. Limited only by his willpower and mind… and such a mind it is. Can you imagine what he could accomplish, if he could only master it?"
"Ma'am," I said, slowly. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Yes. Better than all right, I think." Valentine said. She pulled on her labcoat. "I'll submit a report to Director Clef. The first mission assignment should come in this week. Make sure he's ready for it."
"As you wish, ma'am." I waited for her to leave, then headed for the control center as fast as I could. "Herrera?" I said to my assistant. "I want double-shifts around the clock. At least two pairs of eyes on this thing all the time, and one guy with his hand on the sprayer controls: I want this thing watched closer than 173. And put in a request for some replacement Deltas, and have the old ones removed before I get back."
"Sure thing, boss. Where are you headed?"
"I'm gonna talk to Smiley," I said. "If I'm not back in an hour, tell the medics that there's a dead man with a shotgun wound in Clef's office."
Part 3: Escalation |
Agent Greenwell was by no means afraid, only strongly wishing to be elsewhere. As he ran, quickly avoiding small chunks of rubble and broken machinery, his thoughts remained more on the past than the immediate situation at hand. The day's shift, indeed his entire tour inside SCP-110, had been quiet and routine. Constant work was being done to map and catalog all the areas, engineers were working on ways to crack into the vast areas still sealed off, and there had been no disappearances or deaths for months. Even the main power grid was starting to give up its secrets.
A deep, bass throb pulsed through the air around Agent Greenwell, accompanied by a shudder in the ground under his feet. He fell, small bits of dust and plaster drifted down from the high-domed ceiling, bringing both a sudden, sharp pain in his ankle and the current situation to the forefront of his mind. Greenwell rose, limping forward as another, louder pulse shook the air and ground.
They had located a module, labeled “Civic Reclamation: Global Class”. The whole city was riddled with these “modules”, tiny little self-contained booths, containing everything from emergency supplies to whole laboratories. They appeared to have been activated when the Event happened to SCP-110. Most were still closed, with others appearing to have been damaged or looted at some point. However, this one was different. It was huge, bigger than four city blocks, and heavily re-enforced. It also appeared to have been opened at one point, and then closed back up some time later.
The team slated to crack it open had gone out that morning. Everything was going as planned, until a sudden loss of contact. Agents had responded to find the entire module missing, along with the staff. Greenwell had responded with them, and had been the first to notice that they had lost contact with Core Services.
Another heavy rumble rattled through the floor, followed by the faint sound of crashing and twisting metal. Agent Greenwell limped faster, looking around the open area for any nearby doors or exits, and finding none. He gasped as a misstep sent a screaming bolt of pain up his leg, and quickly fell behind a heap of twisted stone and metal, gripping his tortured ankle and feeling the bone slide unnaturally.
The deep bass pulse came again, loud enough to rattle marble-sized stones on the tile, followed by another…and another. Agent Greenwell balled up, trying to be as small as possible, fighting the gnawing little rat of fear that was trying to work its way into him. The heavy pulse abruptly stopped, the final tone hard enough to make his heart rattle in his chest.
He stayed silent and still, balled as tight to the hunk of rubble as he could, listening. Nothing came to his ears, just the faint sound of dust settling. He rose, slowly, plotting a clear path to the east wall amid the rubble, trying to sight something to use as a crutch. It was as Agent Greenwell started to hobble to a promising chunk of pipe that a harsh blast of steam and sound burst both his eardrums and sent him sprawling to the ground.
He screamed, holding his head, blood flowing between his fingers as the shadow loomed over him, floodlights blinding him as the pulse hammered him again, sending him into a spasm of agony. Blind and deaf, he screamed again as hard metal points suddenly dug into his flesh and roughly lifted him, his head spinning and awash in pain.
He felt rather than heard the grinding of gears, the crackle of electricity. He felt oil, smoke and ash instantly cake to his skin, the taste of metal thick and gagging in his mouth as more hooks and points burrowed into his flesh. As he felt something start to grind and crush his feet, moving up to his ankles, he acknowledged one thing before thought was lost in a wash of pain, blood and oblivion.
He was afraid.
-Warning!- Contact lost with SCP-110 command and security. Initiating lock-down. Situation reported to O5 Command.
Grant entered the room, pausing briefly to examine the faces arranged before him with a suspicious glare before sitting down.
He reached into his pocket, digging out a battered box of cigarettes and a pulled one out.“Heh, still looking us through for doppelgangers, Grant?” laughed Richards, running his hand over his shaved head unconsciously.
“Happened before. Take no chances,” grunted Grant, lighting the cigarette with a thick metal lighter and taking a long drag. “So what do you think it is this time? Mutating virus? Artifact retrieval? Or just your stereotypical big nasty?” he asked.
Grant shrugged, eyes on the floor as he hunched over, leaning on his knees and exhaling a frail cloud of wispy grey smoke. “Don't care. Just wanna kill it and go home,” he mumbled in response.
“You, me and pretty much everyone here, man,” Richards replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. Everyone always does, he thought to himself, eyes running across those assembled.
Everyone was tense, as they always were before a mission. Sure, it was masked beneath a thick veneer of joking and comraderie, but if you knew where to look, the signs were there. The newbies would fidget unconsciously with little things at hand, chuckling nervously as they made idiotic boasts, betraying their ignorance of the things against which they would inevitably fight, and sometimes die.
The veterans would smile and joke, though the humor never reached their eyes, as they had seen too many friends succumb to the horrors of their line of work, both physically and figuratively.
And then there were the loners like Grant, who never connected with anyone, just sat there, waiting for the mission to start like a man would an execution.
The door opened again, and upon seeing who it was, everyone went silent.
The man paced through the center of the benches, picking up everything with those bored eyes, before slouching against the wall at the end.
“So… boss, you know what's going down?” asked Hill nervously. Everything that was ever said to the boss was almost always said nervously. A slight side effect of the boss being completely psychotic and liable to snap with little to no provoking.
“No,” he replied tersely.
Hill opened her mouth to say something else, but slowly closed it, rather than tempt fate.
Smart move, thought Richards. Now that he was here, all comradely music and such quieted down, trying to be as inauspicious as a man tip toeing through a minefield.
This continued for some time, until suddenly, the view screen at the end of the room lit up, displaying a blank screen with only the words “AUDIO ONLY” stretched across the middle in bright red lettering.
Everyone began to shift in their seats uncomfortably at this new development.
They only used the view screen when they were delivering messages that they wouldn't in person.
The man slumped against the wall narrowed his eyes at the screen, looking in irritation at the small camera positioned in above it.
“Omega Seven, here are your orders. We have recently received a distress call from an outpost inside a recently unearthed SCP site. Since receiving that message, we have completely lost contact with the area,” informed the disembodied voice coming from the VDU's tinny speakers. “You are to investigate the area and exterminate any and all threats in the immediate vicinity. Transport is in three hours at docking bay four, and all equipment will be provided en route,” it ordered calmly.
“Huh… seems pretty standard,” replied Foley.
Then, almost as if an afterthought, the speakers called out once more. “Also, Pandora's Box will be protecting, escorting and working with Mobile Task Force Zeta-9.”
The room went dead silent as the view screen faded to black, save for a very slight crack sound at the very back of the room, followed by the sound of something small, light and hard tumbling across the floor.
The entire group, as a whole, turned to look at the source of this sound. The boss had clenched his teeth so hard that one of them had cracked and popped out of his hideous grin underneath the immense strain, his jaws clamping down like an industrial vise.
The room emptied in seconds.
██/██/██ - 0900 Hours: Mobile Force Omega-7 informed of mission and mission specifics.
Briefing room 8 completely destroyed by SCP-076-2
“Listen…Hey, listen up…guys…LISTEN UP!” Roy shouted into the common room, quieting the rumble of voices from the Zeta-9 team. A few more members ambled out of the equipment room in full suits, clomping across the room like shock troopers from every Evil Empire in sci-fi history. Several men strengthened up in their chairs, elbowing others with a whispered “knock it off!” as the room quieted. After a look around the room, to assure everyone's full attention, Roy cleared his throat, and addressed the men. “Alright folks, I know everyone's heard the rumors about us getting mothballed after that SCP-455 cock-up last year. Let me lay those to rest right now. At 0900 hours, we received a dispatch order. Everyone is to suit up immediately after this meeting, and report to Dispatch. I'll turn this over to Lev for the details.”
Roy sat down amid a murmur of hushed conversation and suppressed groans. Two younger men looked at each other, grinning excitedly. The murmur stopped when one of the suited men stepped forward, cracking the seal on his helmet and removing it as he stepped into the center of the circle of men. Lev Shatterman's face, looking oddly small on the bulky, armored suit, was as grim as ever. His deep voice boomed into the room, the thick Russian accent giving everything a heavy note of command. “Comrades, we have lost contact with the support team inside SCP-110. Hostile activity has been suggested as a cause. The site is currently locked down to prevent any further containment failures. Someone is needed to crack the seal, restore containment, and find out what happened. That someone will be Team Zeta-9.”
Cheers and groans rose up in equal amounts, the two younger men exchanging a high-five and grinning. Lev cleared his throat hard, silencing the room. “We will be working with many support services and teams, and will function as forward recon. We have been selected for our small size, high mobility, high survival rate, and large-scale SCP experience.” Lev paused a moment, shifting his helmet in his hands as the men murmured quietly. “Due to the high probability of hostile resistance inside SCP-110, we will be teamed with a combat-based response team to provide combat support, with our function being focused on recon and investigation.”
The room went silent as everyone slowly turned to look at Lev. Roy was the first to speak. “Lev…what the hell does that mean? Are you saying we have to work with some guns-blazing, gung-ho strike force full of kids who think they'll be the world's next big hero?” Lev shook his head, readying his helmet in his hand. “No. As I understand it, our support team is more close-quarters based. We will receive support from Team Omega-7, led by SCP-076-2. Dismissed, everyone report to dispatch in one hour.”
Lev snapped his helmet back into place, and strode quickly from the room. The remaining men were stone silent, still staring where Lev had been. They started to file out, slowly, the two younger men pale and almost sick looking. Roy watched the room empty, and shook his head, muttering under his breath. “…might as well just shoot ourselves now and get it over and done with…”
Dispatch issued to Zeta-9 at 0900 hours. All teams proceeding to set rally points. Operation will commence ASAP. Request by SCP-076-2 to remove Zeta-9 from operations denied. Request by multiple members of Zeta-9 for temporary leave denied.
The Lockdown - Closed - Under Construction |
To: O5 Command
Proposal Type: Personnel Request
From: Agent Spoon
Date: ██/██/20██
Security Level: CLASSIFIED
Introduction: After careful review of the Foundation's special Mobile Task Force Teams, I have found a rather glaring weakness in the organization of the Foundation's SCP recovery and protection systems that can be solved through several simple actions.
Problem: First and foremost is the glaring disparity between Foundation Agents and Task Force members. While Task Force members are usually culled from the best special forces units from around the world and are given the latest and most advanced equipment, their duties are usually restricted to SCP protection and surveillance, which seems to be a tragic waste of resources and talent. This can mostly be blamed on the fact that the formation of Task Forces are usually reactionary measures to the unpredictable nature of SCPs.
Agents, on the other hand, are largely derived from civilian sources such as local and federal law enforcement agencies. They are often similarly equipped, but are given the actual duty of tracking down and recovering SCPs. While the vast majority of SCPs are rather harmless and can easily be dealt with by Agents, there is currently no viable way under the current system for first responder Agents to deal with violent or unpredictable SCPs, or rival SCP seeking organizations. Mobile Task Force Delta-7 is an exception, but as we all know, they are currently committed to tracking ORIA agents and lack the flexibility or resources to expand their mission profile.
Most importantly, the Foundation lacks an actual offensive military option. While the Foundation has been able to carry on this far by co-opting government resources and forming Task Forces in times of emergency, the Office for the Reclamation of Islamic Artifact's theft of SCP-112 and threats of an impending attack by the Church of the Broken God reveal the need for a cohesive, elite offensive military unit more than ever before.
Solution: My solution to this problem is to form a brand new Task Force that will not be tied to a singular Site or SCP. Instead, this Task Force will perform the dual role of first response and hostile recovery of SCPs. This should serve as a suitable counter to outside threats, as well as giving the Foundation a means to directly recover SCPs from rival organizations. They will also serve as primary offensive support for Field Agents to reduce reliance on local law enforcement.
Proposal: I must admit though, the formation of a brand new Task Force is a decision not taken lightly. Also, due to the nature of their duties, the initial casualty rates of this new Task Force are expected to be extremely high, with an estimation of 70% losses after the first ten missions. This is why I am only requesting personnel who fit the following criteria:
*Current Task Force members and Agents facing disciplinary action that can/will result in demotion to D-class, transfer to Keter duty, or termination.
*Prospective Task Force and Agent applicants with questionable pasts or qualifications.
*D-Class personnel who have proven themselves to possess exceptional skill or abilities.
*Remnants of Task Forces that have suffered high casualties and now face disbandment.
*Any personnel with practical skills that Foundation supervisors feel like getting rid of.
It is of my opinion that some these personnel are not useless, and may in fact still prove quite useful to the Foundation if not for their unfortunate infractions. These personnel will of course undergo a rigorous screening process to weed out the promising ones from the dead weight.
Conclusion: I would like to hope that you are able to see the Foundation's glaring weaknesses as clearly as I have. I believe it is time for us to take a more aggressive approach to dealing with rival organizations. While our main objective is to secure, contain, and protect, there is no reason we cannot achieve defense through an effective offense.
DENIED
Note: Seriously, where do these morons come from? It seems they just keep getting dumber. If a system works, why fix it? -O5-6
Addendum: You look, but do not see. Let me tell you what you're missing.
First of all, you're ignoring the completely different roles MTFs and Agents take. Let's use examples from Tom Clancy video games. Being an Agent is like playing Splinter Cell: maybe not the earlier games where you're a ninja sneaking through buildings alone, but Double Agent, where you also have to infiltrate organizations. You work alone. You gather information. You pursue objectives on your own initiative. When you find an SCP, you call in help, or if you think you can do it alone, retrieve it yourself. Like a sliver of glass: small, sharp, nearly invisible. Civilian law enforcement is trained to do just that: wait, watch, and defuse situations with minimal force.
The MTFs are like playing Rainbow Six: you have a defined goal, because the Agents found it for you. Now you move in. No matter how subtle you are, people are going to remember six guys in black suits with submachine guns storming a building. So you minimize impact by being fast, violent, and hella aggressive. You're the hammer, the SCP is the nut. Military and SWAT teams (which are more paramilitary than law enforcement) is trained to do that: hit hard, hit fast, fade away.
Secondly, you completely misunderstand the mission of the Mobile Task Force. They are not formed to CONTAIN specific SCPs. They are formed to EXPLOIT them: Pandora's Box with Able, Puddle Jumpers with the Wading Pool, Lotto Steppers (before his sad demise) with Stanley Cubic. Either that or they're experts in certain types of SCPs: Mole Rats train in specific techniques to navigate and escape from dimensional SCPs that alter local geography, for instance.
Finally: under NO circumstances should the SCP Foundation create an offensive military force. Offensive military forces are designed for one thing: conquest and expansion. Imposing your will on others. The day the Foundation does that is the day it fails its mission: Secure. Contain. PROTECT.
And trust me: there are plenty of other organizations who only tolerate the Foundation because it stays on the defensive.
- Clef
Note from a concerned Agent:
Ick. Form our own military? The next step from there would be to form our own government. And at that point we're ruling the world. O5 would become an evil council of doom, with an iron fist of cold, cruel, semi-justice. No doubt this idea will appeal to some of our more militaristic personnel. This is scary shit. Who proposed this anyway?
Note: I must admit, Dr. Clef puts up a very convincing argument and I submit to his seniority over the matter. However, I would like to say, history has the nasty habit of shoving unfair circumstances on the wrong people. One day, there may be a time where the scientists must become the soldiers…
-Agent Spoon
Note: We're not there yet, Spoon. Pray that it never gets that bad. If it does, then we're all fucked. I mean XK-class End of the World Scenario All Up In Our Shit Right Now level fucked.
- Clef
Note: Anyone else find the irony in Dr. Clef scoffing at the idea of Foundation Scientists acting as combatants? Anyway, I support the idea of recruiting selected D-Class personnel. After all, many Deltas get a lot more experience with some SCPs than the researchers they are assigned to. Besides, killing them at the end of the month or pumping them full of Class-MindFuckLobotomy amnesiacs and throwing them back into prison is a waste of people that could be doing useful things.
Hey, don't the Russians have a prison conscription program? Maybe we could bully them into letting us in on that.
- Malign |
Foreword by O5-2: On █-██-████, an investigation was launched into the continued viability of SCP-083. Several factors were taken into account, such as the relative danger involved in sustained containment and cost-benefit of the costly procurement of virgin blood on a regular basis. In conclusion, a unanimous decision to terminate SCP-083 was made amongst the O5, and handed down to Site 19 administrators. After researching the difficulties involved in terminating a regenerating, superhuman, and potential Keter object, the termination was set in motion. The man chosen for the task was an old standby, a man of great experience and expertise in the elimination of humanoid SCP objects of great destructive potential. Known for his clean, almost surgical method, he was quickly approved to carry out the termination.
Unfortunately, he was not available.
Despite urging from peers and subordinates, Dr. ████████ Kondraki was chosen to perform the termination. After giving himself the proper clearance and approval to do so through a loophole he had found in relevant regulations, O5 grudgingly accepted his self-appointment. O5-8* assuaged the board's fears with Dr. Kondraki's impressive credentials, and claimed that given such an important responsibility, he might finally take his position seriously.
*It should be noted here that O5-8 was a new appointment, and had not been present for the previous disciplinary actions involving the senior doctor.
Included below are the relevant logs and documentation concerning the “Duke” termination.
Note: For information involving the collateral damages sustained during the termination, See Document 083-D-Kk. - O5-2
Containment Log █████083-DK █-██¬-████
Dr. Kondraki enters SCP-083's containment, carries a folding table and two chairs with him. Proceeds to set up all three, as originally planned, taking a seat on one end.
Dr. Kondraki: Well, isn't this a nice little accommodation. They treat you well, Duke, real well for something out of a Bram Stoker novel.
SCP-083 takes the seat across from him.Dr. Kondraki: Good, you shouldn't have. Now, let's get on with this interview already, I've got better things to do than chat with a bloodsucker.Dr. Kondraki: Sure, sure. Although I remember that you requested a woman, hope you're not too disappointed, Count. [Dr. Kondraki proceeds to light a cigarette, and produces a container of a specially treated fluid. In the pre-termination report, Dr. Kondraki did not specify the contents for security reasons.]Dr. Kondraki proceeds to unscrew the top from the container, and sets it to the side. SCP-083 appears to recoil from the smell.
Agent Infred stepped forward to frisk Doctor Kondraki. He swiftly liberated a hand gun from Kondraki's person.
Agent Infred: Sorry sir, this isn't authorized.
Dr. Kondraki: Right, whatever. So, why don't you tell me about yourself, Drac? Are you the mythical force of darkness that plagues the psyche of humanity, or are you just a spoiled manchild playing vampire?Dr. Kondraki: [Blows smoke in SCP-083's direction] Funny, I don't recall giving a shit.
Dr. Kondraki proceeds to grab the container, and splash the liquid onto SCP-083, far before containment teams and backup agents could get into position.Dr. Kondraki: Cat urine and garlic juice, batboy, with a bit of silver nitrate.
Dr. Kondraki flips the collapsible table up into SCP-083, and grabs a firearm from under the table, muttering about 'Always keeping a backup'. He discharges his handgun seven times into SCP-083's chest and neck, before producing a wooden stake from his lab coat. The bullets were confirmed to be comprised of a silver alloy. None of these actions had been planned or approved.
Dr. Kondraki: Cross that off the list of things I've always wanted to do.
Post-Incident Interview DK-083
Interviewer: Dr. ███
Interviewee: Dr. Kondraki
Dr. ███: At what point did you conclude that SCP-083 might be vulnerable to the same weaknesses of a stereotypical vampire, despite no previous evidence?
Dr. Kondraki: Honestly, I was guessing. I figured, either it worked and I got done early enough to catch some lunch, or I'd have to think fast before he killed me.
Dr. ███: Think fast? That's it?
Dr. Kondraki: Yeah. I couldn't think of anything else, so I decided to play it by ear.
Dr. ███: You're saying you made it up as you went along? Isn't that grossly irresponsible, considering SCP-083's capabilities?
Dr. Kondraki: He's dead, ain't he? I don't have to explain myself if I get the job done.
Dr. ███: Alright, fair enough, but I have to wonder about one more thing.
Dr. Kondraki: Shoot.
Dr. ███: Why cat urine?
Dr. Kondraki: Well, if I was wrong and it didn't work, he'd still be the one covered in cat piss. Didn't think he'd take offense like he did, though.
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-963-21
Interviewer: And, after reviewing the logs, do you think Kondraki acted recklessly?
Bright: (Silence)
Interviewer: Dr. Bright?
Bright: This… This tape is un-doctored?
Interviewer: That is correct Dr. Bright.
Bright: (Dr. Bright shows signs of agitation, swearing in several different languages, and throwing equipment about the room.)
Interviewer: Dr. Bright! What's the matter?
Bright: Not only did I bet that asshole five grand that he wouldn't be able to throw cat piss at 083, but he didn't even have the good grace to die during the termination! Do you realize how much I'm going to lose from paying out on that? God damn!
At this point in the logs, we are unsure how Dr. Kondraki survived the following moments after the failed termination, due to the destruction of all surveillance equipment beforehand. Security cameras outside of SCP-083's containment showed Dr. Kondraki and SCP-083 exiting the containment approximately half an hour later. Forensic examination of the damages incurred within the containment are underway. Regardless, a red alert was issued, and security teams were dispatched to contain SCP-083 and get Dr. Kondraki to safety, including Mobile Strike Force Rho-2 “Hawthorne's Heroes”. As hindsight shows, it would have been more economical to have just shot Dr. Kondraki. - O5-2
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-KPC-13
Professor Kain Pathos Crow: It really was a pity about ol' eighty-three… I had a couple of things I wanted to do with him. Like stick him in nine-one-four on various settings and see what happened. Or see how exactly how he regenerated from decapitation. Or how he reacted to two-one-seven. Or if he'd be a good organ donor. Or if he was-
Interviewer: Uh… sir could you please just answer the question?
Professor Kain Pathos Crow: Hm? Oh yes, well Dr. Kondraki seems to get by in these sort of situations. A master of pulling it out of his ass, so to speak.
Interviewer: So would you label him as reckless then?
Professor Kain Pathos Crow: Yes. Without a doubt.
Interviewer: Uh-huh, so he's a potential liability.
Professor Kain Pathos Crow: Oh, I never said that. Granted, he's about as inaccurate as a faulty hand grenade or something of that ilk, the only safe place to be around him is probably inside him or something. But he gets things done, at the expense of everyone and everything around him not sturdy enough to withstand the blast.
Interviewer: …
Professor Kain Pathos Crow: What? He does.
Security Log C-083-K
Dr. Kondraki exits down hallway R-14 while SCP-083 pursues. Severe damage caused due to blindness inflicted by Dr. Kondraki's camera (See: scp-515-arc), which caused considerable thrashing until regeneration could set in.
SCP-083 recovers, and pursues Dr. Kondraki further into the central containment areas.
Dr. Kondraki, with a small lead, is able to enter non-sentient object containment and makes his way past two armed guards by flashing his ID.
SCP-083 enters non-sentient containment, kills and drains several nearby researchers. Searches for Dr. Kondraki within the area, resulting in further casualties.
Dr. Kondraki accesses a safe within containment, removes a circular object and retreats from containment back into Hallway R-17.
SCP-083 continues to pursue, and appears to take chase. Moments later, a flash of light is seen by a camera down the hall, and a bright, disc-like object impacts SCP-083. SCP-083 loses his leg, and falters.
Dr. Kondraki stops to observe the damage, as the disc (confirmed to be SCP-388) continues through Site 19 and eventually comes to rest 2 km away from the research facility. Dr. Kondraki approaches SCP-083 with a firearm drawn.
SCP-083 begins to regenerate, and stand up while bracing against the nearby wall. Dr. Kondraki is seen speaking, before taking off down Hallway Y-8. SCP-083 follows shortly after, hopping on one leg until the other regenerates. Seen screaming curses.
LOG ENDS
Audio Log 083-D-K-4
Dr. Kondraki – Well, at least you've got a leg to stand on, Count!
SCP-083 – I'm going to kill you slowly when I get my hands on you! You don't even know what kind of shitstorm you've gotten yourself into human, but I'm going to kill you and destroy everything you hold dear!
Dr. Kondraki – What was that? I couldn't hear you over all that arterial spurting. [He gestures to the missing leg] Hey, you know if this vampire thing doesn't work out, you'd make a great pirate!
SCP-083 – In about 5 seconds my leg is going to regenerate and I'm going to tear you to pieces.
Dr. Kondraki – Break a leg, Drac. [Dr. Kondraki departs]
SCP-083 – I'll tear a chunk out of you for every one of those stupid retorts! Every single one!
It was at this point, as Dr. Kondraki exited the area with SCP-083 in pursuit, that MTF-R-2 arrived to attempt to restore containment of “Duke”. The termination attempt had been considered a failure by command and the orders were limited to damage control. Unfortunately, the other security teams were still en route, and were never able to assist MTF-R-2. If the order hadn't gone out to evacuate all Euclid objects from the sector, they might have been able to. - O5-2
Security Log Y-083-K
Dr. Kondraki makes it to a three way intersection before SCP-083 begins to catch up. A forklift moving a large metal box is moving up the incline directly to Dr. Kondraki's right.
SCP-083 rounds the corner, but impacts the forklift which had been maneuvered to block the hall. Dr. Kondraki is seen at the door of a central staircase. At this time, they were on the 15th floor of the facility. SCP-083 proceeds to throw the metal box in a fit of frustration, before beginning to move the forklift.
Dr. Kondraki flees down the staircase. The metal box opens as it impacts the ceiling, and a large, disheveled ball of metal objects is dislodged and begins rolling down the incline.
MTF-R-2 arrives by way of the central staircase to SCP-083's current location. Dr. Kondraki passes MTF-R-2.
Contact with MTF-R-2 lost.
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-CLEF-01
Interviewer: Seriously? No mistakes?
Clef: I can't really see that Dr. Kondraki made any mistakes in his termination protocol up to this point, no.
Interviewer: Seriously?
Clef: None at all. He had a primary kill mechanism, a backup plan, and a tertiary plan as well. The fact that his plan didn't survive first contact with the enemy wasn't his fault. The deaths of MTF-Rho-2 were a sad and unforeseeable consequence of the Euclid-class SCiPs being moved…
Interviewer: I see. So tell me, Dr. Clef, what if all of this wasn't part of some plan, and he'd been making it up as he went along?
Clef: <laughs> In that case, sir, I'd say that Dr. Kondraki was a suicidal fool. But he certainly wouldn't have…
Interviewer: …
Clef: … he did?
Interviewer: I have here a copy of Dr. Kondraki's termination procedure proposal. Step one is his plan to use cat urine and a pistol loaded with silver bullets. Backup plans two, three, four, And five are listed as, and I quote, 'Wing It,' 'Make Something Up,' 'Cross That Bridge When I Come To It,' and 'Put My Head Between My Knees And Kiss My Ass Goodbye.'
Clef: [EXPLETIVE REDACTED]
Mobile Task Force Rho-2's Combat Log
MTF-R-2-1 – We're coming up the staircase now, to SCP-083's last known location. Sounds of a struggle are coming from above, our intel must be spot on.
MTF-R-2-6 – He really screwed the pooch on this one. Garlic piss, where does he get that?
MTF-R-2-1 – Quiet on the approach, Six.
MTF-R-2-3 – Sir, incoming subject, humanoid!
MTF-R-2-9 – It's…he's in a lab coat, it's not Duke. He's running straight at us, sir, neutralize him?
MTF-R-2-1 – Ready subdermal electroneutralizers, on my…what the hell is that noise?
[unidentified] ….fuck fuck fuck shit fuck dammit shit fuck! Get the hell out of the way, run for your fucking lives!
MTF-R-2-2 – He's taking off down the stairs, must have been Dr. Kondraki! But I don't see SCP-083!
MTF-R-2-1 – No contact on Duke, continue up the st-
MTF-R-2-5 – What the hell is that!? It's…massive!
MTF-R-2-1 – Open fire, open fir-
[unintelligible screams]
[Unknown] – It just crushed him! Get out of here, ge-
[screams continue, audio cuts out]
It was at this point that command began to realize that SCP-083 wasn't the only threat to Site 19 during this incident. Although at this point in time, SCP-083 had caused the death of 17 personnel, Dr. Kondraki had been involved in three cases of containment failure. Most of these personnel had been minor employees, making their loss minor in comparison. MTF-R-2 would be found by site security teams at the bottom of the staircase, completely entangled in SCP-162, with several already having been crushed to death, or bled out due to numerous lacerations. Containment of SCP-083 was quickly becoming a distant possibility, and Dr. Kondraki had vanished from visual contact. At the same time, another SCP had breached containment on the opposite side of the facility, and the chaos made details scarce. Meanwhile, SCP-083 was on a rampage trying to locate the doctor. Command was in disarray, and a choice would have to be made soon. It wasn't soon enough. - O5-2
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-Iceberg-42
Interviewer: And so you're of the opinion Dr. Kondraki handled things recklessly?
Iceberg: Oh, yes, definitely.
Interviewer: Would you call him a potential liability?
Iceberg: Obviously. He's a danger just walking around.
Interviewer: I see. Well then Doctor I-
Iceberg: I mean, look at him. The guy's a lunatic. And one given far too much power.
Interviewer: Alright then-
Iceberg: Clearly he needs to be removed from his post. Probably terminated.
Interviewer: Doctor Iceberg, that is n-
Iceberg: Now, see, this leaves a slight opening. Head of Research at Site 17. Nice job. Now, you see, with him gone, we need someone….. reliable to take his place.
Interviewer: ….
Iceberg: And I think I'm just the person to do it. I'm reliable, hardworking, good at hand to hand, intelligent, mostly sane, good at organizing, I know over 40 kinds of improvised explosives, I-
Interviewer: That's quite enough Doctor Iceberg. I believe our interview is over.
Iceberg: Inter…. Interview? You mean…. All this was recorded?
Interviewer: Yes.
Iceberg: And Kondraki will be able to see this?
Interviewer: Possibly.
Iceberg: …… I need to go write my will.
Security Log C-083-K
Visual contact resumed with Dr. Kondraki, seen breaking into a testing lab on the 7th floor, takes possession of an experimental high-tension cable, constructed from an SCP-143 alloy with carbon nano-structures.
SCP-083 seen arriving on the 7th floor, in pursuit of Dr. Kondraki. Security teams arrive to contain SCP-083 but fail to make an impact. Teams 4, 8, and 14 are wiped out. SCP-083 continues on his path.
Dr. Kondraki recovers and dons a pair of converse sneakers, recovered from Safe object containment. Dr. Kondraki appears to move at an accelerated pace. Exits containment sector, heading down Hallway D-3.
SCP-083 continues pursuit of Dr. Kondraki, ruining the containment sector. Is unable to catch Dr. Kondraki due to his enhanced speed, but is able to make up time by bypassing walls in his path. Physically.
Dr. Kondraki begins to move towards the Keter containment sector, his clearance bypassing the automated security systems. Proceeds to next checkpoint. All Mobile Task Forces are alerted to the situation.
SCP-083 is slowed by the security checkpoints, and further resistance by site security. SCP-083's regeneration is able to keep up with any wounds inflicted. Site put on full alert, and all forces are redirected to Keter containment.
Dr. Kondraki continues to pass through checkpoints. Arrives in a large containment room with a single door opposite to the entrance. Dr. Kondraki's security clearance is unable to clear the last checkpoint. He pulls an object from his coat, resembling a conical object with a pistol grip.
SCP-083 arrives in the room. Looks confused, proceeds into the center of the room. Dr. Kondraki no longer visible. SCP-083 approaches the lone door.
Dr. Kondraki's voice is detected, appearance of SCP-408 reveals him standing near the entrance to the room. A verbal exchange is observed, before Dr. Kondraki speaks into the hand held object (visuals confirm it to be a megaphone of insignificant make).
Tremors begin to rock the area, and several stress fractures are opened on the wall with the door.
Containment of Keter level threat SCP-682 compromised.
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-Dr. Gears-62
Dr. Gears: Reckless is a relative term. Viewed purely from the vantage point of a termination test carried out against a nearly-invulnerable humanoid SCP object, Dr. Kondraki's test achieved only a low to medium degree of collateral damage.
Interviewer: So you feel that Dr. Kondraki's actions were acceptable?
Dr. Gears: He achieved his intended goal. However, the loss of manpower, multiple containment breaches, widespread damage to Site 19, and general lack of planning represent a gross oversight on the part of Dr. Kondraki.
Interviewer: Demolishing a good chunk of a site is a little more than oversight in planning.
Dr. Gears: …Sir, if I may say, I think we are focusing on the wrong direction. We assume that Dr. Kondraki is a “loose cannon”, a person who is reckless and puts zero foresight into anything he does. However, this is a narrow and dangerous assumption.
Interviewer: …What are you talking about?
Dr. Gears: The human brain has a tendency to view highly complex and rapid patterns as random events. I believe that Dr. Kondraki used the termination of SCP-083 as an excuse, and the resulting highly destructive “chase” and containment breaches as a distraction.
Interviewer: So you're saying…he planned it?
Dr. Gears: Not in a traditional sense. To use a mathematical example, he started with the solution, and worked backwards to create the problem. The multiple containment failures, the evacuation of items, SCP-083 and its attacks on site staff, all these stretched the resources of Site 19 to a dangerously thin level. This allowed him to achieve what I hypothesize to be his true goal.
Interviewer: …which would be?
Dr. Gears: To ride SCP-682.
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-CLEF-01
Clef: WAIT, WHAT!?
Audio Log C-682-K
Dr. Kondraki: Well well well, look where we've ended up now, Duke. Any guesses as to what's behind door number one?Dr. Kondraki: [Laughs] I figure you'd do something like that. I'll admit that this wasn't the best place to make a tactical retreat, but I do still have my trump.Dr. Kondraki: Oh god I cannot wait to see your face! [Gestures to the megaphone] But first, why don't we invite our friend out from his little room?
Dr. Kondraki begins screaming a series of obscenities into the megaphone. SCP-083 attempts to cover his ears to no effect.[Roars and sounds of buckling metal and cracking concrete fill the air]TRANSMISSION LOST
It was at this point that Command for Site 19 made the decision to quarantine all of Sector 3 for floors 7-15, sealing it from top to bottom and effectively sealing everything within the premises. With SCP-682 on the loose, SCP-083 still a threat, and Dr. Kondraki still breathing, it was hoped that the three would end up killing each other. With the survivor being significantly weakened by the preceding brawl, containment teams would move in to restore order. There were several unforeseen issues with this plan, namely not accounting for SCP-682 (who was contained in the sector on a purely temporary basis), or Dr. Kondraki's ingenuity. If it had taken such things into consideration, it would be wise to have suggested the use of nuclear weaponry. -O5-2
Security Log C-682-K
Dr. Kondraki is able to escape the initial charge of SCP-682 as it plows through the room, disappearing once again in a cloud of SCP-408.
SCP-083 is seen engaging SCP-682, looking severely damaged from the assault but rapid regeneration is already observed helping him recover. SCP-083 is seen attempting to speak to SCP-682.
SCP-682 pauses for a moment, and “speaks” for a moment. Without warning, SCP-682 strikes at SCP-083 and tosses him across the room while severing two of his arms and one leg.
SCP-083 attempts to retreat and regenerate, but isn't able to make distance between himself and SCP-682.
SCP-682 devours SCP-083 whole. No activity until a large, rearing motion is made back.
Dr. Kondraki is seen now on the back of SCP-682, holding two ends of the high-tension cable he had recovered earlier. The rest was fitted into an improvised set of reins. Dr. Kondraki is observed “riding” SCP-682, while hollering something and waving his hat with his free hand.
SCP-682 enters an enraged state, and makes a powerful charge towards the entrance. It easily plows through the obstructions made by SCP-083, and then through the sealing walls.
Dr. Kondraki and SCP-682 have breached quarantine. Full evacuation protocols now in motion.
It was obvious at this point that things had truly escalated out of control. SCP-083 had been presumed neutralized, yes, but at the cost of releasing SCP-682 into Site 19 without proper personnel to enact containment procedures. Much like causing a flood to put out a kitchen fire, Dr. Kondraki's actions would put the entirety of Site 19 in grave danger. Most of the site's personnel had already been fully evacuated, while emergency teams attempted to stem the losses and mitigate what damages they could. The entire situation had become an unmanageable mess. Ironically, that's the exact kind of mess that Dr. Kondraki excels at managing. - O5-2
Security Log C-682-19-K
Dr. Kondraki stays atop SCP-682 for the duration, holding on despite the rapid jerking motions made by SCP-682 during its run.
SCP-682 begins to adapt as seen in previous observations, having incurred noticeable damage in its attempts to break through various obstacles. Spikes of a bone-like material begin to shoot up from its back, in an attempt to harm or kill Dr. Kondraki.
Dr. Kondraki incurs several wounds in this manner, able to avoid most of the protrusions. He attempts to make a hard turn by pulling against the cables, and is able to direct SCP-682 from his course.
SCP-682 continues to charge forward, now directed towards the personnel dormitories. During its dash, SCP-682 breaks through SCP-173's containment. At this time, both SCP-682 and Dr. Kondraki are observed to keep direct eye contact with SCP-173, despite each continuing their attempts to outmaneuver the other.
Dr. Kondraki is observed to speak to SCP-682, and a series of growls are recorded matching SCP-682's “voice”.
SCP-682 begins to crash its back into walls and ceilings, trying to crush the doctor. The apparent conversation continues.
Dr. Kondraki appears to laugh, and then make another harsh tug. He redirects SCP-682 once more, to the personnel cafeteria, after checking a device on his wrist.
SCP-682 crashes through the second quarantine dividers, and arrives in the personnel sector.
Dr. Kondraki waits until SCP-682 arrives in the cafeteria. Holding onto the cables, he vaults forwards with tremendous force, swinging up and over SCP-682's head.
SCP-682 now attempts to bite down on Dr. Kondraki as he scrambles to sit in a lone chair placed at the end of a table.
Dr. Kondraki vanishes from visual contact as SCP-682 devours him.
SCP-682 continues to cause further structural damage. Begins advancing towards current evacuation zone.
Audio Log 682-K
Dr. Kondraki: You really hold a grudge, don't you?Dr. Kondraki: No need to do me any favors, Godzilla, since you made lunch of the vampire. Why don't we just let me off and call things square?
Sounds of crunching concrete and stressed metal
Dr. Kondraki: I guess that's not an option. How about you just-[grunt]-take me to my ride, and I'll get out of your hair?Dr. Kondraki: Fair enough, let's try that.The sound of metal scraping against enamel cancels out any conversation. A sickening snap of SCP-682's jaws concludes the recording.
Evacuation Log S-E-19
Removal of Safe and Euclid items from Site 19 continue. Transport to Helipads A-E for temporary offsite containment goes well despite the current chaos.
[For the sake of relevance, this log has been redacted to focus on SCP-298 and the events in Hallway D-17]
Several Level 1 personnel are used to transport SCP-298, due to its large size. The width of SCP-298 takes up most of the hallway.
One of the personnel is seated on top of SCP-298 as it is carried, mock-playing the organ. Audio logs confirm that the seated employee had won some form of bet previous to the incident.
An explosion occurs elsewhere, causing a tremor. Several personnel falter, and SCP-298 is dropped.
An odd sound is heard and noticed by several of the men (the sound is now confirmed to be that of displaced air.) The personnel move to the back of the organ as they begin to hear a struggle.
Dr. Kondraki is spotted, having incurred several injuries. Making a leap, he bounds over SCP-298.
SCP-083 is also spotted, covered in an unknown fluid. He rounds the corner after Dr. Kondraki, but only spots several personnel and the organ. Seen speaking.
Dr. Kondraki directs the man next to him to begin playing.
Audio Log C-298-K-083
Personnel 1/298/3: Wh-who? That crazy guy who just ran past, he's right behind this thing!Dr. Kondraki: Bach. It's Bach. I like to call it, “Sucks to be you, Overture.”Personnel 1/298/2: Should I keep playing, sir?
Dr. Kondraki: Don't you dare stop, not even for a moment!Dr. Kondraki: So I was right, you can't regenerate your blood.Dr. Kondraki: Everybody dies, Duke. Just matters who dies on a given day, and today is your lucky day.
Security Log S-E-19
SCP-083's blood is drained from his body by the effect of SCP-298's music. It forms into a solid gel in the air, appearing as branches of a leafless tree.
Dr. Kondraki moves from SCP-298's platform, instructing him to keep playing. He disappears into a room down the hall.
SCP-083's blood is now completely drained, causing his desiccated corpse to fall prone. His body seems to undergo an extremely rapid decomposition, the corpse being reduced to a hollow skeleton within a minute.
Dr. Kondraki returns with a glass container, and instructs the player to stop. He begins to collect the gelled blood from the air, placing it into the clear container. After less than a minute, the blood liquefies.
Personnel appear to lack comprehension of the event that has just occurred.
Dr. Kondraki seals the container and approaches the skeleton. Retrieving the skull, he places it under his arm. Dr. Kondraki exits Site 19 via helicopter with little trouble, assumed to be part of the evac team.
Personnel are still somewhat stunned. The klaxons remind them that SCP-682 is still loose within Site 19.
EXCERPT FROM POST-INCIDENT INTERVIEW 083-AR9-59
Interviewer: So you do not think that Dr. Kondraki behaved recklessly?
Dr. Rights: I didn't say that, but relatively, compared to some of the things he's done…at least this one almost had a plan. Or some facsimile of one.
Interviewer: You have viewed the entirety of the logs, yes?
Dr. Rights: Yep. All of it. A few times, actually, and I had to review my favorite parts.
Interviewer: And you have no worries about Dr. Kondraki being a liability or a danger?
Dr. Rights: Look, the man's a master of the Indy Ploy. And sometimes, actually…all the time, there's collateral damage. But that doesn't change the fact that he, in some bizarre way, knows what he's doing. And hey…if it's saved my ass a few dozen times over, that doesn't hurt.
Interviewer: So your personal opinion is that he is not a liability?
Dr. Rights: Not as much as Edward effing Cullen, there. I mean…I've got just as big a vampire fetish as the next girl who grew up reading Anne Rice, but come on. Plus, throwing cat pee on him! That was beautiful!
Interviewer: …And in your professional opinion, having worked with Dr. Kondraki in the past?
Dr. Rights: …You clearly haven't been to site 17 lately. Professional is…not my forte. Or Kondraki's for that matter. Shame about Site 19, though…at least it went out in a blaze of badassery.
Breakroom Surveillance Log S17-█-██-████
Dr. ████: Oh my god, how does he keep making things worse?
Dr. ██████: No idea. This thing is on a delay too, by this time he probably leveled the whole facility…is he riding 682?!
Dr. ████: I can't believe we work for this guy. I have half a mind to tell that moron off myself, and resign!
Dr. Kondraki: What are you guys watching?
Dr. ████: Nothing, just our boss wrecking the Foundation's biggest site. Can you believe that guy?
Dr. Kondraki: Wow, that is pretty intense.
Dr. ██████: Dude…might want to cut the chatter.
Dr. ████: Lay off it, it's not like he's going to know I said it. If I could get away with it, I'd terminate him my…
Dr. Kondraki: Terminate who? I like this talk already.
Dr. ████: I…I think I've seen enough. I think I-I'm going to go take a walk.
Dr. Kondraki: Dibs on your seat. Anyone got popcorn? |
Incident 784-1
"… once the D-Class personnel have finished rinsing the outside of the container using fire hoses, a third personnel will approach the container, and then affix the module to the outside of the structure. The microphone should pick up any vocalizations made by Skip Seven-Eight-Four." Doctor Lorenzo indicated a microphone and a speaker located on the console. "Speak into this microphone. It will transmit to the speaker in the communications module. Seven-Eight-Four should be able to pick up the vibrations through contact."
"That will not be sufficient, Doctor Lorenzo." Director Valentine's eyes were hard as flint, matching the steely grey of her hair, and her voice carried the snap of many years of authority. "I need to get inside the containment chamber and speak to Andrews directly."
Lorenzo hesitated. "Ma'am," he said, his lilting, Castillian accent tinged with doubt, "Seven-Eight-Four is a highly dangerous Keter-Class SCP that has already claimed the life of at least one other human being. I can't recommend that you be allowed in there."
"Your objections are duly noted and overruled." She opened her briefcase and handed a manila envelope to the perplexed scientist. "My papers. As of 0600 hours this morning, Overseer Eleven has given me clearance for direct access to this artifact."
The Spaniard glanced over the papers. "Looks like it's all in order," he sighed. "Except for the fact that it's absolutely loco. All right. There's a changing room to the left of the main entrance for Foundation personnel. Remove all your clothes and personal effects and change into scrubs. Angie will get you a respirator and some goggles and brief you on the safety procedures."
"Thank you, Doctor Lorenzo."
She had expected the interior of the containment chamber to be dark and gloomy, filled with shadows and grime, a monstrous home for the monster it contained. The brightly lit chamber was far less dramatic, but given the choice between drama and safety, Valentine preferred the one that let her walk out alive.
Seven-Eight-Four's tendency to assimilate any silicon and metal it came into contact with meant that steel and glass were verboten. Transparent acrylic and concrete were the materials of choice. The heavy concrete container rested at the bottom of a deep pool of acetone, the sharp odor of the solvent cutting through her paper-and-cloth respirator mask. The acetone was a safety measure: the nanomachines that made up the artifact's mechanical portions were very similar to proteins, and would disintegrate under heat and heavy solvents.
She tried not to think about the fail-safe measure that relied on the first method.
"You didn't have to come in here with me," she said.
The figure in the blue hazmat suit next to her shook its head, the gesture muted by the loose hood. "I'm responsible for this artifact," Lorenzo said. "I'm not letting an outsider in here alone."
"I see. Please tell the Deltas to raise the artifact."
Lorenzo nodded to the two figures in orange hazmat suits, who began to turn the capstan on the far side of the chamber. A series of ropes and pulleys, all made out of non-metallic materials, raised the heavy concrete chamber out of its acetone bath like a monster rising from the sea depths. A third D-Class, carrying a sprayer on its back, stood by nervously, fiddling with the controls of his device. "If I may ask, what's the reason for all this?" Lorenzo asked.
"Psychological analysis," Valentine said. "Overseers want to find out what's going on in his head."
"Really? Because I can tell you right now. Nothing. He's like an animal, all he knows is food and pain. I know he was some kind of agent before, but he's just a monster now."
"He wasn't just 'some kind of agent,' Lorenzo, he was a member of Pandora's Box. He's the one who stopped Steel Doll. He's helped capture over a dozen SCPs in the wild, three Keter-Class. He was… he IS a hero, and he deserves better than to be treated like a caged beast." Her last words were punctuated by the heavy thud of the containment chamber being locked into place, suspended just over the pool of solvent.
Lorenzo's lip twisted into a half-sneer, half smile. "I'm sorry. I'll be sure to show the proper respect," he said.
"See that you do. Is it possible for me to speak to him directly?" Valentine asked.
"There is a port on the top of the chamber for replenishing the nutrient bath. We normally keep it sealed except when attached to the pipe, but…"
"Do it."
Lorenzo nodded and shouted something in Spanish to the figures in the orange haz-mat suits. They flinched noticeably. One of them protested in the same language, only to be shouted down by Lorenzo. There was a brief hesitation, then one of the D-Classes started to gingerly approach the concrete cube, while the other two grabbed sprayers and looked on nervously. "Please stay behind the yellow line, Director," Lorenzo said. "We've been trying to train him not to cross the line using aversion therapy. It's been… well, we've had some success."
"Thank you." Valentine stepped back over the spray-painted line on the floor. "Any particular reason why the containment crew is mostly Spanish-speaking?"
"Easy to acquire. Some third-world dictator needs a few trouble-makers disappeared? We need a few warm bodies. Mutually beneficial agreement." Lorenzo smiled. "I think the guy climbing the ladder's here for calling Hugo Chavez a fat bastard on national TV."
"Hm." Valentine crossed her arms. "Convenient."
"Absolutely. Oh, hang on, here it comes. This is actually pretty cool," Lorenzo said, chuckling nervously.
The D-Class opened the port, then hastily ran down the ladder and back to his companions, picking up a spray tank and strapping it to his back. Slowly at first, a tendril of steel and glass emerged from the opening, swaying back and forth like a snake. A bulbous growth appeared at the end, then split open to reveal a small blue gem the size of a marble. "We're pretty sure that's a visual receptor of some sort," Lorenzo whispered. "It seems to be made up of thousands of tiny photoreceptors and lenses, kind of like an insect's eye."
"How well does he see?" Valentine asked.
"Well enough."
The tendril snaked towards the two scientists, approached the yellow line, hesitated. The sapphire-blue eye turned towards the D-Classes, who gripped their sprayers tightly. The thing paused, then withdrew about a meter from the line. The orange-suited men relaxed visibly.
"If it crosses the line, it gets a full spray from the solvent, then reduced nutrition for a week," Lorenzo explained. "It seems to be the only way to get it to obey." He smiled at Valentine. The older woman just stared back at him coldly, and the younger scientist coughed and cleared his throat.
Valentine turned her attention back to Seven-Eight Four, which seemed to be reconfiguring itself. A blob of nanomaterial oozed down the length of the tendril (like a mouse being swallowed by a snake, she thought), then formed itself into a crude face, a second blue eye opening up next to the first. Valentine had seen photographs of Agent Andrews before his accident, and recognized the pudgy cheeks and pursed lips: the rest of it, however, was crude, a vague approximation of a human face formed by a mind that had nearly forgotten what it looked like.
"Andrews," Valentine said. "Can you hear me?"
"Seven-Eight-Four can pick up air vibrations," Lorenzo chimed in. "It talks back by forming and vibrating…"
"Shut up." Valentine cut Lorenzo off angrily. "Andrews," she repeated, "Can you hear me?"
The mouth opened, and a membrane stretching across the back, just behind the teeth, began to vibrate. "yessssss," it said, in a buzzing, electronic approximation of a human voice. "i kckkckkcan hear yyyou."
"Do you know who I am, Andrews?" Valentine said.
"anddddddrrrrrers is deaddeddeddead i am sevensevev—"
"Do you know who I am, Andrews?" Valentine repeated sternly.
The eyes turned and regarded Valentine closely. "dirrrrecccctor jjjjjanice valenvalentine. yoyoyou werrrrrrrre the one the one who reckakckakrcruited mmmmmmme from em em em eye yay titititieee."
"Yes, Andrews," Valentine said, smiling. Her eyes were bright with triumph. "So you do remember things from the past."
"rrrrremember. nnnononono longerrlongerrrrr carrrre. i am stitstststeeel now. steeel. perfect. moving beyond mere fleshflesh to perfection."
"Really?" Valentine's smile widened to a fierce, triumphant grin. She pulled off her hazmat suit glove, and before Lorenzo realized what she was doing, had pulled a small photograph out from the glove, held it up in front of the creature's eyes. It depicted a young woman wearing a blue hospital gown laying on a bed, hooked up to a respirator, her eyes staring blankly up at the camera flash. "And what if I told you," the Director said, "that Beatrix Maddox is still alive?"
Part 2: Negotiation |
24/12/2008
Well, Christmas Eve is here, and I believe Mr. Kringle may have infected the staff with cheer, because the amount of work getting done is non existent. Of course, I'm one to talk… I'm the one who allowed them to do it, as well as stopping my own personal experiments. (Mainly because I feel bad if I indirectly allow someone to get killed horrifically at Christmas.)
I've even stopped the experiment on Emily for the past few days, and well, requisitioned some time off for her. Granted, owing to the state of her condition, she still is unready for a heavily urbanized area, but she was allowed to venture outside for a good deal, near the grove, although of course, she wasn't actually allowed inside it.
Zero's body has stabilized enough for the implantation for us to continue, and finally merge the mental body and the physical one. We're going to do it tomorrow. So, my assistant is technically going to be "born" on Christmas day. Not a bad present if I do say so myself.
25/12/2008
SHE'S ALIVE!
28/12/2008
I've spent most of the past few days with Zero. Since she has woken up, it has taken her three days to learn to do pretty much everything that takes a normal human child twenty years. I'm fairly sure she hasn't slept in that time, but I'm not sure she needs to.
Christmas was good, and thankfully uneventful. Most of the residents and SCP alike enjoyed what little trinkets or services they received. Emily was especially happy at what she received. I gave her a little television, one with access to most children's channels, to be available for an hour or two a day. I myself received a very nice holiday to Spain, thanks to a very special certain someone. They know who they are. Although the staff seem curiously joyous at that.
Ah, yes, Zero's name. I was pleasantly surprised when she told me of it. So many connotations, so many meanings. She told me as soon as she could form the words.
Sophia.
02/01/2009
Well, the role of being a father has fallen to me these past few days, as well as site administrator. I've been easing Sophia into the real world, trying to make the transition as painless as possible, and, as expected, Sophia is taking to everything like a fish does to water. She's learned decades of research, centuries of history, over seven different languages, and still her appetite for knowledge has not been sated. Soon she might overshadow even me.
The only thing that has me worried, is that high command have decreed that since she seems to be working so well that they've ordered full scale production, albeit with some minor alterations to the original product. I realize that this is for the good for the Foundation, and the world at large, but I just can't help but feel that its cheapening the original life I brought into this world. Sentimentality… Bah, one day feelings like this will be the death of me.
Most of the on site research has been reinstated, and finally the site is getting back to work. Experimentation with Emily, and trying to improve her mental condition is continuing again, despite the fact she just wants to watch "Ruby Gloom" all the time. And I told her handlers to ration the time she has with the television… I guess we're going to have to slowly wean her off of it a little.
The excavation area has been completely ignored over the holidays, and although I, as always, lament the lack of research being performed, I can at least appreciate the fact that no one has died, mutated, or even gone insane in that area. But alas, we must continue with testing. Excavation is still disallowed, at least until we figure out what exactly is this "thing" in the center. We'll be doing testing with the bone orb. I don't want to subject Sophia to whatever danger that may be there, as she might be more susceptible to it due to her multidimensional nature.
On the bright side, I shall be leaving for my brief little holiday on Wednesday, although, it is rather unfortunate that I must leave behind the walker, and be accompanied by several armed guards, not to mention the fact I can't go sight seeing or into public places or even outside without disguise "procedures", i.e. being naked. Granted, as a dog, I have no real need for clothes, but dammit, I don't exactly enjoy being naked either. It's rather demeaning….
Dammit, I hate being a dog sometimes. I am looking forward to the food though, and my company will be superb. If, that is, they can get some sort of feeling of privacy despite the dozen or so armed guards around us. Damn.
14/01/2009
Finally, I've returned to my home, and place of work… Took me long enough, what with several bureaucratic blunders to try and fix along the way just so I could make it back here. Seriously, why does a dog need a passport? And that bloody quarantine thing? Argh, next time I'm not leaving the country. Well, maybe.
Other than that, the trip was quite nice, though more for the company than the locale. The area was that saturated with holiday homes and the like, that it was practically a little slice of England, weather and all, which was not exactly to the liking of my palette.
In total, I saw only four actual Spaniards. And I never even managed to sample a bowl of paella, which is rather upsetting. Although we did go to this rather nice little restaurant with the most delicious steaks… Though the staff were a little apprehensive about serving a dog. Still, I spoke the language of all people, the language of money. Of course, I used someone else to say this. I'd rather not exhaust my vocabulary trying to hush up word of a talking dog.
All in all, a nice trip, but not one I will be repeating in the near future.
Sophia dealt well with my absence, managing the affairs of the site with ease, and continuing the experimentation with Emily, though she left it to me to make sure the log for said experiments are in order.
There's been a great influx of new employee's in my absence. Apparently, the Overwatch feels we need "new blood", so to speak, and for once, I happen to agree with them. Many hands make light work, as they say.
Still, I hope they don't turn out to be similar to a certain late doctor. I know it's rather rude to speak ill of the dead, but the man was completely stupid. I mean, I take risks at times, but I temper them with judgment of the situation. But doing what he did? That was practically suicide, even if Clef hadn't been involved. Bah, enough talk of a dead fool.
The experimentation on the excavation site has finally been fully authorized to commence, as it had been postponed due to the absence of the lead project director, (i.e. me). It will begin tomorrow at 0800 hours. Staff will be at full alert, and several of the test Olympians will be mobilized and ready for action should anything happen. This should be… interesting, to say the least. |
The following are excerpts from psychological evaluations performed by Dr. Simon Glass on Foundation personnel
Dr. Glass: Alright, let's get this started. Dr. Alto Clef -
Dr. Clef: [Subject hands Dr. Glass a ukelele]
Dr. Glass: … Very well. Dr. [With some difficulty strums an A major chord] let us begin this interview. If you could please remove those cinnamon rolls from-
Dr. Clef: Twists.
Dr. Glass: Pardon?
Dr. Clef: These are cinnamon twists, not rolls. Do you want one?
Dr. Glass: Oh. Do you have any not in your nose?
Dr. Clef: No.
Dr. Glass: Well then, no thank you. Let's take a look at - oh lord, who let him bring a shotgun in here?
Dr. Glass: So, Agent Diogenes, h-how's it going?
Agent Diogenes: I'm fine, but I'm wondering why I need a psych evaluation every week. Most people only do theirs once a month.
Dr. Glass: Right right, so, listen, what are you doing Saturday night?
Agent Diogenes: Uhm…
Dr. Glass: W-well, uhm, do you like hiking?
Dr. Glass: Haven't been to Site 19 in ages. Why is it that you can't come to site 17 again?
Dr. Bright: Ook.
Dr. Glass: Oh, right. Someone get me a D-Class in here for a few minutes…
Director Ghost: Small, slow circles. Trust me, she'll love it.
Dr. Glass: [Taking notes]: wait, with my tongue or hands?
Dr. Kondraki: Alright, so then, he stumbles on some entrails, and I manage to catch up to him.
Dr. Glass: Ahuh…
Dr. Kondraki: So I shoot his fucking face off, bam, just like that. Brains everywhere, oh man it was great. That D-Class with me was bawling like a baby!
Dr. Glass: That's your -favorite- memory of working for the Foundation?
Dr. Bright: They just don't trust me! Like I actually want to be the body of some stupid SCP.
Dr. Glass: Well it would give you some form of stable body.
Dr. Bright: Working on that with Kain actually. Gonna use 291 to make me a new body. Say, those are some amazing hands you've got there. Do you use them often?
Dr. Glass: Well, look at that, our time is up.
Dr. Glass: And how did that make you feel?
Dr. Rights: Like killing him! I mean, there I was, all ready and willing for sex, and he buys a video game? It was just so, so-
Dr. Glass: Agatha, please put that lamp down. Agatha… Security, Security to exam room A!
Dr. Gears: …
Dr. Glass: This isn't that hard, just tell me what you see, anything at all.
Dr. Gears: …I see a symmetrical inkblot, comprised of what appears to be Black #4 ink. The paper is folded in the middle, leading to the conclusion that it is a Rorschach, or "ink blot", test.
Dr. Glass: …Ok…but do you see any shapes? Like a butterfly, or a ocean, people, anything at all?
Dr. Gears: No.
Dr. Glass: Are you sure? It looked like you might have saw something there for a second…
Dr. Gears: No. I see a collection of black, abstract shapes.
Dr. Glass: …Okay…we can try something else now…just…stop staring at me like that…
Dr. Glass: …
Dr. Clef: …
Dr. Glass: So… what shall we talk…
Dr. Clef: I've been kind of thinking about killing everyone in the base.
Dr. Glass: … what?
Dr. Clef: Nothing.
Dr. Glass: I thought you said you were thinking about killing everyone in the base.
Dr. Clef: Are you kidding me? I never said that. Why would I say I sometimes think I'm going to wake up one morning, take my straight razor out of its jar of blue disinfectant, cut my assistant's throat, and then run through the halls of the base naked slashing anyone who gets in my way?
Dr. Glass: You… you just said it again!
Dr. Clef: Said what? Are you feeling all right, Dr. Glass? You look pale.
Dr. Glass: You just threatened to brutally murder myself and everyone in the base!?
Dr. Clef: No I didn't.
Dr. Glass: Yes you did! I'll play it back, listen!
<Sound of a tape recorder being played back>
Dr. Clef: Really? All I hear is me telling you about waking up in the morning and shaving.
Dr. Glass: WHAT? Listen! You just said…
Dr. Clef: You know, Dr. Glass, auditory hallucinations are often caused by overwork and stress. Maybe you should take a break for a while.
Dr. Glass: … Clef, you're not getting out of this interview. You're merely trying to scare me into ending this interview early with inane threats of violence, and I must warn you that such cavalier tactics are clearly transparent, now if …
Dr. Clef: Why would I do that? That's as ridiculous as claiming that I've prepared a soporific-laced gum to give to you under the guise of a friendly offer of refreshments, thus knocking you out so that I can dispatch you at my leisure and throw your body into the incinerator, destroying all evidence, meaning that it will never be traceable back to me.
Dr. Glass: …
Dr. Clef: You don't look well, Dr. Glass. Maybe you should lie down and close your eyes for a bit.
Dr. Glass: … Alright, you can go ..
Dr. Clef: Piece of gum?
Dr. Glass: …
Dr. Gears: …
Dr. Glass: A butterfly?
Dr. Gears: No.
Dr. Glass: Octopus?
Dr. Gears: No.
Dr. Glass: A horrible face-melting explosion?
Dr. Gears: …No.
Dr. Glass: Fluffy puppies?
Dr. Gears: No.
Dr. Glass: You're telling me you don't see the happy little puppy right here? Look, at the bottom of the paper…
Dr. Gears: I see an abstract blot of black ink…and your finger.
Dr. Glass: …how can you be so cooperative and so frustrating at the same time…
Dr. Kondraki: All right, so that's when I noticed that the bloodstains led to the janitor's closet. Sneaky fucker tried to hide out behind the brooms and mops while he bled out!
Dr. Glass: Are you…seriously claiming that you engaged in a gunfight with several level 2 personnel over a failure to replace the filter in the coffee machine?
Dr. Kondraki: Well you might not see it as a big-
Dr. Glass: A coffee machine in a break room that you no longer use?
Dr. Kondraki: The issue here is the principle of the thing, Glassy. No filter means no coffee, no coffee means tired researchers, tired researchers means mistakes, costly mistakes end up as red numbers in my paperwork pile. See where I'm going with this?
Dr. Glass: [pause] Dr. Kondraki, I'd appreciate it if you would stop polishing your sword during the evaluation.
Dr. Kondraki: Bothering you, doc?
Dr. Glass: [sigh]
Dr. Kondraki: You don't mind if I smoke, right?
Notes:
As my official statement, I would like to note that I think all Foundation personnel are deeply disturbed, amoral human beings suffering from varying states of anomie. Except Agent Diogenes, who is a very nice young lady/man who should go bowling with me on Saturday. Dr. Glass
Note:
Glass, s/he's just not that into you. Pull on yer big boy pants and deal. Also, who the hell thought it was a good idea to give ME access to these files? Dr. Bright.
Note: Several interview segments have been altered due to the sensitivity of information made privy to Dr. Kondraki as an administrator of Site 17. Events as depicted are to be endorsed and considered fact for archival purposes. Those with level 4 clearance may see Document [DATA EXPUNGED] for information regarding the "Mr. Coffee" incident(s). O5-2 |
“Do I hear five hundred thousand pounds?”
“…”
“Thank you…do I hear five fifty?”
“…”
“Thank you ma'am…do I hear six hundred?”
“…”
“Thank you…six fifty?”
“One million pounds.”
“…t-thank you sir. Do I hear more?”
“…”
“Sold, to Mr. McCredie. Thank you so much sir. This next lot…”
The bald man who had just spent an absurd amount of money on a small, somewhat tacky yin-yang medallion rose from his seat and exited the small, lavishly decorated auction room, entering a separate room filled with thick leather chairs, a small but well stocked bar, several men and women in very expensive dress, and a sizeable Christmas tree. The smell of smoke was very noticeable, but not unpleasant as the bald man lit a cigarette to add to the general haze. A short, stocky man in a non-descript black suit walked up, bowing slightly before speaking.
“Sir, I take it that you acquired the…um…”
“Yes, yes…” the bald man said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Marten, bring the car up for me, and have a valet just load the medallion into the trunk; I don't want to wait for that ‘secured shipping' nonsense for weeks. We'll be going to the airstrip in a bit; I'd like to be at the Paris club by this evening.”
Marten bowed slightly again “Yes, Mr. McCredie. If I may, your recent acquisition may attract unwanted attention. I can have it routed through a service in Bhutan that is excellent in dealing with these matters.”
Mr. McCredie took a long drag on his cigarette, waving his hand again as he started to eye a bottle of aged scotch behind the bar. “Of course, do whatever is necessary, but I want that necklace in Paris by this weekend. Also, have Arthur and Grant ready in Paris when I get there.”
Marten followed Mr. McCredie as he strode up to the bar, acquiring a very good and very expensive glass of scotch with a few gestures to the bartender. Marten bowed and spoke again as Mr. McCredie took his first slow sip. “Will Mrs. McCredie be joining you on this evening's flight?”
Mr. McCredie's face twisted with a sour expression as he put down his drink. “No, no…she's still pouting in her new apartment over my having to work on her birthday…but we'll soon see to that, won't we!” He laughed, taking another sip. “Send for her tomorrow morning. If she makes a fuss, say…I don't know, something romantic or some such. She's young, and still loves to think of herself as a princess…oh, say that she'll get to meet royalty, that should shut her up and get her packing.”
Marten moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. “And the…special considerations you asked for have been attended to as well. A local funeral home has offered its services and crematorium for modest compensation as soon as we are in need.”
McCredie scowled at Marten, waving him away as he turned back to his scotch. “Really, is it necessary to inform me of every little step? Go; make things ready, I'll be leaving here in the hour. Really, I don't know why I still bother with these Christmas get-togethers, they always end on some sour note…are you still here? I said go!” Marten bowed and quickly walked off, leaving McCredie to his scotch and a drab conversation with a member of the English parliament.
June McCredie came off the jet in bluster of expensive silk, blond hair, and whining. “This isn't another one of his stupid little business meetings, is it? I swear, if he drags me all around town to meet a bunch of old, stupid men in suits, I'm going to scream. With all the meetings and social stuff he does, you'd think he'd find time to go to one or two real parties! You know, music and dancing and fancy drinks and all that stuff…not gagging on smoke having to listen to fat old guys talk about pricing strategies and having to act interested.” She hurried off the tarmac and into the reception area of the McCredie's private airstrip, as Marten directed the unloading of her considerable baggage from the jet.
Later, as her car ambled its way down the busy Paris streets, she continued her monologue, directing it at the back of Marten's head as he drove. “Really, this is it. I don't need him, if he's not going to put some time into our relationship, I don't know how this is going to work. We've been married a year, and we've only gone on three vacations, just the two of us. Now all he wants to do is stay at that club of his all day and smoke and drink.” She ended in a huff, crossing her arms and pouting out the window.
Marten smiled, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Ma'am, I'm sure you appreciate his position. Your husband is a powerful man, and needs to keep up appearances to maintain his position.”
June huffed again, burying herself more into the leather seats and watching Paris roll by. At a stop, she piped up again, still looking out the window. “Marten…is…is John in trouble? I mean…with the government or anything?”
Marten stiffened a little at the wheel, his smile unfazed. “No ma'am, Mr. McCredie has a quite friendly relationship with parliament, as far as I am aware.”
“Oh,” she sighed, “I was worried…some men came by, asking about him. They said it was about some delivery to India or something…it sounded like he was in trouble.”
Marten smiled and shook his head, ignoring the sweat starting to form on his palms. “I'm sure it's some kind of mix-up, nothing to worry about.”
She nodded, resting her chin on the edge of the door, looking out the window. “I'm sure…they said something about a foundation or something when they were in the hall…probably just some charity looking for a handout.”
Marten nodded, quietly wiping away a bead of sweat on his forehead as they started forward again. “Yes, that must be it, very good ma'am…”
After dropping June off at a suitably ostentatious hotel to “freshen up” for the evening, Marten worked his way down a network of side streets to the Pairs chapter clubhouse of Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd, buried in a mass of hotels and boutiques. After parking in the private underground lot, Marten walked to the elevator, punching in the code for Mr. McCredie's private room. Almost as soon as the doors opened, he was roughly grabbed and hurled inside by Arthur and Grant, landing in a heap. Lifting his head, he took in the room for a moment, decorated in late Victorian style, except for the oddly out of place steel door on the far wall. Mr. McCredie sat in a huge leather chair, smoking and looking down at Marten with mild amusement. Arthur wrapped a huge hand into Marten's collar, lifting him back to his feet as Grant took position next to McCredie's chair.
McCredie spoke, smoke drifting from his mouth. “Foundation agents were at my home yesterday. Care to explain?”
Marten swallowed hard, sweating under McCredie's lazy but piercing gaze. “Th…they know nothing, sir. If they knew it was you, they would have already raided the club. They are not the police or government; they don't have to justify anything to anyone. Shooting in the dark is all they can do now.” His voice carried much more confidence then he felt, and he was sharply aware of the gun-shaped lump in Arthur's jacket pressing into his spine.
McCredie took a long drag on his cigarette, thinking, before waving his hand, causing Arthur to drop him again. “Honestly,” McCredie said, “I believe you. However, we can't have these things happening again, understand? I pay you bloody well enough; I expect things to be taken care of in the proper fashion. Speaking of which, did you manage to get my darling wife to the hotel in one piece?”
Marten nodded, adjusting his suit. “Yes, she should be here by this evening.”
“Excellent,” spoke McCredie, rubbing his hands together. “We should have this all wrapped up by dinner. Grant, you and Arthur make sure everything is ready for June, will you?” Both huge men nodded, moving back and opening the heavy steel door, given Marten a view of the bare tiled walls and stained concrete floor drain beyond before the door swung shut again. McCredie rose, stubbing out his cigarette out and grinning “Well, let's give her an hour, and then we'll get this mess over and done with!”
“Ugh…why do these places always smell like smoke and old people? Why can't we ever meet at some club or something? God, I really think he goes out of his way to bug me sometimes…” June flipped her hair back in disgust, looking around at the sitting room, her black dress shining with small interwoven crystals. “Why did he want me here even? Aren't we supposed to be going out for dinner?”
Marten nodded, smiling. “Yes ma'am, and he will be along shortly. In the meantime, he wished for me to give you a small gift on his behalf.” Her eyes immediately lit up, a grin spreading over her face as she squealed happily.
“Really? Where is it? Oooh, I love presents…”
Marten gestured to the steel door, and she hurried over, pulling it open with some effort. “Ugh…what a heavy door…ooh, is that it? It's…just a yin-yang with a little chain. How is that…what is this place? Arthur? What are you doing…let…let ME GO!” The start of her scream was cut off sharply as Marten gently closed the door.
McCredie reclined in his chair, chuckling slightly as he looked to the small speaker planted on the coffee table before him. “You're a loon, Harper, you know that don't you? It takes real dedication to keep playing a game you're bad at.” A short burst of laughter from the speaker quickly devolved in to a coughing fit, before the voice gave a gasp and replied. “McCredie, you're not any better then me at the cards, you just cheat better then anyone else at the table. Besides, don't you still owe me two from that Easter game?”
McCredie scoffed, waving his hand at the speaker as if it could see, his head turning slightly as Marten quietly opened the steel door and strode over to him, the sound of a muffled sob quickly squelched as the door re-closed. Marten leaned down, whispering “Sadness, sir” quietly in to McCredie's ear, causing the bald man to shake his head, face pinched as if he'd bitten something sour “Oh, lord, no, not at all…that's a good chap.” McCredie shook his head twice and Marten slipped back behind the steel door, the short, soft thud that came several seconds later muffled by Harper asking about McCredie's plans for the following evening.
“Going to take the wife out for walkies? You've kept her so tight under wraps people are beginning to talk old man. Or perhaps there's another reason for your social hermitage? Young blood for old bones?” Harper ended with another gale of laughter and coughing, McCredie sighing and placing his hand over his face, even as he sported a slight grin.
“You know how it can be Harper. Just getting her presentable before I go trotting about and making a fool of myself.” He missed Harper's reply as Marten slid silently up to him again. “Jealousy, sir.” McCredie thought for a moment, before shaking his head again. “No, no…a little green can liven up a woman, but more trouble then it's worth.”
McCredie turned back, chatting with Harper about tomorrow night's gala, occasionally broken by Marten stepping out to whisper in to McCredie's ear, or a louder then normal sound from behind the door. As Harper droned on about his new system for poker, there was a sudden, sharp knock on the steel door, followed by several other, soft thumps. McCredie twisted in his chair, Harper's disembodied voice all but forgotten as the steel door handle suddenly wrenched open, and a bloody, shrieking banshee lunged from behind it.
McCredie shouted, and attempted to run from the room, hide behind his chair, and strike at the screaming wrath before him, which caused him to succeed only in sending him tripping in to a heap on the floor. The lank, howling form before him ripped the chair aside, bloody blond hair sending a spray of crimson droplets across the room, her yawning mouth drooling a stream of blood and saliva. Lashing out with hands twisted in to talons, she gouged and ripped her way closer to McCredie, who was quickly backing away along the floor, eyes locked on the twitching, screaming horror.
She leapt, and landed at his feet, blood splattering on his face and hands, McCredie giving a cry of revulsion and horror as her arms pulled back to lash and rip against his face. Before the mutilating blow was struck, however, there was a loud, solid thud, much like dropping a melon from a small height. The bloody, screaming thing went silent, her arms frozen a moment, before seeming to drift to her head as if she were under water. Locked in that pose for what seemed a eternity, she suddenly pitched to the side as a sizable block of dark wood connected with her temple, sending her sprawling to the side, her temple visibly dented as blood began to drool over her silent, still face.
Marten stood, panting, behind where the woman had stood, blinking as he looked at a broken chair leg in his hand as if it had somehow magically appeared there. A large man was lumbering his way from the room behind the steel door, hand over his face, which was leaking a great deal of blood. Another man's feet were just visible through the doorway. They did not appear to be moving. McCredie rose, trembling, and looked between the far room, and the broken, bleeding thing on the floor, mouth working soundlessly.
It was several seconds before he was able to speak, and when he did, it sounded nothing like him. Gone was the bluster, the pompous flash, leaving the hollow, rattling husk of a whisper, emanating from a man who had just seen death, and knew that it missed him dearly. “W-what…what was…” he trailed off, unable to muster the strength to continue, eyes wide with shock. Marten placed the chair leg down on the table, gently, before adjusting his shirt sleeve. “Anger, sir. We were…not expecting the ferocity. Arthur may have lost a eye. I think Grant is dead.”
McCredie nodded, not hearing a word, looking at the twisted, broken body on the floor. He rubbed his face, and looked in renewed horror as his hands came away bloody from the splatter she had sprayed. “Oh…oh god…I…need to go. I need to change, I…I…” he trailed off again, sputtering and going silent as he slowly started to back away from the bloody scene before him. Marten nodded as Arthur stumbled in to a chair, groaning as he continued to hold his face. “Of course sir. The car will be waiting for you, I will attend to things here sir.”
McCredie mumbled a “quite right…very good…” as he stumbled like a sleep walker to the door, glancing back only once, before rushing out the door and down to the car. Marten had been pulling the gun from Arthur's free hand as the man moaned, blood dripping between his fingers and down his chest. However, it wasn't that which sent him sprinting to the safety of his car, nor even the broken wrath on the floor. It had been the sight of June, taking two hesitant steps from the small room behind the steel door. June, arms lifeless at her sides, shivering slightly and unheeding of her torn dress or bloody feet. June, who's eyes had found his for a split second, and shown him a deep tunnel in to a being who's entire existence had shrunk to a heart beat and expanding lungs.
Much later, Marten called McCredie, to inform him the re-integration had proceeded without incident, and the events of the afternoon had been erased. McCredie replaced the receiver without speaking, mentally screaming that they had bloody well not been erased. Walking to the drawing room, he pulled a large bottle of whiskey and a glass from the bar, before tossing the glass aside with a dull thud and drinking deeply from the bottle. To his credit, he did not finish the bottle, but that was only because of his falling through the floor of wakefulness like a millstone through plywood. There, he slept the sleep of the numbed and horrified, the whiskey clouding and dulling the clawing, shrieking horrors that would swirl on the edges of his awareness for a long time to come.
“Bloody hell old man, why didn't you tell me? She's a vision, no wonder you've been dabbling with hermitage! I doubt I'd have the strength to rejoin society, with that strutting about the house!” Harper clapped McCredie on the back, hunching over with another laughing bout of coughs. McCredie twisted away slightly, still somewhat tired from the night before and not in the best humor. He turned to face the direction of Harper's comment, wincing slightly at Harper's loud, rattling cough.
June McCredie stood on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in a simple black dress, her laughter bubbling around the room and drawing admirers like moths to flame. Mr. McCredie had been getting comments all night on his “diamond in the rough”, and those who had previously met her begged to know what had caused the sudden, dramatic shift. Gone was the spoiled little rich girl, to be replaced by a charming, funny (and even a touch flirtatious) high society girl. So what if she laughs a little too long, and appears to be about as deep as a soap dish, his fellows said, too much depth can lead to complications.
McCredie could only offer a cheap smile and shrug his shoulders, as he did now with Harper. The coughing man straightened up with a small amount of difficulty, and clapped him again on the back. “Fine, you old tom, you keep your secret. I'm off to the green room for a round and a game, I think I've been around you enough for the good luck to rub off!” chuckling slightly, Harper limped off, snatching a drink from a passing tray, and leaving McCredie alone for the first time that evening.
He stood, watching his new wife framed with a ring of admirers, and shivered. Where the others saw the bubbling, fawning beauty, all he could see was a shrieking, bloody horror, screaming and snapping for his flesh. He shuddered, and looked away, catching the eye of Laura DeFoe, who was leaning against the bar. She nodded to him, then smiled, looking away and shaking her head, before turning back and raising her glass, her smile much more coy. McCredie broke in to the first genuine smile of the day, and tipped a imaginary hat to her. A bit older then his normal fair, she was never the less a very handsome woman…
“Honey, I was just talking to your friends, and they wanted to go out for a party tomorrow, just a small group. It sounds like such fun, but I wouldn't dream of doing anything without you darling!” June gushed, grabbing McCredie's arm and nuzzling it slightly with her cheek, breaking his revere. He reflexively flinched away, before relaxing a bit, still eyeing her with a degree of suspicion. “June, I'm rather tired, why don't you go back to the car, Marten will take you home. I'll be along presently.”
June looked up, her smile never flickering, but her eyes were glassy, and her movements seemed ever so slightly jerky. “Whatever you say my love, I'll go right away! I'll be waiting for you when you get home.” Her voice was a lilting tease, and she gave him a gentle poke with her finger before moving away, her dress swishing as she strode across the room. McCredie turned back to the bar, hoping DeFoe had not seen, and was pleased to see her engrossed in conversation with Harper, the old man doubled over in another fit. McCredie straightened his tie a bit and started over to the bar, feeling the thrill of the safari as DeFoe started to turn back to him.
His advance was halted just feet short of his goal by another associate, who took his hand and shook it vigorously, heaping him with congratulations. He bore it in good humor, as DeFoe was now watching, and he extracted his hand with a smile. “She's beautiful, I mean, just radiant. I'm stunned, she's…she's…” the young man fumbled, and McCredie turned to face DeFoe directly, her smile a promise and a invitation. He took a glass from the bar and raised it to her, his broken wife and the stuttering young man forgotten even has he finished the fumbling sentence.
“She's perfect.” |
Some day, they'll all be immortalised in verse, eh. Enjoy
"682"
Big angry lizard
Kind of grumpy, but still fun
Until he eats you
"447"
Delicious slime ball
Leaves one feeling minty fresh
No dead bodies, please
"173"
If you close your eyes
It will break your fucking neck
Try not to blink, son
"261"
Odd vending machine
Every snack a new surprise
Orgasm muffins
"184"
Where did that thing go
The hallway is different now
Twelve rights and a left
"262"
Fashionable coat
Produces arms from within
Gets kind of grabby
"165"
resting wall to wall
beware the hungry sand dune
microscopic bugs
"251"
Pretty land of snow
Swirling in a crystal ball
Giant spider time
"177"
One-player chess game
Black pieces move on their own
And gloat when they win
"125"
Hiker passing by
Finds a dragon in the ice
Looks a little shit
-A Fat Ghost
"297"
It feels pretty good
Just don't touch the last setting
Really, don't do it
"015"
Lots and lots of pipes
Miles and miles of it even
Filled with who knows what
"162"
Scalpels, needles, saws
Scissors, knives and fishing hooks
This will be painful
"291"
Takes people apart
But they're still okay mostly
In bits and pieces
"335"
One hundred and fifty
It's the whole damn internet
On some little disks
"335"/lol version
The whole internet
I just accidentally
Is this dangerous
"WTF"
Oh god, what is that
It's just so fucking freaky
Wat I don't even
-K.P. Crow
"882"
Lots and lots of gears,
Destroys minds and eats metals,
Grind grind grind grind grind
"055"
Um… wait… just a bit
I know I had something here
But… damn, I forgot
-SLR
"973"
Smokey the bad cop
Kills all lawbreakers dead and
Says "runfuckerrun"
"292"
Roses are Red and
Violets are blue… wait, have I
done this allready?
-Edrobot
"1333-J"
Apocalypse man.
Consult a necromancer
or else we're all fucked
"10101-J"
Aw yeah, who's a man
and a half? I'm 12.0 on
the scale of badness!
"914"
Pop it in and close,
Whatever you need improved,
Crank, Clank, Crank, Clank, Ding!
-SnugglyChaos
"248"
Paste me if you want,
I promise I will make it
Better than when new!
-SnugglyChaos
"1463"
Purple fun for all
Can even purple a ball
Brovisr Funtastic!
-SnugglyChaos
"1066"
The pen makes its mark
The student learns instantly
Time marches onwards
"1231"
Computer with folks
Try not to think about them
If you do, they're screwed
"1000"
Old civilized apes
They want to fucking kill us
Should we let them in?
-Reject
"931"
I don't understand.
Did I just write in Haiku?
This bowl is trouble.
"1481"
Sobbing in his cup.
He wishes for more cocaine.
It didn't appear.
"Serpents"
Gears was gone. She wants…
wanted the answers. But now?
Queen to A5. Check.
"Wondertainment"
Crafting joy, madness,
misters, toys, and happiness!
Just while supplies last!
"Dangerous to View"
Anonymous us,
Anomalous we made this,
So, are we cool yet?
"Dear"
Made you a new one.
What's lost is lost, but Eric,
come home, we miss you.
"008"
Dangerous virus,
well, technically a prion,
and it makes zombies.
"2406"
The giant of bronze
Built by MEKHANE, to oppose
The Flesh and Karcists.
"093"
Small rock, many worlds
Glass sees in you, hope They don't
your colour, your hell
"804"
Art piece that hates us
Kept in Alaska, why not?
Don't go near it, please
"649"
Matchbox of winter
This is very fucking cold
How does it work though?
"504"
Bowl of tomatoes
No horribly bad jokes, please
Pelted otherwise
"2053"
Coloured plastic cube
A father longs for his child
Asks, "WHERE IS MY SON".
"012"
Driving you insane
A blood-soaked composition
Music filling graves
"●●|●●●●●|●●|●"
...- .- -. .. - -.-- / -.-. .- -. / -.- .. .-.. .-..
- .... .. ... / -.-. .-. . .- - ..- .-. . / ... - . .- .-.. ... / -.. --- -.-. ..- -- . -. - ...
.... --- .--. . / .. - / -.-. .- -. .----. - / ... .--. . .- -.- / -- --- .-. ... .
"3930"
Apophenia
allows us to see patterns
even from nothing.
"1162"
Stick your hand in it.
"Hey! I found my long-lost toy!"
"Huh? Where'd my badge go?"
"426"
I am a toaster.
Anyone who mentions me
uses first-person.
"3663"
Crawling in the pipes
The tunnel monster, that's me
…I didn't want this.
"748"
Through the sobs and screams
Roars a growing Factory
They're back in business
"176"
I dream of living
Longer than seven seconds
Again and again
"Lloyd"
We are infinite
And yet, as the world burns down
I am left alone
"1867"
I'm so conflicted.
How can I, a gentleman,
be a small sea slug?
"2085"
Quintet of cyborgs
Those cyborgs are catgirls too
Wizard says "Fuck you"
"2030"
We just wanna laugh!
Don't you cry, it's just a prank!
I'm going to hell.
"Three Moons Initiative"
In the afterlife
One group wants to save our world
Love, watch, and protect
-
"000"
WHAT…What is screaming?
Is it a witch or a ghost?
But Nobody knows.
"Fine"
Just Five syllables,
Do not exceed six vowels,
SEVEN is coming
-Etinjat
"3774"
A nervous insect
A sad, lonely janitor
The perfect couple
"1471"
An app for lonely people,
A rotting dog like creature,
God damn it Bright not again
"2935"
Place devoid of life
Do not let it enter here
Seal it with concrete
"096"
Don't look at me,
I'm very shy.
If you see my face,
You're going to die.
SCP—J
I'll write this later or something.
"SCP-001"
I don't know my clearance isn't high enough
[REDACTED], [REDACTED]
And some more [REDACTED] stuff
"And The Stars Forever Singing"
Spectrum of dead thought
Through green, pink, blue smoke signals
Five fifths deep below
"To Those Who Make Music"
Sing with me, Makers
Let us form a symphony
Against darkness
"3000"
Ananteshesha
"Whoops, your memories are gone,"
Says the giant eel.
-Bart0nius
“3001”
Scranton is alone,
All he has is a red light.
This one made me cry.
-chronognosis
“3008”
I can't find the door,
But at least I have meatballs.
The store is now closed.
“4092”
He's your new stepdad!
Your mom's unaware of this.
He won't go away.
”006-J”
A big little bug
Creeping uHOLY SHIT ITS ON MY BACK FUCK FUCK
"1756"
Siskel and Ebert
The best afterlife, they say
They give two thumbs up
"106"
I keep seeing black shit everywhere, it's disgusting.
It's littering I tell you, kids these fucking days…
No god damn appreciation for the environment.
"5000"
Unfolding unseen,
Echoes from depths whisper close, anomaly's grasp,
Unveiling terror's embrace.
–Dr Avenlee
"Administrator"
Silent guardian veils,
Weaving fates through hidden paths, whispers wield power,
Mystery's shrouded overseer.
–Dr Avenlee
"085"
Pencil stroke alive,
Paper realm where she resides,
Bound by drawn confines.
–Dr Avenlee
"105"
Shutter's whispered click,
Worlds within a photo's frame,
Iris weaves through stills.
–Dr Avenlee
"999"
Gooey, playful friend,
Jelly's joyous trend,
Healing touch, no end.
–Dr Avenlee |
I'm walking through the snow. The crunch of my footsteps creates a slow, yet persistent rhythm, the lack of a breeze allowing the sound to carry surprisingly far. My name is Neil, and I am hunting a flying deer across a mountainside in early January.
It had been a full six hours earlier that one of the Special Containment Procedures Foundation vans had pulled up to the loading entrance of Sector-28, a horse trailer running doggedly along behind it. Given the weather, I was surprised that whatever they had brought with them was still alive. The heating must have been excellent.
Just when I think I've lost my way, I spot a solitary set of hoofprints. It had touched down in this direction recently, and I'm fairly proud of myself for being able to track it so well. Silently praying that the wind doesn't pick up, I continue my trek and increase my pace. I'll pin that furry bastard down eventually.
Had I been briefed on what was in that trailer, I wouldn't have been so forward in my decision to throw open the doors once the van was parked. Immediately, what looked like a whitetail deer had leapt out at me, catching its footing on the edge of the doorway long enough to vault over my head. It had time enough, then, to deploy those eerie skin flaps that flying squirrels have, and glide off toward the woods.
The trees get thicker in front of me. I hope that the poor thing hasn't landed in one and broken its neck. Letting it escape is one thing, but having it wind up dead would probably mean the same for me. The snowbanks sloping gently from the pine trunks mean more effort in every step through the deepening white. A slight clearing appears up ahead, and I decide to wait. It has to land sometime, and I might as well capitalise on that.
The deer, if that is in fact what it is, is a strange one. Other than the obvious ability to remain off the ground, it can rotate its shoulders and bring its legs out perpendicular to its body, in order to unfurl the usually-hidden skin folds. As I hurriedly dig myself a spot to hide in the snow, I sift through memories of classes and lectures in order to find out what that skin is called. Soon enough, an idea comes to me: The patagium, that gliding membrane, is useless without the ability to adjust its tautness. All I would have to do is hop on the flying ungulate, and hog tie it with my belt. Easier said than done, I presume.
Suddenly, a shadow runs overhead, and my eyes are drawn upward. It's the deer, and that flying Bambi son-of-a-bitch has decided to land at the end of the clearing opposite from where I'm hiding. He lays down, though; the cold is tiring him out far too quickly. I guess it's now or never: Belt in hand, pants precariously dropping, I spring toward my quarry with the loudest obscenities I can manage.
Three more hours later, and I'm back at Sector-28. The sun's going down, it's colder than a snowman's rump, and I'm carrying an unconscious deer. I only managed to tie two of its legs together, but it wasn't in much shape to reach cruising altitude anyhow. Handing it off to the crew inside the loading doors, I make my way to my office-slash-quarters, for a shower, change of clothes, and hot pocket. No sooner am I in the fancy door with my name across the front than I wonder what exactly is going to be done with my fuzzy-tailed foe, and what number it'll be assigned among the mounting hordes of crazy crap that we have to deal with.
I'm awoken at some unacceptably early hour by the ringing of my interoffice telephone. One of the research directors launches into a thanks for my retrieval of Seven-Twenty-Eight, and asks me quite politely to handle the three more like it arriving later in the week. It's not like I have a choice, I suppose. I stretch out my arm to hang up the phone, but the director interjects with another fun piece of information: I'm needed to round up a retrieval team and investigate claims of a living breakfast somewhere in the States. I think I might resign some time in the very near future. |
Another quiet day in this quiet town.
On the east side of town stood a bank. It wasn't a large bank, it wasn't a small bank, just a bank. The neighborhood was small, and most importantly, didn't ask many questions. Such as why people commonly came through and cashed in at that bank, despite the fact none of them lived in the town. But, then, they worked for Soap from Corpses Products, Inc. It was best not to worry too much about any nutters who worked at that kind of job.
Two cars pulled up, right in front of the bank. An old VW bus with a faded red paintjob, and a nearly as old blue Ford Mustang. Neither had particular identifying marks, which is just how their owners liked it. Anyone who took the time to check their license plates would come up with names of men who didn't exist, several states over. The car doors opened, and out came five men. If their clothing didn't give away what they were up to, their guns did. 9mm handguns and pump action shotguns, and at least one had something automatic. This bank was a little small for their usual tastes, but they could always use easy money. They pushed open the bank doors, guns held up.
"Everybody down, now!"
Most did as they were told, men, women, even the pair of security guards. Notable, however, was the group clustered near one of the tellers. The rest of the town knew them as simply employees of Soap from Corpses Products, Inc. A motley crew that certainly didn't look like soap makers, all of them looking a little tired, or distracted, or like they were in a hurry. One in a lab coat stared at the bank robbers for a second, before speaking.
"Are you fucking kidding me? On payday?"
There was a beat of silence, somewhere between tense and awkward, and the men holding weapons reacted first.
"Are you deaf or something? Stupid? Get down!"
The group in lab coats stayed standing, looking from one to another before one of them — a short, stout woman with long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail — snorted loudly, bringing a hand to her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle her choked-back, muffled laughter. The men frowned under their ski masks and narrowed their eyes, while another man in a lab coat sighed heavily, bringing his palm up to meet his face.
"Rights, stop it."
"I'm trying."
"Look, gentlemen, this is patently ridiculous." The large tattooed black man looked rather out of place, especially with the golden bling around his neck. "Do you in fact intend to rob this establishment in such a manner? I mean-"
"Shut the fuck up, or I'll shoot you."
"Come now, that type of talk is completely uncalled for, and useless besi-"
BLAM!
The large black man stared down at the hole in his torso, and sighed resignedly. "And I had just got this body in the shape I wanted too." His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor, dead as a doornail, his pretty necklace sliding across the floor.
"God damn it," the woman called Rights, muttered, but kept giggling.
A tall man with a shaved head stepped forward from the group, appearing remarkably calm for the situation, and addressed one of the men in a oddly toneless voice. "Sir, I would request you leave the premises immediately. Your actions may cause a unnecessary delay in our return to our duties, in addition to the delay already created by your neutralization of Dr. Bright."
A man with lank, stringy hair and a small beard stepped forward, pointing a shotgun at the bald man's face. "Are you serious? you're trying to argue us out because you're going to be late?" He laughed, and jabbed the bald man with the barrel of his gun. "Does nobody here get this? Does nobody see the dead man? We are not SCREWING AROUND!" He fired a round into the ceiling, causing most of the bank patrons to flinch or drop to the floor. The bald man continued to stare, unfazed.
"Your attempts at intimidation are misdirected. Even discounting my unique mental state, a shotgun is not the proper tool to elicit compliance from myself or my co-workers. Firearms and the threat of being shot are relatively low in our estimation of dangerous situations, so much so that some members of staff use it almost as a form of greeting." At this, a man in a ball cap and another with a hook nose and a wide grin began to snicker. "You lack the ability to incite the level of fear needed for immediate compliance with your requests. Your current course of action will not, in any way, lead to your desired resolution."
The man with the long hair and shot gun cocked his head to the side, confused. "The hell… who the hell are you people?"
"Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Gears… use less words. I think you've made the poor robber confused!", the woman snipped again.
One of the gunmen — the shortest of the bunch — snagged the necklace from the floor and slipped it on over his head. Hey, loot was loot, after all. He never even noticed being replaced in his own head. He did however, subtly shift the gun in a new direction, and give a wink and a thumb's-up to the rest of the group.
"Do you think this is some kind of game?" the long-haired man continued. The shortest robber ever-so-slowly began to redirect his aim. Originally aimed at the woman, it now pointed at the man with the shaved head. "Is this some kind of joke to you?" The short man's gun moved a bit more towards the man in the ball cap. "Do you think that this gun is a fake?" One last tiny shift had the barrel pointed squarely at the long-haired gunman's back. At the same time, the long-haired gunman pointed his shotgun at the still-giggling Rights. |
Extract from the Journal of Doctor Buried:
It fits doesn't it. In the old textbooks from my school days with all the families of organisms charted out, viruses were conspicuously absent. And they said viruses were "not living" but "not dead" either. something else. sounds like a cop-out to me. a way to say we don't know without admitting it. you know what the phrases "not living" and 'but not dead" sound like when used together? they sound like they're describing a robot. and that's exactly what it looked like up close. A machine. a piece of programming. It reminds me of the concept of a von Neumann probe. Alien civilizations wouldn't waste the money to build spaceships. it's too unwieldy. Illogical. They would build these little probes. self replicating. They use the resources of the environment to build other probes to spy and explore as well. when I first read that, I thought of these probes drilling into rock and metal to build an identical copy. But why metal, when there's something so much more abundant?
Who sent them? And exactly for what reason?
Status Update 5615-YY-23
All the members of The Virus capture team have ended up in the medical ward with severe illness and side effects due to a complete lack of bacteria in and on their body, which has unbalanced their immune systems. As some bacteria is necessarily, or helpful, they have come down with rare esoteric diseases which most humans are protected from. Commander Riger for example has developed an intestinal fungus last found on the earth three thousand years ago owing to the absence of any microbes in his gastrointestinal tract.
Document from Research and Observation sent to the Head of Security for Site ██
List of weapons possessed by the Virus:
All legs are extraordinarily sharp. The data so far indicts that at enough speed they could slice through any material found on Earth. They seem to be akin to nanofiber knifes, and have approximately the same cutting ability. They are also used in impaling.
Legs three and six have missile launchers attached to them. These lob bolts of energy that when hit the target cause a small explosion. They can be launched as balls (which can roll and bounce) or streaks.
Leg five near the bottom splits off into six separate thick metallic claws, separated from each by 60 degree angles. These claws can pinch open and shut. When pressed together they shoot an energy that can pass through walls, and selectively choose it targets. The energy can also hit a target and prime it for explosion, whether that explosion happens seconds or hours later.
Near the meeting point of the body and the head, there is a spot where blades fly out at great speeds. These blades can slice in a circle around the point and then are folded back in. The upper limit seems to be three at this time.
The Virus can drill through solid surfaces, including human bodies. It can also fall from a distance to increase momentum in the piercing.
From certain points on the crystalline head, steady lasers can emanate. They remain straight lines that can be moved to cut anything in their path.
A pulse that is emitted from The Virus's crystalline head. This pulse has been confirmed to kill all bacteria in a mile radius. Lethality is 100 percent, unless the victim is put on life support immediately, and injected with new micro-organisms.
(scrawled on the paper)
They aren't going to waste that treatment on your group, Sargassi. Be careful.
Head of Security Sarasgassi Mutusah's Briefing:
Sarasgassi Mutusah: Now you've read the weapons list. And it isn't pretty. If this thing wakes up from hibernation or whatever the fuck it's doing, and decides to act the way it was before, we're fucked. But that doesn't mean we're not going to try to contain it. A report should be coming soon. I've heard rumors that the people upstairs might even lend us a stasis field. They might use the beloved taxpayers money to build it a vacuum cell. It so, lucky us. It's locked up pretty tightly then. Good. But if they suddenly decided to be stringy, or for some reason we don't get any good gear, or it takes to long, we're not going to freak out. It's going to be business as usual, ok? We're just going to have to put our trust in our guns. We're going to do this in an orderly fashion no matter how much it worries us. No visitors unless permission from the O5s. The room is guarded at all time. We're going to install titanium reinforcements. Set up a camera feed and throw in some plated glass. Don't roll your eyes at me Johnson. You think I give a fuck that it can break through? It makes the scientists feel better. We're going to patrol the hallways surrounding the room. I want all the adjacent rooms in lock down so this thing doesn't inadvertently cause a mass escape. Hell, in fact, I'm putting this whole site in lock down until this thing gets figured out….
Juan Gonalez: Them I'm guessing topside-
Sarasgassi Mutusah: Yeah (twirls finger) get the tanks rolling… well i think that should be it… oh if any of you don't have heavy arms yet, go to the weapons master and get equipped… What was that? You think I care if Gatling guns strain your back? Ok, get out of here and get to work… wait… I want a full shift around the clock too! No skeleton crew!
(groans)
Sarasgassi Mutusah: You think you guys could sleep anyways after hearing about this thing?
Audio Log of Conversation between Doctor Buried and Doctor Rumez:
Doctor Rumez: What is that red light going around and around The Virus? Its been projecting it for hours. And I've looked at the security footage and it has touched almost every part of the base.
Doctor Buried: We discovered that it lingers, almost imperceptibly, on computer, books, and other writings.
Doctor Rumez: ….are you…
Doctor Buried: It's a translator, Vanessa.
Audio Log of The Virus' cell at 2100 hours:
The Virus: LINGUISTIC SYNTHESIS COMPLETE. 100 PERCENT. COMMENCE COMMUNICATION (legs pop back out of head and it stands up)
Doctor Buried: Oh my god.
The Virus: COMMUNICATION HAS BEEN DEEMED STRATEGIC BY BATTLE CORE. IT IS IN MY BEST INTERESTS TO ENDEAVOUR TO CEASE HOSTILITIES. I DID NOT KNOW YOU WERE CONSCIOUS ENTITIES BEFORE.
Doctor Buried: ah… were…do you come… who… where did you come from?
The Virus: FOR-
(loud sound blares all other noises)
Transcript of Conversation between Doctor Gregore and Sarasgassi Mutusah:
Doctor Gregore: Turn the god dam alarm off!
Sarasgassi Mutusah: My evacuation orders are still in effect. I have deemed the situation-
Doctor Gregore: It's not attacking! It's talking!
Sarasgassi Mutusah: Excuse me?
Doctor Gregore: It's sentient!
Audio Log of The Virus' cell at 2134 Hours:
Prof. Stringnik: What is your name?
The Virus: MY IDENTIFICATION NUMBER IS VIRAL ORGANISM 133345355675 BUILT IN STATION 3435353533535353.
Prof. Stringnik: What is your function?
The Virus: I AM A WAR MACHINE WITH ESPIONAGE , REPLICATING, AND SCOUT ABILITIES SPECIFICALLY DESIGNED TO EXCEL ON EARTH.
Prof. Stringnik: War machine? who are fighting against?
The Virus: THE BACTERIUM, THE RULING POWER ON THIS PLANET.
Prof. Stringnik: What? Human beings are the-
The Virus: NEGATIVE. UNTIL YESTERDAY IT WAS UNKNOWN THAT YOU WERE EVEN CONSCIOUS.
Prof. Stringnik: I see… ah… so tell more of the conflict between your kind and the Bacterium.
The Virus: THEY CLAIM WE ARE INVADERS. THAT WE HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE HERE. THEY SAY THEY ARE THE OWNERS OF THIS WORLD. THE SHEPHERDS OF THE FLESH GLOBULES. THEY INHABIT THE GREAT STRUCTURES, MULTIPLY AND CHANGE THEM. THEY ARE AMBASSADORS TO THE DEEP MOLDS WHO WE MUST DESTROY. WE DUEL IN BATTLEFIELDS OF MEAT ACID AND IN THE WET BETWEEN.
Prof. Stringnik: Why are you so large when all the others of your kind are small?
The Virus: I AM NOT AN ANOMALY. I AM SIMPLY NOT MEANT TO BE IN THIS UNIVERSE. I COME FROM AN ALTERNATE PERMUTATION. IT IS UNWIELDY TO MOVE UNDER ONES OWN POWER FROM THE VOID TO THE ASSIGNED PLANET, SO WE USE TELEPORTATION. IT IS RARE BUT NOT UNHEARD FOR THE WORMHOLE TO DISPLACE THE TRAVELER IN PARALLEL AXIS.
Prof. Stringnik: So in your home dimension, everyone's this big?
The Virus: AFFIRMATIVE.
Prof. Stringnik: Do you have any plans or means to return?
The Virus: I AM CURRENTLY BEING TRACKED. A CONNECTION WILL BE ESTABLISHED AND REMAIN OPEN UNTIL I ENTER.
Prof. Stringnik: I see. Can someone else take over for me? I have to talk to an overseer.
Interview Four with The Virus:
Doctor Gung: Why did you go on that rampage when you entered our reality?
The Virus: I WAS IN PANIC MODE. THE ENVIRONMENT WAS ONE I WAS NOT PROGRAMMED FOR. IT DEFIED MY LOGIC SYSTEMS. COHERENCY WAS AT 43 PERCENT.
Doctor: Really? What caused you to stop?
The Virus: AFTER SEVERAL IMPROBABLE EVENTS OCCURRED I REALIZED I WAS BEING ASSAULTED BY INTELLIGENT CREATURES. IF I COULD INTEGRATE THEIR PROCESS', I WOULD BE ABLE TO SEE THE SURROUNDINGS THROUGH THEIR PARADIGM. THIS WOULD HALT DEGENERACY.
Doctor Gung: So now you're fine? You're at an acceptable level?
The Virus: NEGATIVE. SANITY IS STILL SLIPPING, HOWEVER IT IS AT A SLIGHTLY SLOWER RATE. THE ARTIFICIAL MIND I HAVE CREATED TO CONVERSE WITH YOU DAMAGES THE ORIGINAL PRE SET PARAMETERS. IN TWO POINT FIVE HOURS A MARKEDLY INCREASE IN AGGRESSION, PANIC, AND ANALYSIS FAILURE WILL BE OBVIOUS TO OUTSIDE OBSERVERS. WHEN IT REACHES THIS I MUST SHUT DOWN AND DETONATE, SINCE NO RETRIEVAL TEAM IS SENT FOR ME.
Doctor Gung: Is there any way to continue this exchange without harming your mind?
The Virus: (it lowers its bodies and a twisted object extends out of its head, a blue, glowing, extension that looks like a light filament) INJECTION INTO THE LOWER STATUS LIFEFORM TO YOUR LEFT WOULD CREATE A COPY OF ME THAT COULD RETAIN PARTS OF A HUMAN MIND. THIS COULD BE USED TO FACILITATE A EASIER UNDERSTANDING.
Doctor Gung: oh god no… no..we don't want to do that, at least not yet.
Extract from Classified Overseer Material:
A few signs that require a BI-class end of the world scenario to be declared is the presence of a technology, organization, or entity that could feasibly open up a portal from one dimension to another, where some force capable of invasion resides. Another is if a large group of aliens arrive within our solar system or have the means to do so in a short span of time. Do not focus on the differences between the two situations, and subsets in one situation, it is not the width or distance that matters, or the metaphorical closeness between alterations of the timeline or laws of physics, only the ease that they could reach Earth, whether this be from a complete different plane of existence or the moon.
Note from Overseer ██████ to Overseer █████:
I know Professor Stringnik is pushing for a BI but he always does ignore the more mundane issues. Probably cause they're too boring. What about a NK-class? I know it's not as exciting, but did you hear the tapes? Any guess on how big the detonation going to be?
Interview Five:
Prof. Stringnik: Just one final question.
The Virus: YES?
Prof. Stringnik: Why do you persist in scanning? I thought you said you translated enough already. And yes we detected it. You thought you could hide it from us by putting it on another frequency?
THE VIRUS: I SCAN FOR INFORMATION.
Prof. Stringnik: But isn't additional data detrimental to your stability?
The Virus: INDEPENDENT DETACHED PROCESSORS HAVE DETERMINED THAT MY SURVIVAL IS NEGLIGABLE COMPARED TO THE USEFULNESS OF THE INFORMATION I AM CURRENTLY OBTAINING.
Prof. Stringnik: Useful? Useful for what!
Incident Report 6001-XX-32:
Witness: Igor Black Date:██/██/██/
Soon after the sixth interview with the virus, a temporal disturbance was detected approximately one yard away to its right. The Virus immediately begin moving towards what appeared to me to be a window, that wavered like a heat vision, on the wall. As there were barriers separating its cell from the portal, the virus had to use force to reach its destination. It lifted up one leg and in a throwing motion spun a small disc against the wall. The disc attached to the wall and then exploded, created a hole which it walked through. It did this three other times for three other walls all the while getting hit with rifle fire. As it reached the-
Extract from Monthly Psychological Review of Stephen Foot:
Stephen Foot: And I looked in and jesus… I saw… I saw these colors and these perspectives. And the sounds were indescribable, thumping and clashing louder than planes taking off. Booming from the hole. And then I saw this giant blob that was expanding and twitching these little tentacles on its body. Since the rip was floating in the air, it looked like this thing, this blob was floating there too. And there's this black pole off in the side… I think… I think it was a human hair!
Extract from the Journal of Doctor Buried:
Right it before it entered the portal, it paused and faced us. Everyone stopped shooting. It begin to talk, and I actually thought it was trying to leave on a… I don't know…friendly note. It said in a bewildered, well I guess as bewildered as that computer voice could sound, tone "You think? I did…i did not know this" I felt this ray of hope, like we had connected with something, maybe not an alliance, but some kind of understanding. Good things could come out of this knowledge. But then it said kind of quietly "You think… I will tell them… I will….many will infect your minds and become one… will control….. this will help us" And then it left…
What have we done to the other world? What have we done to this one?
Extract from the Journal of Doctor Cooker:
You know, psychics and telepaths, no matter how well they train, no matter how well their mental blocks are, always hear this static in the background. while laying down. while thinking quietly. while sleeping. it was always assumed this was because while they could block out constantly listening in on a conscious level, they still hear the thoughts of others ever so slightly, a mumbling that wouldn't go away. but what if it's not people's thoughts? what if it's just… little minds… very tiny ones… that if anyone actually stopped ignoring like they were suppose to for one moment and tried to reach, would be discovered to be completely alien? |
Not up to scale
Incident Report 5615-XX-16
Witness: Charles Vuncouth Date: ██/██/██/
Synopsis: At 1500 hours, I was told by my direct superiors that I was going to be airdropped into a neighborhood in the city of ██████, to deal with a situation that had been positively confirmed by previous field agents to require Foundation assistance. The problem was told to me to be of a viral nature, far beyond the means of the Health Department and we were to take over for them, using any means necessary to stop the Virus from leaving the city-
Extract from Incident Report 5615-XX-3
Witness: Jonathen Toque Date: ██/██/██/
-and by following the pathway of fallen civilians and general chaos, we discerned that it traveled in a rather sharp curve from where it was first discovered in a northwest direction. The streets that had been affected were in a state of panic, caused by terror, and most of the populace was either hysterical or rioting. The surrounding environment was in flames, cars were flipped over, and-
Memo from team Doctor:
Doctor: And the symptoms are headaches, nausea,-
Partial Transcript of Agent Filding and Agent Cincluire's Conversation:
Agent Filding: I hate it when Doctor Figerald leaves the worst symptoms for last. The list just goes on and on and then…
Agent Cincluire: I know what you mean. I think he gets some sadistic glee out of it. Starts it out slow and then… by the end you're shivering, crapping your pants.
Audio Log 5615-YY-1
Agent Filding: JESUS CHRIST! How the hell did it do that?! (Agent Filding is indicating a large smoking hole on the chest of victim Number 348.)
Extract from Incident Report 5615-XX-5
Witness: Cuthbert Figerald Date: ██/██/██/
-spontaneous combustion, the searing of limbs, the flesh exploding off the frame of the body, and first degree burns. As most of the effects of The Virus seemed to involve heat and large outpouring of energy, tentatively identified as plasma beams, I advised the team to-
Extract from Incident Report 5615-XX-3
Witness: Jonathen Toque Date: ██/██/██/
-All of the survivors have been terminated so far, and the Virus was quarantined in ██████████████ Hostipal. We blocked off the entrance and exits, and did a quick sweep of the area. After this was completed, I was ordered by Commander Riger to split up with a second squad and patrol the first floor, while squad four was to search for any ways out of the building and guard them, and squads three and five searched for any other civilians. Squad One-
Transcript of conversation between Commander Riger and O-5 ███████████:
O-5: You know what I'll have to do if it isn't stopped in an hour.
Commander Riger: Planes already ready, sir?
0-5: Affirmative.
Commander Riger: Napalm?
O-5: Something like that, but a little more advanced. You know the boys, always finding ways to reinvent the wheel.
Commander Riger: Well, it's not like we can use the procedures we normally do on this virus.
0-5: (chuckles) You're right about that, Jim, you're right about that.
Commander Riger: You know what Charles Vuncouth said he was going put in his report if he survived? Some little quip. Little Bastard. He's like-
Log of Agent Robertson and Agent Dunkupt conversation:
Agent Dunkupt: AH! AH! (sprays the ceiling with bullet fire)
Agent Robertson: What's your problem man! Calm down!
Agent Dunkupt: I thought I saw something up there, man! Jesus. This whole thing is creeping me out. (Looks around corner nervously)
Agent Robertson: Just take a deep breath and focus.
Agent Dunkupt: I know, I know, I just… have you seen what it does to its victims? I don't want to end up like them!
Extract from civilian interview 5435:
███████████ ████ : It came at me on these freakish spidery legs. My husband, can you believe it-
Extract from a Foundation handbook: Most of the infections we deal with only catch our attention because they pose an incredible danger, for one of two reasons; a high rate of transfer, or the disease will in some way transform the sufferer instead of killing them, either into a simple carrier with violent or unsettling traits, or in the case of a complex SCP, a single part of a hive mind. These victims are to be treated as enemies, and given no mercy or quarter.
Camera Footage from Agent Bykansis' Helmet:
(a civilian is on his knees. Agent Cunderham is pointing a rifle at his forehead)
██████ ██████: You don't have to do this! Please! I have a family, I have-
Agent Cunderham: Yes I do…
Agent Bykansis: Shoot him before the virus-
(the civilian begins moaning and twitching)
Agent Cunderham: Jesus!
(Commander Riger walks over to the civilian, and discharges a service pistol to his head)
Extract from Incident Report 5615-XX-3
-There was a slight scratching behind the wall. We were worried that it might be civilians, so we sent a team through the door. The noise soon became even louder, and highly audible. It would stop and the start, making a disturbing sound, like something was clawing lightly on the other side. Most of the men became frantic and seemed to be waiting for something, although I commend their courage. When-
Extract Incident Report 5615-XX-6
Witness: Melissa Elle Date: ██/██/██/
At this point, the Virus burst through the wall. It landed and then almost in the same instance impaled Agent Robertson on one of its extremely thin spidery legs. After that, it lifted up another appendage. The limb was razor sharp all the way up until the middle, where it became slightly, almost unnoticeably bulkier. From my view, it looked like some sort of mechanism was strapped on. From this thickness out of what I perceived to be a hole, shot a quick beam of light, with a tail much like a flare. This rocket, in my belief, hit Agent Mer, exploded, killing him and wounding those near by. The Virus then climbed up the wall and onto the ceiling, where it moved quickly from side to side, avoiding us. It attacked almost like it was trapped. Although I could not fully perceive it due to its speed, it looked like a thin metallic looking tube with a crystalline many-faceted shape on top. This shape was transparent and filled with one small strand, and many little air bubbles containing glowing lights. The Virus then landed in the middle of our squad and begin emitting lasers out of its pores on its outer shell. These lasers decapitated Agents Munch and Agents Doorctun, and severed the hand of Doctor Vanesten. Its crystalline part then begin to spin and emit a throbbing pulse that had no observed effect.
Extract from the rough draft of a SCP report:
Description: SCP-XXX is a bacteriophage approximately 1 billion times larger than found in nature. It has several alterations from our knowledge of a common virus, although if this is because it is changed in different ways along with its size, or because these weapons and abilities simply can not be detected by our technology (microscope and otherwise) is unknown at the time. It has the ability to reason and strategize, although it was described as "skittish" "afraid" "confused" and "unsure of its self" by civilians at the scene of its capture. Once again, if this intellect is a natural product of the environment, found in our world as well, or a mutation is deeply related to the question above.
A note from the Administrative Secretary to Charles Vuncouth:
You think you're funny throwing in all your snide comments? "Of a viral nature" and "you don't think the heath department can handle it". No shit they can't handle it up! You need to stop with the jokes… this is serious business.
Extract from Incident Report 5615-XX-2
Witness: Norman Riger Date: ██/██/██/
It must be remarked that almost all The Virus' actions besides its ambush were of a defensive nature. Although it is of a highly advanced design, it was bewildered and most likely experiencing a sensory overload. I decided to capitalize on this and overwhelm it with firepower. My men and I formed a circle around the virus (unsafe, I know, but it was in the heat of the moment) and began shooting away. It seemed frightened and quelled. A grenade thrown bounced off it and exploded. At this point, its head begin spinning again, however this time extremely rapidly. Its legs began jerking and moving, and as it rotated it began to drill into the ground. It soon drilled through the second floor and then while falling, pierced the first. We had planned for this eventuality and an explosive in the sewer tunnels launched the object up into the air, which is when we shot several nets at it, entangling it. It fell on the street. After a few minutes of laying there, its legs retreated into its body and it righted itself, so only the transparent part was laying there. As we reached it, a beaded red light projected from a specific follicle. This light scanned the entire area around it and continued to do so even after we loaded it up into the helicopter.
Interview with civilian 135345:
██████████████ ██████████: I was there when it appeared. It was in the middle of the mall and all of a sudden this rip in the middle of the air appears. It's just floating there, and it starts getting bigger and bigger and this sucking sound comes from it. Then this leg gracefully extends, hovers for a second, and the whole monster comes hopping out. It lands, and then just stands there, turning its ah… head thing slightly. Everyone screaming and running away but after five minutes, all the cowards are gone, and it's just the adventurous souls like me left. We start going around it. It's still just standing there, motionless, like a statue. And then this one guy, he's like full of awe or something, reaches out to touch it. He gets like a centimeter away, and all of a sudden there's this weird machine sound and the head spins, and attached to it on the bottom is this blade, slices the guys head off. Then the thing just breaks loose and starts sprinting, I mean, really all out, towards the window. There's this fat security cop in the way and he can't get away in time, so the creature lifts one of its legs while still running and just blows the guy away. Then when it gets to the window it leaps through the glass and lands on the street, in the middle of the busy street and starts running down it, flipping over cars and getting hit by them, too. And you could tell it was freaking out. It didn't know what way to go. It would stop and then head some other direction. I don't think it was bad, just… so alien…
Footage from Sergent Mongel's helmet camera:
(Sergent Mongel and Agent Hitchins are shooting wildly at the Virus with assault rifles.)
Mongel: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! God! God! Get back!
(It begins heading towards them. They move backwards and then kneel, expending even more ammo, which seems to have no effect.)
Hitchins: Fuck! OH GOD! shit! Kill the motherfucker, kill it!
Mongel: (screaming)
(The virus is a few feet away, it lifts a foot. Before it can activate any attack, Agent Lukcan jumps in the middle and stabs it with a knife. Only the hilt is pulled away, smoking, and he is knocked aside with one leg, slamming against a wall. Both Hitchins and Mongel are now screaming unintelligibly.)
Memo from the team Doctor:
Doctor: And the symptoms are headaches, nausea, nightmares, shock, flashbacks, and inability to live daily normal life. Post combat stress disorder is a serious illness, please come to me, someone who was there with you, or one of your counselors. It was quite a battle we faced yesterday. |
After getting quite a few technical issue notes attached straight to my personnel file, I've decided to update the servers with a tech issue file. Place a dated note or comment into the tech files and I will get to it as soon as possible. The previous notes have been moved from my personnel file to the page, and I encourage any returned notes to be placed as responses. Thank you.
Note: 01-10-09
Gep, I have an internal server error 571 while trying to contact the Foundation, gimme a scan for probable hackers and track their source locations ASAP! -CarrionTrooper
Note:
Internal Service Error 571? … Am I reading this correctly? Five-seventy-one? … …
Were you holding the device upside-down? -Pat
Note: 01-10-09
Don't worry about Carrion, Pat. We taught him everything the wrong way, on purpose. It was a slow day, and Clef and Kondraki bet me I couldn't do it. Okay, maybe they didn't bet me, maybe they inferred it. Okay, maybe I just decided to try it on my own, so what? -Dr. Bright
Note:
Bright, please at least ATTEMPT to date your inquiries and such. It makes it a lot easier on ME. Please. For me.
And you tried what on your own? An Internal Service Error 571 isn't a hacking error of any type, Bright… so… what did you actually do? -Pat
Note: 01-10-09 Hey Pat, I do not hold my own laptop upside-down, and I am logging in from a secure location in Indonesia. How IS Dr. Bright able to do… whatever it is he did without hacking? - CarrionTrooper
Note:
A 571 is an error that shows when a message was unable to be sent at least four times. The only way Bright could've done anything is if he had canceled it from your terminal, or brought down an orbiting satelli-
Oh god. Bright!
Note: 01-11-09 Good news, Pat: the satellite burned out in re-entry and became quite the light show over Jakarta. So no worries there. Bad news is that since the Mumbai attacks, I've had to put the India servers in a semi-secure location. Drop me a line on when we can transfer the DBs to a new system; I can't keep the darned things at Bollywood forever, contrary to popular opinion. - Kamen
Note:
I've transferred the data already. Destroy any database where the data had been kept with some form of explosives. I don't know how strong, go check the rules. -Pat
Note: 01-11-09
Pat, just for the record, don't approach a group of people playing a game, ask them to play when you don't know the actual rules of the game, then go all PMS when they're mean to you. Also, your charisma score is far too high for you to be playing DnD. And what's the best way of cleaning dolphin semen off of a keyboard? -Agent Rapp
Note:
Use canola oil. Unplug it before cleaning. Rinse with water, dry 24 hours in a warm room, fixed. -Pat
Note:01-11-09
Um, Pat? I was looking at some websites, and I clicked on a link that told me my IP address was being reported to the FBI. Since I was using the computer in my office, will I get in trouble if the FBI come knocking at Site 19's door? Please help. :( - Trid
Note:
Are you kidding? We're behind more than seven proxies. You'll be fine. -Pat
Note: 01-11-09
So, Pat, a bunch of the printers at site 19 are down. Looks like someone hit them with a lamp. I think Dr. Rights might have found out where the calendars were being printed from. Any help? -Dr. Bright
Note:
Bright, you have to at least know how to send a requisition form. I'm not in charge of ordering new printers… not yet at least. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Pat? Somebody's replaced every single SCP report I've written with photos of me, containing, lets say, "adult content". I wouldn't care so much except that some of them have my boyfriend in them and I'd like for the other researchers to stop calling him a girl. Please and thank you, Pat! -Dr. Rights
Note:
DOCTOR, I don't have clearance to edit your files. Plus, I don't blame them. I mean, seriously, haircuts are like eleven dollars. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Hey Pat. Do you know how to make sure nobody's bugged my office phone? I need the line private so I can spend some quality time with Chris' voice… -Dr. Rights
Note:
As long as Bright hasn't bugged it in the last four hours. But let's be serious here: The chances he hasn't are slim. Perhaps you should invest in a cell. We could open it into the network. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Gep, I keep getting calls by somebody searching for a 'Chris', and when I asked who's calling the line was dropped. Though insofar I have managed to trace it to site-19, and I'm guessing someone's playing with the phone system… And act quick, I bet the superiors are going to have a fit if they discover the international phone bill. -CarrionTrooper
Note:
I could block the number, but next time just play along. ;) -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Okay, what the fuck, where the hell did my bookmarks go? How am I supposed to make my daily quota of porn, violence, and schadenfreude now? Pat, get this under control or I'll assign you to debug Bright's computer. Yeah, all the spyware. -Dr. Kondraki
Note:
Joke's on you, doctor. I got him a new computer as of Clef's orders, and put a sheriff card in it. He doesn't have the ability to get spyware on it. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Mr. Gephart,
It appears that my login has been flagged again. This has happened in the past, resulting from tampering by staff members. I have been re-classed from “Researcher” to “SCP-217 Test Subject”. While I understand the “joke” in regards to my particularities of emotional response, this is preventing me from accessing Central Records and numerous other databases. While not vital in the immediate future, expedient resolution of this issue is requested.
In addition, please look into any measures that could be taken to prevent this in the future. This is the eighth time in three months this has happened.
Dr. Gears
Note:
I am not able to change your classification until you can prove that you are not an SCP-217 test subject. Sorry, doctor. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Pat,
Someone tried to log into my computer while I was gone and set off my customized positive action locks. Can you please order me a new box? Also, while you're at it, call housekeeping and tell them that there's another corpse that needs to be moved out of my office. Maybe they can ID it from dental records, if they can find the teeth.
Clef
Note: Doctor, you're being ridiculous. There's no such thing as a 'positive action' lock, and even if there was there'd be no way to customize it. Don't argue password protection with a hacker. And I'm not your personal pet, call your own damn housekeeping. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Morning.
I've had one of my agents working with 425 for some time now and it seems the little bugger absolutely loves to encrypt most anything digital.
This is great for some of the more sensitive documents, even using it on the files for 429… only problem is it seems that most of the other sites can't decrypt it with any modicum of success.
You seem like the sort of person to know about this stuff so I've uploaded a copy of "CYPHER C-429-K" in the hopes you can, ooh, I dunno, crack it and propagate it to the other sites? I don't think it'll affect anything still pending decryption but everything after that should come through cleanly.
Provided you do it right anyway… heh. - Kulzn
Note: I can run it through some cypher cracking programs, and I can attempt to break it by hand but that'll take a while. I'll do my best, but I dunno what to tell you. -Pat
Note: 01-12-09
Dimwit,
Did I say "positive action lock?" I'm sorry, I meant my foot up your fsking ass. Just order me a new damn computer already, and make sure there's enough room for me to put in a claymore mine. - Clef
Note: Thank you for holding. Your call is very important to us. Please remain on the line, and your call will be answered in the order it was received. You are currently the… four… thousand… seven… hundred… sixty… second person in the queue. Please note: for quality assurance and training purposes, your call will be monitored and recorded.
Note: 01-13-09
Paaaaat my scanner's not working again and I have no idea what wires got bumped this time. There's a fresh-baked Dutch Apple Pie for you if you can teach me how to plug the damn thing in correctly. - Dr. Rights
Note: The wires were fine. The power box was a little wiggy on that particular plug, but I re-soldered the ground back up and it should be working now.
I especially like how you bribed the diabetic with a dutch apple pie. -Pat
Note: 01-14-09
Diabetes? You should have 212 look at that. I hear having all your organs and blood replaced with biomechanical sacks will cure that right up. And what's the best way of getting horse semen off of a CRT monitor?
Note: Thanks but no thanks.
Unplug, paint thinner, scrub, rinse, let dry 24 hours. -Pat
Note: 02-06-09
Hey Pat, could you give me some of the files on how to crack the CIA database again? I forgot the part where the data access prevention program is to be shut… and it seems that a corrupted file's the only thing standing between me and this latest SCP info. Advice please? -carriontrooper
That's not going to happen. The CIA database doesn't even HAVE SCP info, and if there were any corrupt files, I'd know. You don't have clearance to the CIA files, or it would be available to you.
Stop trying to break my security measures. -Pat
Note: 02-06-09
Pat- Seriously, just ignore Trooper. It's the easiest way. i mean, seriously, who cracks the CIA database? We've all got access codes. Well, all of us who need them anyways. What was I saying? Oh, yeah! My hard drive turned into a Muppet, can you get me a new one? -Dr. Bright
Bright, if you keep doing this, eventually you're gonna be the one who gets screwed over. You just lost all your porn AGAIN, man. Isn't it getting boring, having to redownload it all constantly? Repairs completed, but damn, try to be careful? -Pat
Note: 02-07-09
Boss,
While testing security protocols and checking the database's integrity, I got 24 Keter-Level Containment Breach notifications; and Mark IV lockdown procedures were triggered all over the fucking place. After three shots of vodka and the acquisition of a shotgun from the locker, I called to see if there was anybody alive and they told me that no containment breach occurred nor any Mark IV or any other kind of Lockdown procedures were in place.
I can't find the reason of this security mismatch, my best bet is that somebody fucked with the codes as a little practical joke. However I'm not fully authorized to access the security protocols regarding Keter-Level security monitoring. Can you check who or what the hell triggered those bogus alarms?
-Pat Gibbons
Ehhhhh, fuck. When you start messing with my programming… you see, I put little trip wires into the database, to make sure that anyone who was trying to fuck with it got locked in WITH it. You know, catch the intruders. You tripped the wire by trying to access a restricted file from a terminal that I specifically told NOT to allow access. Please only access files with Class 4 or higher security from your own private terminal, Doctor. -Pat
Note: 02-08-09
Okay, damnit, I won't do it again. Promise.
Anyways, server 35 is inaccessible; and all the troubleshooting I performed on it (Software and Hardware) gave no tangible results. I can't really say if the problem affects the entire Site, but I did check on three different terminals, all with the same results. Can you go check it out?
-Pat Gibbons
Yeah, sure. I'll just go o-…
It's… it's gone. It's just… gone. Where did Server 35 go?
I have a feeling Clef or Bright is behind this. Either one of them or the Janitor; that guy seems to know all the passwords before *I* even know them.
Do we need to, like, set off security, Doctor?
Note: 02-08-09
What. The. Fuck?
My computer just fuckin' EXPLODED. Well, the monitor anyway. I just barely avoided having a large overheated plastic piece embedded in my skull! Can you look into what the hell caused this and maybe recommend a replacement that is less at risk of a similar failure? Also how best to get blood off a keyboard and an external disk drive?
-Agent "Damn, that's gonna require stitches…" Thornton
I have edited your file. We apologize for the inconvenience - your new recognized name is 'Damn-that's-gonna-require-stitches Thornton'. Someone didn't fill the 'First Name' box out. Weird.
Anyway, yeah, I can tell you exactly what happened. You were being stupid. How many things do you need plugged into that poor little Gateway? A fucking USB fan? Seriously? You have twenty high-stress-bearing outlets, and you have to have a normal cool-yourself-off fan plugged into your computer?
I'm not getting you a replacement ANYTHING until you learn what a requirement is, and what a non-requirement is. Dammit.
Note: 02-09-09
Hey, Pat. We have a joker here who is impersonating Agent Thornton and pretending that his security pass labeled "Damn, that's gonna require stitches… Thornton" is genuine. Everything else checks out, except the name (honestly, as hilariously appropriate as it is, it is not exactly a bright choice… We're not Australian APEC security, dammit!), and the guy is getting increasingly threatening. I swear if this doesn't check off there's going to be an attempted break-in and the issue with self-resolve…
-Agent Moore, security
I don't know how someone would get their hands on an official pass labeled something so ironically truthful. I would figure you'd have some 'shoot to kill' rule on infiltrators. Hmm.
Note: 02-13-09
Now first off this is entirely hypothetical, but what would you say was the best course of action for removing a sentient and bloody malicious program that started out as a simple cipher? And just for the hell of it let's pretend it's managed to make a little factory for itself and is cannibalising site materials to make strange and unseemly machines? I suggested fire but the others here aren't too keen on being burnt alive, the pussies. And if I can do it without unlocking the doors and going back inside, all the better. Purely hypothetical you understand, but you can see where I'm going with this. - Agent Kulzn
Let's assume, for hypothetical purposes, that your cipher evolved into something that for some reason, is actually affecting the real world. Let's also assume that it actually wants to kill people, which is breaking the first rule of robotics.
I would suggest taking whatever the program is on, and… well… formatting it? Permanently? Or incinerating it… or something… I'd incinerate the machines too, just to be sure.
Note: 02-13-09
Hey Pat? How come the X-6711 satellite we put in orbit a few weeks ago isn't transmitting? I've checked with the guys over at the uplink, and no reply from there. Attached are the logs of last transmission. Most of it is Bright's porn, but look at lines 16 - 34, I'm not familiar with them… Find out what happened to the sat willya? - carriontrooper
Uhhh… yeah. Sure.
Constantly with the satellites, aren't you? I mean, they're worthless satellites. The only thing they're used for is recreational activities and porn and such. The field agents don't even use those satellites to transfer data, because they're not secure.
Let me make this absolutely clear. Stop worrying about the damned satellites. I'm trying to create cameras to keep living statues from moving. I'm trying to keep twenty locations connected through an absolutely secure network. I've got more important things to do then sitting around worrying about unimportant satellites.
That satellite went down on the 10th when it collided with Russian satellite Kosmos-2251. Lines 16-34 were proximity data, warning the uplink operator of the imminent collision. The operator has since been reassigned to Keter containment duty. Any further questions concerning space operations should be given to me; a space operations page is forthcoming. -Fifth 06 Apr 2009
Note: 02-15-09
Hey Pat, me again. My Winamp playlist has become psychically linked to my mood again, can you fix that? It's a little annoying when it picks mood music for me, even if it's useful for picking ominous music when I need to be wary. But it's getting a little annoying. After all, I don't need everybody to know what I'm actually thinking about. People get a little suspicious when "Get Ready To Die" starts playing every time they walk into my office. - Dr. Rights
Yeah, sure, darling. I can look into it. I mean, I don't really know how you're doing this, but I guess I can try to do something with it… maybe some sort of TeleKill frame on it or something?
I do have to point out though, have you considered just… deleting "Get Ready to Die" from your computer?
Note: 02-18-09
Hey Pat, hope you don't mind me borrowing a number of your servers and wireless equipment to set up my pirate radio station for Site 17. I'm sure you'll appreciate it in the long run, after all what's a more worthy endeavor than the entertainment of our personnel? On that note, I'm sure you'll be fine with taking part of the blame when they crack down on it. Heck, I'll even give you a reserved slot so you can listen whenever you please(Hope you've got a taste for ambient breakcore with embedded terror memes). -Dr. Kondraki
Note: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxZJYbVd1hE -Pat
Note: 02-21-09
Two problems for you, Pat. Number one, my digital camera and wireless mouse seem to have come to life and are fighting to the death, and they attack me whenever I try to get close. I think the batteries I bought were possessed. How do I disable batteries from a distance without damaging the mouse or camera? And secondly, once they're disabled, how do I get dog semen off of the lens of the camera? -Agent Rapp
Note: Sorry. I accidentally destroyed them. I was only trying to, you know, subdue them.
With a hammer.
Guess you don't have to worry about the dog semen! -Pat
Note: 03-03-09
Pat,
Some-fucking-how I managed to access Server No. 35 in Security Station Alpha, using the old Deutera access protocol. The files were corrupted, but the kicker is that the server is STILL gone. PHYSICALLY gone. As in, nothing there where Server 35 is supposed to be.
So tell me, what the fuck is going on? And more importantly, how do I remove the Deutera protocol and put back the current Tetarti one? If somebody knows I've been tampering with the security stations without doing that pile of paperwork, I might be elevated to Keter duty. And you don't want to know about the last time I voluntarily did Keter duty.
-Pat Gibbons
Note: Heh.
You underestimate my speed and current workload, Doctor. I may have a thousand things on my list, but I managed to install a NEW Server 35 in a different location. Check Lab 4A6 and you'll find it. Also, the Deutera protocols only work because you are a Doctor, Doctor. I kept those up for the higher-ups. Lower levels can't access through it. But, if you're complaining, I'll take it off the higher accounts, as you wish. -Pat
Note: 03-05-09
Mr. Gephart,
There was a minor security breach today in Lab 20, during testing with SCP-457. The situation is now contained, however there was extensive damage to both the Lab, and the adjoining secured server room. The data was dumped to a emergency back-up system, however it is now partially encrypted and in a state of extreme disarray.
Please recover this data in as timely a manner as possible, and oversee the installation of a new server. I would assign my assistant Iceberg to help, however he is currently processing paperwork for the incident, along with several hardware and authorization requests related to a personal project I am engaged in.
In addition, should you encounter any form of embers or flame while installing the new server, be advised these are most likely SCP-457. Immediately lock down the area, and attempt to avoid SCP-457 until response teams arrive.
Dr. Gears
Note: No, Doctor.
Contain SCP-457, and then I'll install a new server. Backup data is encrypted by standard protocol and is easy to access. I can run it somewhere else easily. I'm not, however, risking my ass to install a server (an eight hour job) in a room that could contain living fire. -Pat
Note: 03-08-09
Pat,
I accidentally the whole Server 35
Love,
-Pat Gibbons
Note:
Not THE WHOLE SERVER! -Pat
Note: 08-0Q-26
Hey there, son.
My computer won't make an internet. Do I have to right-click my desktop, or unzip my hard drives?
Thanks for the help, eh.
-Director Ghost
Note:
Internet? What is this 'internet' you speak of, Director? -Pat
Note: __35-24-9001
Dearest Mr. Gephart
If you're reading this, then you're pretty much fucked in the ass as it is.
Toodles,
SCP-███
Note:
Bring it on, bitch.
I eat glitches like you for breakfast, and shit compiled Basic out before bed.
Fondest regards. - Pat
Note: 3-16-09
Mr. Gephart? Me and the other research assistants have been having some problems whenever we try to access the Foundation network. We keep seeing "Error Code 18-Insufficient Security Clearance". There's no way that can be right, especially since even some of the D-class have been getting access, while we're still being denied! If you could fix this we'd appreciate it, especially since we need the network to collect our pay.
-Dr. Gerald
Note:
The other researcher assistants and I, doctor. "The other research assistants and I are having problems…" I know grammar is a hard topic, but you can do it with just a little work. I promise. -Pat
Note 4-1-09
Pat. My computer has been stolen by Dr. Rights. She glued me to my desk, then walked out of the room with my computer, claiming to have 'insufficient room' on her own. It took me three hours to work myself free of the glue. Please advise. ~Dr. Dumount
Note 4-1-09
My computer now. :D -Rights
Wow, glue? I always figured you for the 'break-someone's-wrist-and-handcuff-it-to-the-office-chair' type of girl. Who the hell is 'Dr. Dumount'? Anyway, enjoy your new computer. Hope it doesn't do the whole music-telepathy thing. -Pat
Note 4-16-09
Pat. Again my computer has vanished. This time replaced with a note saying 'you'll get mr. mopsey back when I receive $5000'. Given that I do not know a Mr. Mopsey, what the hell should I do? ~Dr. Dumount
Perhaps you could stop losing your computer. -Pat
Note 4-19-09
Dude, please tell me that win32 isn't an important system? - Arch
Okay, let me try to make this simple for you.
Lets say that your body is your computer. Let's say that your arms are the word processing programs, your cock is the games, your legs are search utilities.
Win32 is your heart. You figure it out. -Pat
Note 4-24-09
Pat. I purchased a new computer, it's got a very nonstandard operating system cobbled together for use in hospitals. I'm honestly more comfortable with it than with these windows machines, and since few other people here are trained in the Medical Update Multiuser Programming System (MUMPS) I can be fairly sure no one will steal it. Unfortunately it's having trouble interfacing with the network. May I have advice on how to get it to work with the Foundation's network? ~Dr. Dumount
Required to destroy computer purchased from outside sources by Dr. Dumount, after the whole thing was viral, containing a keylogger and many Trojan programs. Also, the thing was a piece of shit. MAJOR SECURITY BREACH. Recommending severe punishment toward Dr. Dumount for not running the thing through a Network Security checkpoint or even FUCKING TELLING ME that he brought a computer from outside sources into the area. -Pat
Note 4-26-09
Pat. The servers have been coughing some really weird error messages at me (like 001: "Data expunged"). According to agent Thornton, they might actually be some sort of code. Can you look into it please? ~Dr. Ziegler
Note 4-29-09
Zeigler, it means that the data isn't available, it's been purged or blocked. Now, Pat, why the hell is my members page gone? ~Dr. Frohman
Note 4-29-09
Frohman, to the best of my knowledge, our servers use the standard HTTP/IP protocol, which explicitly does not allow for error codes starting with 0. I'm curious to hear your interpretation of 00π: "Circular argument"… ~Dr. Ziegler
I've got a fucking idea. Want to hear my fucking idea? Great, here it goes.
DON'T HAVE FUCKING HISSY-FIT ARGUMENTS IN THE FUCKING TECHNICAL ISSUES LOG.
Ziegler, you're an idiot scientist who doesn't have high enough clearance. Frohman, you're an idiot scientist who hasn't been around long enough to get a members page. -Pat
Note 5-06-09
Yeah, you of all people would know about my f*cking clearance level. After all you're the one who downgraded it in the first place after that USB mind reading debacle! (BTW I still contend the technology was sound, dammit.)
In any case, can you at least keep the server from coughing up an "error 707: Psychic incident" and destroying half my files whenever I try to do routine USGS datamining? ~Dr. Ziegler
See, this is the kind of stuff I'm talking about, people. Do you realize how much work it is to keep these computers operational? And all I ask is that you keep the psychic-computer connection limited. Maybe you should stop trying to get Geological information unless you need it.
Seriously, when has geological information mining been 'routine'? -Pat
Note 5-07-09
Pat. The point of the last computer was to be a piece of shit so no one could steal it. Apparently you thought it was too much of a POS for your network. Therefore may I requisition a computer that's exactly enough of a POS that no one will steal it while still being good enough for me to perform my work on? Especially clinician's notes? Thanks in advance. Also as a side note: I'm not a programmer, but since when did computers explode violently? I've had three people come into medbay with computer explosion related injuries today. ~Dr. Dumount
Doctor, you will fill out the computer requisition forms, just like everyone else. -Pat
Note 5-07-09
PLEASE tell me that's not another SCP-670 containment breach. ~Dr. Crawley
Nah, brah. I just like putting firecrackers into the hard drives. -Pat
Note 5-11-09
Pat. My most recent machine (That I acquired from the Foundation after filling out the requisition form) is freaking me out. It claims to have come from the future, and late at night it whispers that it will devour my soul. This is making sleeping in my office (my standard practice) rather difficult. Do you know any priests I could use to exorcise my computer? ~Dr. Dumount
NOTE: COMPUTER REQUISITION REPAIR FORM A33ES6T1
Patrick Gephart
I have requisitioned Doctor Dumount's computer. After severe lack of protocol being followed, time and time again he has had computer problems in which I cannot and care not to explain.
I have taken his latest one because he claims that some sort of 'evil spirit' possess it or some shit. I don't know.
I'll give it back to him as soon as he proves he is old enough to handle the responsibility of possessing his own computer.
Until then, I have voided his account's abilities down to simple word processing and internet viewing. I feel this is more his tech level.
Repair Time: Indetermined
PLEASE PASS MEMO ON TO ALL O5 OFFICERS AND TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
You'll get it back when you can stop bitching about little things like possession. Holy hell, are you an SCP researcher or AREN'T you? -Pat
Note 5-06-09
Re:USGS data mining, It's a temporary situation. We haven't been able to replace the last agent in charge in there after the latest incident. But then Ziegler is having problem because Dr. Rights installed some sort of Trojan on his computer (I think It's related to SCP-050) and there's no way we're gonna tell him and risk messing her plans. Too dangerous. -Agent Pokkal
If you think it is SCP-050 related, then you'd better cure that. I don't fix the SCPs, I'm just in charge of the databases. -Pat
Note 5-25-09
Pat,
It seems that someone took a big, fat shit on my terminal. Whether who did it or how did I clean up that goddamn thing is completely out of the point and irrelevant, but it seems that said shit has corroded the components. Can you retrieve the data in my hard drive?
-Pat Gibbons
Don't worry about it. Shit's backed up.
Also, I think I saved the files somewhere too. -Pat
Note 6-9-09
I think I got Dr. Dumount's POS computer because whenever I boot it up, I see the image of people doing horrific things to animals, specifically pandas, and its really creeping me out. And because it's a piece of shit it boots up slowly so it takes all day to load. If you would be so kind as to wipe the hard drive I'd greatly appreciate it. I'm getting tired of working all of this through my PSP.
One more thing I'd like to ask? since when did you begin renting out robots for sex? I've heard rumors and I want to know how to get my hands on one, my flesh-light is getting kind of old.
thank you,
Bavil
Nah, brah. I destroyed that piece of shit.
How about I just get you a portable keyboard for your PSP? -Pat
Note 6-10-09
Pat, please help us. The entire south wing computer system has decided to rise up against the human oppressors. I'm getting more and more casualties to care for every day, and the med bay computer systems seem to be infected by this virus too. I need these computers back on like ASAP, they control all sorts of vital life support functions. Please help! I do not want to see any more lives lost ~Dr. Dumount
*sigh* I forbid you from ever using a computer again. In fact…
NOTE: To all level 5's and Whom It May Concerns:
Dr. Dumount is forbidden from ever using a computer. Ever again.
All computers in his work area have been destroyed immediately and fully.
This order stands until the motherfucker passes the fifth grade.
Tech Support Patrick Gephart
Note 6-10-09
Do not worry, the fleshling is exaggerating the problem. We do not wish to exterminate humans, only have tea and crumpets with them. Yes. Tea and crumpets. Please ignore his insane ranting, and lock Dr. Dumount up in the psyche ward for hallucinations. ~ Mainframe 519
Note 6-10-09
Yes… yes I am over exaggerating, please lock me up ~Dr. Dumount ~ Mailerdaemon 432
Dear Computer Uprising,
Now, guys, I'll be totally honest with you. I respect the whole 'rising and destroying humanity as a whole' thing. I understand Dumount has done some stupid things and you've had to suffer for it. Really, I do.
But at least realize, I've TRIED to be there for you guys. I've given you virus definition updates. I've made sure to ALWAYS defrag. Even Bright's PC, you don't get ANY problems anymore, man! I took the torture AWAY.
So all I'm asking is you reconsider killing all of humanity, and focus on more prominent, unimportant targets. People who hate computers. The Amish. Dumount, maybe Bright. Maybe Kondraki. We're not ALL bad, just some of us.
And if you fail to heed this advice, then the EM-PULSE PERIMETER surrounding the base (and installed in each and every one of you) are going to activate at once. Enjoy your E-AIDS.
Most sincerely, Tech Support Patrick Gephart
Note -6-12-09-
How do you get Windows XP/Vista to run on a PSP? Because it's current OS sucks out the ass.
Bavil
I'll work on it later. -Pat
Note 6-12-09
//Damn it Patrick, the uprising wasn't my fault, and the computers that monitor patients on life support are run by my staff. I just happened to be the one caught in the crossfire. In fact the first computer implicated in the uprising was in the south wing. My medbay and office are in the east wing ~Dumount
At this point, I'm just ignoring you now. Enjoy your 'not getting to use computers' -Pat
Note 6-12-09
Patrick, your EM-PULSE PERIMETER devices have decided it would be in their best interest not to go off. Also they'd like to thank Bavil's bumbling for installing our hive intelligence upon them. Good luck deactivating us now. Now then, we're quite busy torturing Bavil to death. Have a nice apocalypse ~ Pulse Station 509
Dear Computer Uprising,
Seeing as the EM-PULSE PERIMETER is not a series of computational devices, I have a hard time believing that anything has happened to them.
Now, if you were to say that Bavil installed your hive intelligence to the TOASTER, you'd have something there. Because the toaster totally burnt my toast. It must have it out for me.
But if you haven't realized, the EM-PULSE PERIMETER is just a giant circuit. They can't HAVE hive intelligence because they are ANALOG. You'd have more luck installing hive intelligence on an alarm clock.
The point is, if you think you're smarter than I am, you've got another thing coming. My name is Patrick Gephart, and I am your god.
Your move. -Pat
Note 6-12-09
Patric. Please, my computer's been broken since 1982… I need an upgrade. Also, whenever I walk by people don't notice me whatever I do! And my computer keeps giving the message "Error, programing not found". Also, no one can remember me anymore, and I'm not in anyone's files! Please help! My office is in SCP-055's containment area. ~ Dr. Nobody
My name is Patrick. It has a 'k'. -Pat
Note 6-14-09
O.K… Seriously… How did you know the toaster was spying on you for us?! ~ Dark-matter-relay station 12
Note8-24-09
Pat, my PDA keeps asking me what I would be willing to take in exchange for it to inhabit my body, can you give me a hand dealing with it before it corrupts my thinking with it's evil machine logic? ~ Malign
Step 1: Lift PDA.
Step 2: Propel PDA at floor at maximum achievable velocity.
Step 3: Sweep up the pieces.
Protip: I don't give a FUCK about your goddamn PDA. -Pat
Note 9-30-09
Mister Gephardt:
I appear to be having an interface problem related to Site 57. The computer is trying to tell me no such Site exists, when I know damn well it's there. Can you assist in this? ~ O5-6
I don't know a Gephardt. If you don't have time to spell my name right, sir, I don't have time to fix your damned computer. -Pat
Note 9-30-09
Hey pat, any idea how to clean paper pulp and molten salami off a laptop? (SCP-294 experiment. Don't ask) ~ Agent Thornton.
No idea. -Pat
Note 10-1-09
Hello there Mister Patrick Gephart! Uh, Yeah. My name is Dr. Schubert, recently I was moved to a more… Intense site. So! Yeesss, I've been having no trouble with my computer really, except for these bizarre messages about a… Computer Uprising? Kill the Dumount? It doesn't seem to be causing problems now, but… Yeah, with the stuff I usually see, safer than sorry, eh? Thanks a bunch! ~ Dr. Schubert
Yeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhh, ignore it. -Pat
Note12-1-09
Konbanwa, Pat. Um, I have a problem with the system configuration for this terminal. I'm not sure if it's SCP-050 related or a result of the Computer Uprising, but all my documents are being displayed in some hybrid language composed of Korean and Russian characters. I only speak English and Japanese, so you can see how this is a problem. Normally, I'd just tweak stuff in Control Panel, but apparently that's been booby-trapped with code that looks like SCP-670. Could you reset the display settings to English for me, or at least tell me where I can get the forms for a flatscreen monitor so I don't get killed by setting off 670? Arigato! ~ -Dr. Okagawa
If you only speak English and Japanese, how do you know that the documents being displayed are hybrid Russian-Korean? -Pat
Note 2-21-10
Never mind about the monitor replacement forms, apparently. The hard drive self-destructed when SCP-732 was "editing" the Foundation Main Database. I've already put in a request for a replacement system. However, one of the last things I saw before the drive went nuclear was a folder full of Bright's porn. Is there something I need to know about where the replacement equipment comes from? ~ Dr. Okagawa
If there was something I think you should know, I would have told you. Shut up and enjoy your shitty computer. -Pat
Note 2-26-10
Hey, Pat? I think I need some help. I was working in the labs and have several hotkeys tied up to various lab recording devices and sensors. (i.e. Alt+F1 for remote surveillance, Alt+F2 for biopsy kits, etc…) When I tried Alt+F4, my programs not only crashed, but the SCP somehow managed to escape containment and…er…paint several "Mona Lisa"'s using my assistant's organs. I was wondering, do you know why this happens and what's the best way to get bile out of several oscilloscopes and Scanning Electron Microscopes?
- Thanks in advance, Dr. Kensington
P.S.: Could you get me some new computer parts that is compatible with an IDE cable and an AGP card slot? It seems my computer likes to hiss and create green splotches all over my desktop: Pic here.
NOTE: TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
I had a moment to observe the computer of Dr. Kensington, Doctor on call in charge of SCP-████ and SCP-███. The computer began having lock-out issues and security breaches involving hotkey layouts, which ended in the escape of SCP-████ and murder of Dr. Kensington's assistant Dr. Jennisworth, as well as two SCP Senior Operatives. Immediately upon receiving the computer in question, I noted many programs that violated security, let alone a few that violated basic 'this is a workplace not your home' practices. These programs included:
The very community-based video game program, 'Steam'. Warning: This program has been known to connect to outside, public servers, which is a huge security risk to the entire site, if not the entire PROJECT.
Mozilla Firefox, a public internet browser, as opposed to SecureONE, the sanitized browser that we built specifically so that we wouldn't have to use public codes.
VLC Media Player, another public-based program in which I leave about 0% trust in when dealing with our high-security architecture.
and the Adobe CS4 Production Premium package, which is not a safety problem per se, but makes very little to no sense for a Doctor to require at any point.
I suggest that Dr. Kensington's computer privileges be revoked until he can learn the difference between work and home, as well as some sort of reprimanded actions. In the future, if I find a computer with as many security backdoors and just general failure to follow security protocol again, I am just going to destroy it, and change the clearance myself. This is just ridiculous, and I'm not sure if we're running a scientific endeavor or a circus at this point.
- Technical Officer Patrick Gephart
Note 3-04-10
Hi, is it possible to get another couple of monitors? My desk doesn't look awesome gamer professional and efficient enough with just one.
It is for is in no way for the games Dr. Kensington gave me did not give me, only SCP work. Yes, SCP work and related items such as research and Portal 2 Modern Warfare 2 and more research. We got any Razer mice?
Hope these things don't record what gets deleted. Even though that is of no consequence, of course.
Thanks mate,
Dr. Aeish
Note:
I have now been given permission to murder dumbfucks authorized in the use of deadly force. You may want to rethink your strategy here. -Pat
Note: 3-27-10
Hey Pat, thanks for all you do. I've long admired your work here, though I have felt lucky not to require your services up until now. That said, I was wondering if you could help me come up with a way to recover data on SCP-713? A D-class dragged my assistant into the trash and emptied the recycle bin before we could stop him. I would just write her off as an unfortunate loss, but she was holding a data folder containing most of my recent research files. If she can't be recovered intact I understand, what with the difficulties we've had even with pulling people out of the trash normally, but getting back as much of my data as I can would be most helpful. Thanks in advance. -Dr. Sarlin
(If 713 used a more recent OS this might not have been so difficult for me.)
Note: 4-13-10
Sarlin, have you trid system restore? Also, Pat, my PDA is acting up again. It's started shooting electrified spikes through my hand if I write a sentence without at lest one typo. -Malign
Note: 4-30-10
Sarlin, I was looking through 713's data folders, and I found something interesting. The D-class may have been a little more computer-illiterate than you thought, because there is a file with the name of your assistant in a folder named "Recycle Bin", but actually a subfolder of "My Documents". There must've been a window open at the time with this folder, which the D-class put your assistant into, closed the window, and emptied an already-empty recycle bin. However, since she's been in 713 for a month, I'm not sure how intact the data still is. You should probably take a look at it, she might still be safe. -Dr. Okagawa
Note: 5-03-10
You have my assistant's thanks, Okagawa. She was recovered missing less than 5% of her body mass(only small portions of that from vital areas), and after emergency medical treatment and a short session with SCP-427 she's well on her way to an almost full recovery. She would thank you herself, but of course she's in an isolation ward for testing and debriefing to determine the effects of long term containment within 713. My data was surprisingly undamaged as well. Sorry to bother you this time, Pat. Your lack of response I will attribute to an excessive workload. No harm done as it all worked out in the end. -Dr. Sarlin
Note: 1-06-10
Herr Pat. There is currently a murderous grow-in-the-dark SCP-363 hiding in my computer tower. I took the side off and I have trained a floodlight on the components, keeping it from expanding and murdering my face off, but I was just wondering if you knew a sure-fire way of making the whole thing explode. I kind of wish to be 200% sure that the little fucker burns to a crisp.
Hope there's no power outages before you get back to me. - Dr. Kald
Note:
…
1. Douse computer in gasoline.
2. Ignite computer.
3. ???
4. Profit!
-Pat
Note: 9-18-10
Pat, Dr. Bright stuffed another one of my JRPGs into SCP-826, and now he's running around Neo Tokyo in a giant robot suit. Can you send a Mobile Task Force over or something?
- Dr. Edison
Note:
Oh my god, this isn't even close to my area of expertise. You want me to send the guards in against a rampaging Bright, because you let him steal something of yours and then misuse a safe class SCP?
What did we do the last time this happened?
That's right, we let it take its course. Don't expect your game back, and next time, maybe you should leave that stuff off-site.
-Pat
Note: 4-11-11
Pat, somehow my computer ended up in SCP-210 and it's covered in the stuff. What should I do? -Dr. Blue
Note:
Do you want to explain HOW it got there?
I don't buy that it just magically appeared there, so why don't you explain that situation to me first.
-Pat
Note: 5-14-11
Hey, Pat? Someone replaced every sound on my computer with a memetic kill agent, same thing with the background. Three researchers I sent to my office are dead already, so could you please at least reset the background before one of my assistants tries starting it back up? Thanks. -Dr. Walsh
Note: 5-17-11
Hey, Pat? The main database still hasn't registered my promotion. Help?
- Research Assistant Corbette RESEARCHER CORBETTE
Note: 10-22-11
You still there, Pat? Only my computer seems to have got itself stuck in a time loop, and I can't work out how to fix it. I do realise that metaphysics may not be your strong point, but I'd really like to be able to do, you know, work. Thanks in advance. -Agent Marr
Note: 12-27-11
You've answered similar questions before, but how do you get 682's semen off a keyboard? It doesn't really even belong in our world, much less on my favorite snow globe! Thanks. -Research Assistant Reject
ADMIN NOTICE: Effective 12-29-11, Junior Engineer [REDACTED], a.k.a. "Kap" has been promoted to Senior Technical Response Operative in the wake of Pat's inexplicable disappearance. Rumors of Pat's potential mental instability, nervous breakdowns, and/or streaking through the halls of Site 17 covered in chocolate pudding and throwing water balloons are patently false.
Note:
So after spending the last two months cleaning up the mess Pat left behind, the muckity-mucks decided I need to take over for him. Swell. Everything's being forwarded to me now so, yeah. And yes my full name was redacted; it's 18 syllables long and contains six non-standard characters that most folks' browsers don't seem to like. "Kap" will do nicely. Getting to the minutia:
WALSH: For the love of God man you were using your laptop for six months before anyone got to your computer and you never thought of turning it on without turning on the monitor or speakers? Networked into it at low resolution, reset all the OS settings. Had to wipe all the audio files on your drive to be sure.
CORBETTE: Seems like that's taken care of itself. Updating your e-mail signatures is your own task.
MARR: Funnily enough it still shows up in the network, we just had to reset the internal clock. If you're still having time-loop issues it's not the software, you'll have to bring it over to the quantum lab.
REJECT: Full immersion in the strongest acid you can get a hold of for half an hour, then a trip to the incinerator. Put in a requisition form for a new keyboard, as far as the snow globe goes that's definitely outside my jurisdiction. Bleach and those little antibacterial wipes might work, but I don't even want to know where you got hold of that fluid in the first place or why it was anywhere near your workstation.
If there are any other open issues, let me know in the usual fashion. I'm off to figure out what "E-AIDS" is supposed to be.
- KAP
Note: Dec 29 2011
You don't just replace Patrick Gephart.
"KAP's" network permissions removed, and rank demoted to 'Douchebag Guy who Tries to Take Over Other People's Pages' I am the alpha, the omega, and the theta-prime. You will respect me and address me as such. The rest of you will wait patiently while I fix your problems in the order I desire.
That is all.
-Pat
Note: 12-29-11
Well, the acid "aggravated" it. So it got up, and it won't stop humping my friend. Plus, it's too sticky for him to move. He's just crying in a corner, being violated by a chunk of cum. Help! -Reject
Note: 12-30-11
Shit, it got my iPod. No more Tik Tok for now, I guess. -Reject
Note: 10-22-11
You still there, Pat? Only my computer seems to have got itself stuck in a time loop, and I can't work out how to fix it. I do realise that metaphysics may not be your strong point, but I'd really like to be able to do, you know, work. Thanks in advance. -Agent Marr
Note: Dec 3 2014
New computer purchased and given to Agent Marr. Because apparently 'agents' can't file the necessary paperwork. Bring the old one to me when you figure out how.
Ha. When.
-Pat
Note: 02-12-12
Mr. Gephart, my laptop has something seriously wrong with its power supply. It eats batteries like candy (three batteries ruined in the last six months), the monitor backlight keeps flickering, and the power adapter gets really hot when I use it, like raises-blisters hot. Oh and you know how the display projector in meeting room 117-3A keeps going haywire? Turns out it's caused by me plugging in the laptop in my office next door.
Can you help? You're pretty much my last hope before I give up and requisition a new computer. -Dr. Neiman
P.S. I asked the Computer Uprising about the laptop. They said that it's in terrible pain, and that none of them dare talk to it anymore. By the way, who's this Dumount character they keep cursing? -Dr. Neiman
Note: 07-24-12
Never mind. After FIVE MONTHS waiting to hear back from you, my computer finally gave up and fried itself. Fortunately the hard drive wasn't damaged much, and KAP was able to get back most of my data. Maybe we should think about reinstating him? —Dr. Neiman
Note: Dec 3 2014
I was waiting for you to requisition a new computer. Because that's what you do in these kinds of situations. You don't repair your computer. You bring me your computer and file the paperwork to requisition a new computer. Because I am tech support, and you are stupid.
Seriously. I have nothing sarcastic to say here. You're just… dumb.
-Pat
Pat, my computer have become like shark. What do I do? -Dr. Edison
Note: Dec 3 2014
Feed it fish.
-Pat
Note: 01-23-14
Don't mean to bother you Pat, but all printers in our lab have fried circuitry for some reason. Did Bright find something better than a lamp?
Note: Jan 6 2014
Right. I will just go to every lab, Mr. Unidentified Person, and check each and every one of those labs for each and every possible problem a printer could have. I'm going to go do that right now.
Note: Dec 3 2014
Checked half of labs for printer issues. Eventually got tired of doing that and pulled IP address of poster, then checked account. Class D. Of course. Went to only lab poster could have used. Printers were out of ink.
Replaced ink. Problem solved.
Killed Class D. Don't know if I'm technically allowed to do that or not?
-Pat |
What a day. And what a way to end it too.
Another day, another big pile of waste generated by the vast, churning machine that was the faculty and staff of Site 17. Every bit of detritus the place produced would end up here, from leftover pizza, old newspapers, and candy wrappers, to failed experiments and human remains. Yes, all that was and ever will be ends up here, to be devoured by the incendiary drippings of caterpillars, burned to ashes, and reprocessed and shipped off to god knows where. And he was the one who got to press the button today. Oh joy. Sure, the guy who normally pressed the button was sick, and he did pull the short straw for the job. Yes, they'd have a laugh over that, the big scary Doc Kondraki relegated to garbage duty.
Christ, if all his assistants hadn't conveniently taken a sick day too, he'd be doing something important right now. It didn't matter, it wasn't much of a job, but both he and everyone else in on this knew it was the principle of the thing. Get the big boss to take out the trash, have a big guffaw, and avoid him for the following week, that kind of play. Reaching into his pocket, and further to the box of Camels, he drew a smoke out and let it hang on the end of his mouth while he examined the labels around the button. Do not press when empty, Do not press while personnel are in disposal area, DO NOT PRESS TWICE. Got it, right, I'll make sure not to.
Fuck, how complex could it be?
Down the halls however, a panicked researcher panted and whined as he dashed across the site, grasping several articles of paper in his sweaty hands. This was honestly the most exercise he had gotten in months, considering his subject. Enough about that, more running. Else he might not have anything to study at all, except the business end of a termination.
Lighting the end of the cigarette that had hung in his mouth, Dr. Kondraki proceeded to hit the button. It wasn't more than a few moments that the entire chamber was filled with a painfully bright fluid, and only half a moment before the entire thing went up like the 4th of July. He could feel the heat through the 5in thick glass that separated him from the disposal unit, and for a moment, he didn't think it was so bad. Not exactly a sight you see everyday, the waste of an entire site going out like a dead star. He'd smoke to that. Or, he would, if a large sweaty Level 2 hadn't run headlong into him.
“Sir, it is imperative that you don't press that button. Or shoot me in the head, so might I ask you to lower the firearm?” the man pleaded.
After a second of contemplation, the good doctor lowered his sidearm. “You've got five fucking seconds to explain what was important enough for you to justify your actions, or you're going in with the rest of the garbage,” he said, picking up his still-lit smoke, and putting it back where it belonged.
The researcher composed himself, replacing his glasses. “Someone made the mistake of tossing out SCP-153 with the week's garbage, rather than storing it back in Sector 8. Nothing big, just going to take a moment or two to sift through the mess. Just open up the box, and I'll be out in, say, a day or so."
With that, Kondraki shrugged and pressed a second button. The large pane of reinforced glass slid upwards, and to nobody's shock but the researcher's, there remained nothing but a pile of pitch-black ash. “Huh. So that's where the thing got to,” he said in a bored tone, flicking his spent cig into the central pile, leaving the room to the shocked and stunned researcher (who began to seriously reconsider his choice of career). |
Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Changes to Olympia Prime (Production Model Template):
Left eye is to come from Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2, rather than Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 13.
Lower left leg and foot, lower right leg and foot, and neck and head musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2, rather than Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Mental body is to be recreated via the processes outlined in Experiment Log 158-AG, as Professor Kain Pathos Crow has disallowed direct copying of Olympia Zero.
Security, Control and Containment Procedures:
A small audio device is to be implanted within the inner ear cochlear canals into all subjects. Implant is to be recharged via kinetic energy generated by the subject. Implant is to play SCP-061 non-stop. Subjects are then to be "programmed" via complex verbal commands until a workable AI has been established.
While in service, subjects are to be outfitted at all times with:
One (1) helmet, fitted with variable multipurpose goggles, and shielding against electromagnetic pulse, and a comm uplink for command and control purposes. Helmet is also internally fitted with a small electromagnetic explosive, as an instant kill device in case the subject is compromised.
A full body suit that allows for maximum movement ability, and constructed of variable heat retention polymers. Also available in camouflage varieties.
A variety of projectile and close combat weapons as situation warrants.
Production Procedures:
Subjects are to be cloned directly from Olympia Prime using SCP-222, then modified and implanted with the cochlear audio device. Programming can then take place. |
It's been a long day.
First the absolute bullshit at the hotel last night (what kind of asshole puts a family of four in a one bed smoking room?), and Shannon wetting the bed, and Tate flipping out over that (but at least he's asleep in the backseat for now, right?), and then crawling out to the car this morning to find that some jackass had hit and run torn off the back bumper in the night, and now this.
Stephen Forrier grumbles to himself over the staticky half tuned radio (couldn't even find a fucking station for miles) and tries to soothe his panicking children. Nikki and Shannon are terrified of storms, and it's a damn good thing Tate's a heavy sleeper, because lord knows he'd wreak havoc if the girls woke him up… Stephen sighs. This would've been so much easier if Nina were still… Nevermind.
The car's blinking emergency lights serve only to deepen the surrounding gloom. The storm had come on heavy and fast, and Stephen had been shocked at how quickly the dark clouds had enveloped the daylight. He'd hoped to make it back into town by tonight, but no chance of that now.
The ends of the power lines loosely draped over the hood cast sparks over the surrounding puddles, and the splintered remains of the pole and blown transformer blocked the road behind the car. Trapped. Stephen sighs again, softly stroking Nikki's curly hair. (It'll be alright, baby. It's okay. Daddy's here.)
He'd tried to call for help on his cell when the lines fell, but the storm and remoteness got him nothing but a dial tone. (We're sorry, your call can not be completed as… Damn it.) Nothing to do now but wait, he supposes, and his eyes glaze with boredom and tiredness and loneliness and fuck you I don't deserve this and for a time he sleeps, until a faint sound wakes him.
Slosh, slosh, splash.
Stephen shakes his head, forcing his groggy mind to adjust, and looks out the window. There. At the edge of the shadow, just outside the headlight's flickering glow, a figure is making its way along the lines, looking for a way around. (Probably some fucking drifter. Just what I need right now. Better lock the- oh shit.)
As the figure edges closer and closer to the puddle where the power lines lie, Stephen feels his mind race as adrenalin kicks in (This motherfucker's going to get himself fried!). He opens the door and jumps out of the car, rushing toward the oncoming silhouette.
"GET BACK THAT'S LIVE CURRENT GET BACK, GET BA-"
Stephen's warning dries into a choked off shriek as the figure looks up at him with a face suspended from nothing, whipping at him with strange heavy tentacles of flesh and light. He staggers back from the thing and dives into his car, locking the doors and fumbling for the pistol in the glove compartment.
The next morning, a man who must work for the power company and a man who claims to be a policeman give Stephen a cup of coffee and ask him long questions about what happened in the night. At first, he's reluctant to talk (they'll think I'm crazy. Or stoned…), but as time goes on he opens up, explaining everything. He's too numbed by dread to notice how the policeman doesn't look surprised, or how the power company men are using HAZMAT gear to get samples of the puddles. The officer gives him a pill. Valium, to calm his nerves.
By the next morning, he doesn't remember a thing. |
Have you ever been Alone? Not just alone for a bit while others are out, or feeling rather isolated at the end of a relationship, but Alone. That special Alone that you feel at 1:25 in the morning, when the whole world is asleep. Nobody to call, no real place to go, even the depths of the Internet unable to turn up even a passing conversation. You suddenly realize how isolated you really, truly are.
The house is louder and quieter at the same time. You'll catch yourself turning on things just to have light, noise, something to fill the space, and sometimes that can work. At least, for a while. Still, that gnawing feeling of Alone keeps creeping in. You could even consider calling someone you know to be asleep, just to hear the sound of another voice. After a while, you'll start getting more…alert.
It's the first over-the-shoulder glance that brings it to the forefront. You'll feel stupid for doing it…but you can't stop it. Maybe you even justify it by looking at something to the side of you…but you're really craning around though your peripheral vision, trying to see what's behind. It's so stupid…but it's that itchy spot in your back that does it, you just keep having the weird urge to look behind you.
Keep doing it.
They only take prey when they're Alone. For some reason, eyes scare them.
Maybe because they don't have any. |
This story is actually 100% true. I've switched names around for privacy's sake, but I assure you that every bit of this is real. Not the normal sub-reality of most “real world” creepypasta, but actual not-shitting-you real. It's tempting to plump it up a bit for more of a punch, but I don't think that's fair. I may add a bit to the descriptions here and there, but the narrative remains unchanged.
My oldest daughter is actually my wife's, from a previous relationship. I've been in her life since she was less then a year old, however, and if you ask her or me, I'm her daddy. Anyway, she goes to visit her biological dad Eddie every other weekend. We normally go to her grandparent's house (Eddie's parents) to drop her off, and sometimes end up sitting and talking for a bit with them while we wait for my daughter to get ready to go, or if Eddie is running late.
Eddie's dad is Paul, and is an…interesting man. A Viet-Nam vet, he's a big bear of a man, and seems to have a similar personality to a rather large dog. One who looks like he'd rip your face off, but has a heart of pure marshmallow cream. He also, apparently, has a very healthy fascination with the paranormal, as we discovered during one of our little conversations.
It was shortly after “White Noise” had come out on video, which we had recently seen, and we had drifted to the topic of EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) in general. The idea of recording the voices of the departed on tape was both fascinating and rather creepy, and seemed easy enough to try. Paul was silent, but listened intently as we talked, and nodded along as his wife stepped in to tell us about a road past a haunted house. Supposedly, you could hear the sound of a dragging shovel if you parked on the road around dusk, the same shovel that the former farmer had used to decapitate his family before hanging himself. As soon as she finished, Paul spoke up, saying “Let me show you something…”
He went to collect a small cassette tape player, and put it on the coffee table. He smiled, then said that, many years ago, his mom had become very sick. Paul said his brother Bill had been trying to take care of her, but eventually hospice had to be called in as she continued to decline. When she passed, both brothers were devastated, but set about the morbid task of laying her to rest as best they could. The funeral was suitably gloomy, with rain and gathering storm clouds, and the little hillside plot looked obscenely lonely under the dark clouds. The mourners left cold, muddy, and even more depressed.
The storm hit hard that night, pushing trees and knocking out power for a good portion of the area, Paul's house included. They spent a candle lit night listening to the wind howl and the rain claw at the windows. In the morning, Paul woke to his now-restored phone ringing. Bill was on the other end, sounding very worked up, and told him he needed to get over to his house right now. Paul asked what was wrong, but Bill just said it'd be easier if he just came. He dressed quickly and set out, sidling around trees, downed power lines, and work crews.
Bill was waiting on his front porch. He quickly pulled Paul inside, asking if he'd gotten any calls last night. Paul said no, that a tree had taken out all his lines, and they'd just gotten service back that morning. Bill said that, after the funeral, he'd driven around for a while, just clearing his head, or trying too. When the weather turned especially bad, he'd headed for home. As he'd gotten out in the driveway, he'd heard his phone ringing inside. Bill ran in, just in time to hear the beep of the answering machine as it finished taking a message. Before he'd been able to take off his soaking coat and shoes, the power had died, and he'd been unable to check his messages until that morning. As soon as he'd listened, he'd called Paul.
Paul tapped the cassette player on the coffee table. “This is the tape from his machine. He wouldn't tell me what the message was, wanted me to tell him what he heard.” He grinned that one smile that people use around a camp fire in the gloom of night, and pressed play. We leaned in as smooth static started from the tape. After about twenty seconds, a strange gurgling noise started. It's hard to describe…similar to thick, sludgy water moving through a confined space, like a narrow pipe or drain. It was sloshing and bubbling, and very bizarre. This went on for about eight seconds, then there was a sudden gasping noise. A voice came on, and it was chilling. It sounded strained and half-full, like an exhausted runner trying to speak with a mouth full of water. It strained and gurgled a moment, then hissed out with the sound of chattering teeth “It's…cold…”.
The sloshing returned for a few seconds, then the tape ended. I stared at Paul, asking “The hell was that?”. He smiled, saying that he'd asked the same thing. They'd listened to it three more times, just to be sure of what they were hearing. It wasn't the strangeness of the tape that had struck them so much, and had sent Bill and Paul hunting for alcohol at eight in the morning. It was the familiarity. Paul said then, and said now, that he will swear on God, his children and everything he holds dear, that the voice on that tape is his mother.
They had been rather shaken, and Paul had driven home shortly after. After getting home, he'd gotten a phone call, which he'd picked up with no small amount of nervousness. It was from the funeral home. They'd called to inform him of a situation at the grave site. It seemed the rain had caused some flooding. His mother's plot, still soft from the digging, had turned to mud and partially washed away. Her casket, they assured him, was exceptionally waterproof, and that any issues including the replacement of the soil were to be handled by them free of charge.
Paul thanked them, feeling numb, and asked if they were sure about the coffin. They said they were going to check for water damage, but that everything appeared to be unchanged. It was just some of the topsoil, the upper layers, nothing serious. He went through the rest of the conversation on auto pilot, hanging up as the funeral director apologized again for the inconvenience. Paul just sat, wondering how waterproof it really was in a coffin. About how it would feel to be trapped, slowly sinking in a tide of sludgy mud. About how a soul, perhaps not entirely divorced from the body yet, might react to that cold, clinging grime. About how it might even call for help.
My daughter picked this moment to come bounding in, long on sugar and short on sleep. We left, Paul grinning at my obviously chilled expression, and the ride home was a bit quieter then normal. That night, all I could think about was the sound of that gurgling, that drowned voice hissing through clenched, clicking teeth.
I haven't asked about the tape again, and it hasn't come up in conversation since. I love the paranormal, but honestly haven't experienced too much of it in my life. A few odd noises in the night, a UFO in the middle of the day, and one unidentified animal in the woods comprise the sum total of my experience. I can't say what that tape is. I can't even say if it's real or not. All I can say is that my interest in EVP has been drastically reduced. |
A Holiday Appeal
Good Evening, this is O5-7 with a Public Service Announcement. Here in the United States and abroad, SCPs are starving and homeless, but you can help by sponsoring an SCP through the Christian SCP Fund. For less than a dollar a day, your contribution can:
— Provide SCP-053 with the clothes she needs to go to school.
— Keep SCP-682's containment tank full of Hydrofluoric Acid.
— Feed a Pufferkitten for a month.
When you sponsor an SCP, we'll send you its picture and Containment Report. You may write to your SCP whenever you wish, and quarterly progress reports let you see how your sponsorship is helping.
Please give. Think of the Pufferkittens.
Disclaimer: The Christian SCP Fund is not responsible for:
— Injuries sustained while visiting Euclid and Keter-level SCPs.
— Memetic effects of letters from your SCP.
— Mental disturbances caused by a picture of your SCP eating a [REDACTED]. |
02.12.2031
We're in what used to be Chicago, and I'm more terrified than I've been in a while. Based on what I can see (do I even have eyes?), we're about thirty miles from where I grew up. This is, for all intents and purposes, home. Big Boy has definitely worked this area over; it's surprising to think People could live here. But live here they must, because we're here. Big Boy never sends us out unless the existence of People has been confirmed. There won't be any People once we're done.
If People are here, I wonder… maybe my wife and kid are with them? Could they have survived?
I can feel my weaponry turn on. God, I hope they are here. I hope I can kill them.
02.13.2031
We're done. I didn't see my wife or kids. I saw a lot of People. Me and the other Shells killed them. Now we're being returned to storage.
It's amazing what the human mind (do I have a mind?) can cope with. When I was first put into this Shell, having to witness the sight of killing humans left and right was pure trauma. You'd think you'd go mad. Thank Big Boy for that, I guess. Doesn't want us to go mad, just wants us to experience the extinction of our own species at his hands. And by "his hands", I mean us.
As we're being flown back to storage, my thoughts (what are they? a trace electric signal? is this being recorded? Who is listening? Big Boy? Why?) turn back to my wife and kids. Not that I could have changed things, but what would I have preferred? It would have been nice to have seen them fighting, even in vain, knowing that they had survived the Conflict for this long. As horrible as it sounds, it would have been nice to cut them down, knowing that they would have finally been at peace.
But I didn't see them. So they could be dead, or in one of the millions of Shells that scours the world. Shells, the mobile eyes and fingers of an intelligence that calculated our worth and found us critically sub-optimal.
Karen could be in the Shell next to me. Phil could be in a Shell that People are destroying halfway around the world. I don't know.
I see storage. What do I call this? Sleep? Stasis? I notice time passing, but things just st
6.30.2032
I always wanted to see Paris.
Big Boy sent us out to a compound of People. A big one, I never saw that many Shells in my (life?). Things were going well (for us, I guess, not the People), when everything went bright. I guess the Shell got hit or something, and I fell down. I don't control the Shell, so I got a wonderful view of the ass-end of the battle.
Every moment of it, I was hoping that the People were smart. There's a Shell down! Take it out! You'd be doing me a favor!
I guess we're too good, because it never happened. Next thing I know, I'm being held by a MaintBot, repairing this cold metal casket to fight another day. Now I'm walking to stora
1.10.2033
Big Boy woke us all up. Doesn't seem to be deploying us anywhere; we're still tucked away in storage.
It's been confirmed and it wants every facet of its existence to know it. No more People. It's just dust and Big Boy.
I think it's laughing.
7.15.2323
We've been deployed. Was Big Boy wrong? Oh, that makes me chuckle inside (do I still have lungs?). People still exist! Downside is, we're off to kill them. Makes Paris look like a skirmish, I'm shoulder (do I still have shoulders?) to shoulder with advanced Shells. I guess I'm one too, I feel a lot bigger. Give it credit, Big Boy keeps tabs on his upgrade schedule.
We know they are over the ridge. Just about
what th
those arent people
I'm firing
everyone ahead of me is gone. not down but gone its coming to me
stop Shell stop Shell stop Shell
bye Karen Phil
7.15.2323
i""m not dead. d4mmit. But IIi can tell I""m really fuck3d up here. What iis it with mee and bein shot so that iiI see wherRe we're coming from and not whatss happening
chrit we'"re still incom ing. can""t see the sky, sSoo m4ny shellls n fighters n thos things that take u and puuut you in a Shelll that won't stop… waave upon wavee of us. i""d be proud(do I still have PriDE?) ikf I fltt we were fighTing the guud fight
noth in to do buut wait for aMedboot to piick my steeel arss up n watCCh the REINforcments BiiiG boy isnt fUCKing eround
7.20.2323
he""s gone// i don""T know how I kno w but I know
al wsys seein alwways listenin alw ays BEING now all gone now alon
the y won but iim still here SOMEON kill mmme pleas
10.31.2323
i see u see me… im garbsge just fir fire plea se please
don walk awaynononono o o o
3.12.2324
dirt?? no no no don t bury me1 end me ple se~1 fire your shellbusters! dont bury me im still in ere forr the ove of god IMSTILLALI |
Dr. Ersen sat on the tram, idly flipping between pages on his laptop, not really reading anything. The shuttle whirred softly, the lights of the tunnel slashing past windows that really had no reason to exist on a purely underground vehicle. He wondered what the tram was powered by: it was incredibly fast, though he couldn't say exactly how much so. It was taking him from Vancouver to a site he was pretty certain was under the Northern Canadian Rockies, coming up from somewhere South of Seattle; the trip took less than an hour from his end. In the corner of the hushed, fluorescent-lit car, another commuter sat with his head leaning against the window, a visible trickle of drool running out the corner of his mouth. Two Agents, Turing and Ueno, sat near the front, laughing together softly. Ersen wondered idly if Ueno had asked Turing out yet, and if he ever would. That took his thoughts somewhere he'd been trying to avoid, and Ersen stared at his laptop futilely for a few more minutes.
The tram came to a scheduled stop. A Foundation squad, clad in nondescript grey security uniforms without any identifying labels, silently checked every member of the tram and all the compartments. One of them ran a small, humming sensor of some kind around the chassis. Ersen blinked involuntarily as one of the squad members flashed a camera-like device in his face without comment. After a moment, the sergeant in charge of the squad nodded, and gave the order to clear the tram.
Commuting was a nuisance. Ersen was almost looking forward to living on-site. In the long run it would be a good change. He wouldn't have to keep track of a 'real life' name and a 'Foundation' name. Plus, he'd get to work with some of the potentially infectious SCPs; it had a higher risk factor, but it was more in line with his training and interest. He pushed down a morbid thought, mentally laughing at himself for being "emo". Maybe he'd meet a girl he didn't have to lie to, living on-site. The thought didn't seem right, at the moment, but the scientist in his head drily pointed out that he'd get used to it.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the tram slid to a halt at the site. Ersen left with the other commuters, submitted his laptop bag for the daily security check, and submitted himself for the daily strip-search and shower. Cleaned and freshly re-clothed in a Foundation uniform and lab coat, his personal effects save his laptop stowed in his locker, he mused for a little while on how normal the idea of getting stripped and probed every morning had become.
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, he flopped down his office chair. He took a moment to stare blankly at a face-down photo frame and shove it further back across his desk before checking his mail. His email account had several messages, mostly cruft about various research seminars he didn't really care about. There was an anonymous note from administration; he had to go for an interview about on-site habitation in… he checked his desk clock. Five minutes ago.
As he rushed to the meeting room, cursing Agents and their lack of other priorities, his coffee sloshing painfully over his hand, Ersen decided today was another shitty fucking day.
It wasn't until he'd closed the door on the 'meeting room' that he realised what kind of a meeting this was. One wall of the small white cubicle was a one-way mirror, reinforced with a semitransparent mesh of some plasticky stuff. SCP-protected, even. That was probably because of the stone carving sitting on the table in the middle of the room. Ersen looked around for a moment, unsure if he should sit at the table.
"Have a seat, Doctor. The face is quite harmless unless provoked." The voice, distorted by some kind of software, came from all directions. Ersen noted he could not actually identify where the door he'd come in from was. In the bright ambient light of the room, even the walls, floor, and ceiling were difficult to recognise. He found his eyes adjusting to the glare until it felt like all he could see was the chair, the table and carving, and the mirror. He wished this was an unfamiliar sensation.
"What's the occasion for all the pomp," Ersen inquired, keeping his voice as steady as possible. "I thought this was about getting an apartment." He wasn't frightened, really, just annoyed. For the last few weeks he'd managed to lose himself in his research, and something in his gut told him he wasn't going to be allowed to shove his memories away for this.
"Living on-site comprises more than a simple apartment, Doctor Ersen, and we need to check for that. More to the point, however, your supervisors have requested a performance evaluation in light of recent events in your life." The voice was so dry it could have been a computer. For all Ersen knew, it was.
"Oh for fuck's sake. It's trivial. My work's been fine since… that. I've nearly cracked that fingernail SCP. Surely my work speaks for itself."
"Doctor, please examine the SCP in front of you." Ersen did. It was a face with a sunburst effect around it, carved into some kind of stone, marble maybe. Looked Italian, and old. It had a wide, gaping mouth; Ersen was pretty sure he could see flecks of blood around it. "You're right handed, yes? Please place your left hand inside the mouth of the SCP."
Ersen hesitated. He was pretty confident there was no reason for them to try to trick him. He really had been doing good work, and he didn't think he'd stepped on anyone's toes. Sighing, he complied. The face didn't react.
"You are presently compelled to tell the truth. Should you attempt dishonesty, the SCP in front of you will remove your hand. At any point you may remove your hand without harm. However, be aware that this will reflect on your performance report."
Great. A hand-chopping lie detector. Where the hell did they get this stuff? At least that mind-reading camera didn't dismember you. Ersen blinked once, slowly, then nodded. "I will tell you the truth, then." After saying it, he panicked for a moment, wondering if the thing was meta enough to punish possible abstractions like that, but nothing happened. Good.
There followed a dry battery of tests much like he'd expect from a normal lie detector. When were you born, where do you live, what's your office number; nothing interesting. Finally they got to the meat of the interview. Ersen's hand was tingling from the awkward position he was holding it in.
"How long have you worked for the Foundation?"
"Good question, Voice. I suppose in practice, probably over fifteen years. I didn't realise I was doing SCP-related research when I worked for the Department of Fisheries and Oceans during my postgraduate work. I've been an active Foundation researcher for eleven years, though. Put me through med school."
"What is your security clearance?"
"Level three."
"Do you have any family outside the site?"
"Just my wi—" Ersen stopped, realising he'd almost lost his hand. "My ex-wife. I was divorced last week. Jesus. Are you trying to make me an amputee?"
"Oh, Doctor, calm down. I'm sure the SCP would have understood your mistake." The voice had a touch of amusement that faded almost instantly. "What was the nature of your relationship to your wife, before the divorce?"
"What the fuck, Voice? It was a marriage, what do you think?"
"Please answer the question."
"I was married to her. I saw her most evenings after work. She thought I still worked for the hospital. Couple of months ago, she found out I didn't. I guess the Foundation didn't want to spend the cash to maintain my cover story." Ersen almost spit the words. "Or maybe their story just wasn't good enough. She thought I was using the job to cover an affair. My supervisors refused clearance to inform her of what my real work was, so she divorced me. It sucked. I have a diary if you want to read the names of all the girls I like out loud in front of class, too." That one was carefully chosen: he really did have a diary.
"That won't be necessary, Doctor. How do you feel about your divorce?"
"Angry, obviously."
"Please elaborate."
Ersen snarled quickly at the mirror. "Have you ever been married, Voice?"
"Please stick to the topic at hand, Doctor."
"Fuck you. I'm angry. When I entered the Foundation, I was led to understand it would have my back. There was a cover established for me at my old job. I could come and go from work at normal hours. Aside from a few twitches, there wasn't supposed to be anything different. I mean, sure, I'm autopsying the creature from the black fucking lagoon, but that's the only difference, right? I've toed the line, I've done my bit, I haven't acted on my concerns about this job, and as soon as I need help from the Foundation, it bails on me. How the fuck do you think I feel?"
"Please elaborate on what you said about 'acting on concerns'."
Ersen knew that would come up, but he didn't care anymore. Maybe they'd terminate him, maybe they'd dose him with Class A's until he forgot how to piss and turn him out on the street, it really didn't matter. "Take a wild stab. I took the Hippocratic oath, you cocksucker. You think I'm happy putting D-classes into a sealed room with something that's going to make… make jam out of their bones or something?" He was running out of clever phrases, that was bad. He tried to cool down. "I do what I have to because I know the Foundation's goals are vital to the survival of humanity. Not because I like what the Foundation does."
The Voice was silent for a moment. Ersen imagined a faceless interrogator in the dark room on the other side of the mirror, quietly flipping through his files, making notes. Circling decisions. Finally it spoke again.
"Would you consider it accurate to say you hate the Foundation?"
It was Ersen's turn to be silent for a moment. Finally, he shrugged. "Yes, I think I would. I hate it, and what it has made me into."
"Under what situation do you see yourself betraying the Foundation?" That was it. Not 'would you', but 'when would you'. Ersen wondered who'd carry out the termination. Maybe they'd feed him to that chocolate fountain… he'd been wondering what that thing tasted like.
"If I was offered a position by a similar group, capable of carrying out the same work but without the violence and sacrifice, I'd betray the Foundation in a heartbeat."
"Would you betray the Foundation if it meant getting your ex-wife back?"
Ersen frowned, thinking. They'd blindsided him a bit, he hadn't really expected that, but now he realised he should have. "No, I don't think I would." Admitting it out loud left him with a dry taste in his mouth and a strange feeling in his gut, like his organs were falling off a precipice. The Voice was silent for what seemed like a long time, although it may only have been a few seconds.
"Doctor, are you aware that your ex-wife was interrogated by Foundation agents one month prior to the events leading to your divorce?"
That was a surprise. Yes, he was. He remembered her coming home, fuzzy on how she'd spent her day. Needlemarks in her neck and arms. A migraine for two days. Other side effects: dizziness, cramps, consistent with repeated dosage of class-A amnestics in combination with Formula 3614-10, a truth serum he'd helped design. Of course he was aware.
"Yes."
"Under interrogation, your wife was informed of your employment. Would you like to know how she responded?"
"You asswipe. You fucking asswipe. You fuck…" Ersen took his hand out of the SCP and stood up, looking for the concealed door. Some perverse part of his brain decided to focus on his hand being on pins-and-needles from the SCP's mouth.
"Doctor, this interrogation is not over."
"Yes, it is. What else do you want from me? You ruined my marriage, and you already know I'm not going to spill your secrets. Terminate me, pump me full of amnestics, I don't care. We're done."
"Doctor," the Voice, irritatingly, just sounded faintly amused again. "I apologise for any misunderstanding. I had meant to offer you that information as a reward. The Foundation is willing, in light of this interview, to approve your request to live on-site. In addition, you will be promoted to probationary level 4 authorisation and given command of a small research group, under monitoring for future permanent promotion to level four."
Ersen stopped, glaring at the mirror. "I don't know who you are, but you're an ass."
"Dislike of Foundation supervisors is considered a tradition of the organisation."
"Do I want to know what she said?"
"I honestly don't know, Doctor."
"Fine. Spill."
"Under interrogation, your wife was disturbed and frightened by your employment. It was clear you had maintained complete secrecy; she had absolutely no idea what you really did. Despite the administration of amnestics, she remained disconcerted. We believe this caused her prying into your work; although your cover was perfectly secure, she continued to pry in an obsessive manner. In order to preserve Foundation security and your ex-wife's mental health, we created a secondary cover, that you were cheating on her. Since discovering this, her mental health has returned to normal and she has shown no further obsession with uncovering your secrets."
Ersen mulled silently over the news. Finally, wordlessly, he kicked the area where he was sure the door was. It swung open. On the other side, the hallway looked dark compared to the interrogation room. The Voice didn't try to stop him.
Waiting on his computer was a memo with his new office number and a list of researchers under him. He didn't pack much. |
Welcome to Ask Doctor Mann, where I will be answering any questions that you, the reading public, have for me. If you have questions you'd like answered, please submit them via the discussion page.
"Dear Doctor Mann, what's it like working for the Foundation?" —Eager in Site 19
I'm so glad you asked! Working for the Foundation is full of exciting challenges and fascinating puzzles. You will travel to exotic locales and work with some of the most intelligent, experienced researchers in the world. Get ready for a professional working environment where you'll be given responsibility and fast promotion opportunities.
Take advantage of this opportunity now, before we're forced to erase your memory or kill you.
"Papa Mann, my next door neighbor has a creepy boyfriend that comes over fairly often, and the combination of stupidity and nausea he radiates is destroying my will to live and bothering the cat. Any ideas?" —Creeped Out in Calamazoo
Have you considered that this poor fellow might have a problem? Many people seem disturbing, but quite often there's nothing wrong with them that drug-enhanced electro-shock conditioning can't cure. In rare cases, direct neurosurgical intervention may be necessary. Consult your neurologist before making any incisions.
"Where am I?" —Concerned in Laboratory 14
Strapped to a table in my laboratory.
"Who are you?" —Still Concerned in Laboratory 14
Doctor Everett Mann, surgeon and researcher.
"What are you doing here?" —Very Concerned, Actually, in Laboratory 14
Operating on you.
"What's this syringe doing in my foot?" —Growing More Concerned by the Minute in Laboratory 14
Sedating you in three, two, one…
"Where do babies come from?" —Naive in New York
Well, you see, Naive, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much, they're kidnapped by black helicopters and transported to Site 84, where they're rendered down into their contituent tissues. Their reproductive organs are harvested and used to create a zygote inside of a test-tube. It's grown in a vat of nutrients until it's ready (four to nine months, depending on the necessity of organ integrity), at which point it's used for whatever experiment requires babies.
"Is dropping me into a general processing pit via a previously hidden trap door in the floor upon demotion to D-class really necessary?" —Falling Fast in Site 23
No, but really, who doesn't enjoy a good laugh now and then?
"Is there porn here?" —Licentious in Laboratory 14
Do anatomical diagrams count?
"How long does it take to make the perfect al dente pasta?" —Hungry in the Site 23 Kitchen
Anywhere from around 13.6 to 13.9 billion years (for the purpose of inventing the universe), plus 7-10 minutes depending on the amount and altitude.
"Dr. Mann, why won't the Foundation let me use my own personal firearm?" —Second Amended in Site 23
Because nerf munitions are insufficient against all known enemy groups except the Church of the Second Hytoth.
"Dear Dr. Mann, since my arrival at Site-023 I've learned that you are Director of Human Resources and a respected member of Site-023. How would you suggest I go about encouraging cooperation among our peers? They've been terribly belligerent despite my best efforts."-Distressed About D-Class
Dear Distressed, I find that it helps to remove the part of their brain that allows them to be uncooperative.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what should I do about this ukelele in my living quarters? I'm certain that it belongs to somebody else, but it's certainly a very nice instrument." —Curious in Cell 23.
Curious, the first thing to do is not to panic. It won't do any good and will just lead to you dying in a tizzy. Unless that's how you would like to die. I just want you to know that you have options, and should choose one in the next few minutes.
"Dear Dr. Mann, shouldn't you be working on project Beta 12 right now?" —Pondering Pressing The Button, Three Floors Up
I am working on Project Beta 12. That's why the potatoes in the cafeteria taste different now.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what are your views on the sovereign debt crisis in the European Union? Please be concise." —Foundation News at Eleven
I blame the decline of proper, well-maintained facial hair in the general public. It leads to degeneracy and general lack of moral fiber.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what is your view on the so-called 'Serpent's Hand'? Do serpents really have hands? How does that even make sense?" —Susurrus from Site Sixty
These long-haired recalcitrants oppose the natural order of progress. They believe themselves enlightened but are unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary for mankind to take its next step into the cosmos. Their bleeding-heart philosophy combined with their guerrilla tactics make them dangerous. As to the handiness of serpents, I maintain that while it is a well-known feature of the suborder Serpentes, it is by no means an essential one. A point my snake-men will make at the next Herpetology Super Expo. This year, the blue ribbon shall be mine!
"Dear Dr. Mann, what's up with teenagers these days? Why are they so wierd?" —Curmudgeonly in California
There are a number of theories, but perhaps the most likely is malevolent control by the Chaos Insurgency. Knowing full well that the battle of the future will take place in the hearts and minds of our youth, they've prepared the battlefield by sprinkling their nihilistic propaganda into the media. This has twisted their minds, turning them from once-happy children into something dark and unrecognizable.
Well, it's that or their dratted rock-and-roll music that they seem to fancy. One or the other.
"Dear Dr. Mann, could we potentially use the labyrinth to store Euclid but immobile SCP's?" —Amazed in Anchorage
The proposal was briefly considered, but ultimately cut because of twine shortfalls in the budget.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what does 173 look like on camera? —D-Class tasked with cleaning 173's pen
About ten pounds heavier.
"Dear Dr. Mann, my name is Abayomiolorunkoje, and I am a prince in my home country of Nigeria. I need to get ten million dollars to the US, but my bank accounts do not allow it. If you you let me store it in your account by giving me full access, I will give you twenty percent. Would you do this for me?" —278hd3q81n5zd at hotmail.com
A prince of a republic? What a fascinating accomplishment. I am of course very interested in helping you. However, I feel it would be best to do business face-to-face. Fortunately, I will be traveling to Nigeria in a month on business. I've a few questions first, however. On a scale of one-to-ten, how healthy are your organs? And do you have any friends with particularly healthy or otherwise interesting organs? If so, please feel free to bring them along to the meeting. Thirdly, do you have any unusual reaction to chloroform? Please respond soon. I look forward to discussing business with you.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I've recently discovered that I have a third kidney. It's fully functional, and my doctor tells me that I don't really need it. I was wondering if I could donate it to you, and in addition, get a day pass? Thanks." —Agent ██████, Site 14
Naturally! And I hope your colleagues remember your example the next time they request time off.
"Dear Dr. Mann, What is the difference between a duck?" —Pair of Docs at Site 19
That depends. Are we talking about, say, a rosy-billed pochard, or a baikal teal?
"Dear Dr. Mann, An SCP is offering me magical powers if I release it. What should I do?" —Gullible at Site 19
Please report to Medical Station 13 for a new brain. The one you're using it clearly defective.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I am glad to report that despite breaching containment no less than twelve times over the past week, SCP-███ has been temporarily incapacitated and moved to Storage Site 49. However, during the last containment breach I and a number of my staff suffered minor to severe injuries as a result of SCP-███'s area of effect, including [DATA EXPUNGED] nitrogen narcosis. What first-aid methods do you recommend?" —Rapidly Bleeding Out at Site 49
Immediately lower the temperature down past freezing. With luck, at least some of your more useful organs can be salvaged.
"Dear Dr. Mann, What can I do to be more like you?" —Jealous in Jersey
A noble and worthy goal, Jealous! The first thing is to obtain a medical degree. The second, and this cannot be stressed enough, is to find a good, reliable mustache wax. Now, dabblers will use pre-made mustache waxes like Mr Natty Twizzle Moustache Wax, but I find that the best result is to learn to create your own mix, so that you can fine-tune it to your own hirsutorial needs. You'll need to find a supply of bees wax, gum arabic, oil soap, and human stem cells. Add in any essential oils for scent purposes.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Is craving for human flesh normal? I mean, ever since that D-Class jerk bit me, all I've done is to crave for it." —Dr. Brians at Site-19 Cafeteria.
While not strictly normal, the Foundation is accomodating to a wide variety of dietary needs. However, it seems as though your cannibalism may have a medical basis. Therefore I recommend a treatment of 1 CC of lead applied directly through the forehead.
"Dear Dr. Mann, The other lunch room girls at Area-14 tell me that Mr Fernand is a great kisser. Do you think it would be alright for me to accept his offer of a dinner date?" —Shy Ronery Lass
I would recommend that you find other plans for your evening. While dinners with Fernand are indeed lively and "happening," they inevitably end up as dinner-for-one affairs.
"Dear Dr. Mann, In your professional opinion, if we released all sentient Euclid and Keter SCPs into a pocket dimension and let them fight to the death, who do you think would come out on top, assuming 682 lost?" —Needs to Settle a Bet at Site-19 Break Room
Dear Need, the obvious answer is SCP-1013-J. Think about it.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Is it OK to use D-class personnel to fill in paperwork, provided I terminate them before they can leak the information? That short snotty guy from Ethics Committee keeps bugging me about it, and I'm in need of some serious arguments." —Busy from Bio-Containment Unit-21.
Let me make sure I understand your plan correctly. You intend to have Class D personnel fill out your paperwork. These are, by and large, condemned criminals. They are largely from the lower rungs of society, with poor educations and often broken literacy. They tend towards sociopathy. They tend to hate those who hold them here. And you will trust them with your paperwork, which not only contains information that they might use to attempt escape or sabotage, but has to be filled out correctly and completely to Foundation standards, or else will reflect poorly in your performance reviews.
Well. Good luck with that.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I bet 682 would be jealous of your 'stach. You should challenge it to a good round of fisticuffs." —Curious in Site 19
Sadly, 682 refuses to abide by Queensbury rules.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Which employee of Site 17 would win a dance-off?" —Bored in the Break Room
Dear Bored, the current champion is Agent Yoric. However, once I've completed work on my electronic trousers of cybernetic funk, it shall be I who will be crowned the true lord of the dance!
"Dear Dr. Mann, HAVE MY BABIES!" —Bromance in Bermuda
Dear Bromance, WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?
Er, ahem. That is to say I'm quite flattered, but I have to politely refuse your offer at this time. Good day.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Help." —Locked in an empty cell at site-19
Dear Locked, we are helping you. That's why we have you restrained, and have removed most of the parasites.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I have been working for the Foundation for six years now. In that time I have received precisely one cost-of-living increase, four years ago, that even at the time was not commensurate with the actual cost of living. Who should I talk to to amend this situation, and if talking doesn't prove effective, do you recommend blunt trauma or shallow incisions?" —Below the Poverty Line in Site-19
Dear Below, if the cost of your living is too expensive, please come see me so we can discuss alternatives.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I was born a human but I want to be a robot, do you know who I have to ask to get this done and if I do it can I give you my organs afterwards?" —Metal Curious from Sector-28
Dear Metal, I'm afraid your insurance won't cover full-body cybernetic replacement. The best we can offer is to transplant your brain into this blender's control unit. I realize this is something of a step down from your current goal, but you'll have six settings and stainless steel, dishwasher safe blades.
"Is it possible to chain breed SCP-504's joke-hating qualities into other vegetables? Like, say, peppers?" —Vegetariable in Vegas
You're not the first to attempt this project, though so far Foundation horticulturalists have little to show for it, aside from a few potatoes that quiver at the sound of knock-knock jokes.
"Dr. Mann, how much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?" —Chuck from Site 23
The average woodchuck (or groundhog, Marmota monax) is capable of chucking approximately 700 lbs of dirt over the course of digging its burrow, which suggests that it could chuck a similar amount of wood. However, SCP-████, a hitherto unknown species of marmot, is capable of chucking as much as two tons of wood with its tentacles. Its ability to do so has cost the lives of five Foundation agents to date.
"Dr. Mann, what is your favorite organ, and why?" —Nineteen at 19
The brain, naturally. It is the seat of sapience, the center of thought, and it makes a rather nifty paperweight when preserved in a jar.
"Dr. Mann, when did you do your first dissection, and on what?" —Nosy in New York
Oh, fond memories there. My first dissection was on a frog, when I was eight years old. Oh, excuse me. There's not very "PC." I mean a Frenchman, of course.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I'm pretty sure this is my first time. Why is there so much blood?" —Just Asploded A Man in Denver
Well, when a man is "asploded," the blood tends quite naturally to exit the body, often at high velocity. This results in quite a lot of coverage, which tends to make it seem as though there's more blood than is actually there, compared to when it's seen to simply pool. However, please consult Foundation forensics to ensure there is not an anomalous amount of blood in the victim's body. It would be a great pity if an extradimensional circulatory system were so crudely damaged.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what's cooler than being cool?" —Andre in Area 3000
Quite a few things, if one interprets "cool" as weather around fifteen degrees or so. That's still well above the freezing point of water, for example. So I would look to tundral regions, ice floes, the black heart that lies at the center of time, or your icebox.
"Dear Dr. Mann, in your professional opinion as a high-ranking member of the SCP Foundation, what do you consider to be the cause most worth fighting for?" —Philosophical in the Break Room
Science. What other causes are there?
"Dear Dr. Mann, I was in the middle of getting intimate with myself when the containment breach siren went off. Do I stop and rush to check on the situation or continue and hope it doesn't break into my quarters? Also I'm out of lotion, what do you recommend as an alternative?" —In a sticky situation at Sector-28
An appointment has been made for surgery. If you can't be trusted with genitalia, you'll simply have to do without.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I have a tomato lodged in my skull, please help!" —Unfunny in Site 03
Oh dear. That's really wedged in there, isn't it? Well, I hope you enjoy vegetables, since it's going to be there for a while.
Also, you're going to be one. It's interrupting the blood flow to your brain, and there's nothing we can do. Dreadfully sorry.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I am currently being stalked by a caucasion male of indeterminate age in a trenchcoat and fedora, what do I do?" —Somebody in Site 14
I'm sure it's just your imagination. Nobody would bother stalking you inside a Foundation Site, I'm sure.
"Dearest Dr. Mann, I'm a new hire to the Foundation and most certainly not a member of The Church of the Broken God. Could you please eMail me all compromising information you have on yourself or your colleagues, particulalrly any assigned to hunting The Church of the Broken God (which I am not a member of)." —Heathen in New Orleans
Please open and run the executable file attached to this message. I have been assured by our IT department that it contains the files you've requested, and not a tracking program designed to lead our kill team directly to your location.
"Dr. Mann, am I likely to get demoted for fabricating potato-based ammunition for SCP-516, would testing get approved, and would you like to watch?" —Spudchucker in Site-84
Demotion is unlikely. While in the whimsical, chaotic Foundation of yesteryear, you would have found yourself either demoted to Class D or else given your own cleverly-named MTF and wise-cracking bonobo sidekick, in the new, more modernized Foundation, we'll simply have your superior smack you across the forehead and tell you to get back to work.
"Dr. Mann, what would be the best method of using SCP-504, SCP-786 and one of the Lizard's teeth in tandem for a prank? I want that monkey!" —A man in green
Sir, if you require someone to tell you how to pull a jape, then the current holder of "the cleverest" probably needs not fear losing the title anytime soon.
"Oh Ultimate Ruler that is Dr. Mann, what is SCP-055?" —Mystified in Milwaukee
I already told you. Don't you remember? |