This message is to be distributed to all Foundation personnel:
In recent weeks, we have lost a lot of good men. To those of you at stationed at Sites far away from their passings, this may come as a surprise, as containment breaches are at a quarterly low. Those of you at the sites which have lost men know the cause: A mass epidemic of suicides is sweeping the SCP Foundation.
Before you panic, know that our top researchers and doctors have determined that this is not any sort of memetic kill hazard unleashed upon the personnel of the Foundation, nor does it have anything to do with the new set of anomalous objects whose properties we have yet to classify. Everything is, as of this writing, still locked up nice and tight. Near as we can tell, there are simply a lot of people working for us who have gotten depressed. As such, this notice has been sent to you in the hopes of preventing any more unnecessary losses. It is respectfully asked that you not take any further action until you finish reading this.
A lot has been made of the suicides of Researcher Kermode and Doctor Shears. They aren't the only two who have chosen to take their lives in these past weeks, but they are the ones whose stories have been spread around the most. Their notes indicated, respectively, that they didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, and that they held far too much responsibility. Our psychological branches have instructed me to not refute these claims; individually, there's a lot that's bigger than us, and it's entirely possible that we may one day screw up. There is really no point in trying to sugar coat reality, even if it is for a good cause.
The problem with their arguments is that they don't see any of the good we as the Foundation do. Kermode failed to see himself as a part of something working for the greater benefit of mankind, and Shears, while sidestepping the issue, thought only of the gloom and doom the Foundation could bring upon everyone.
In contrast to what those two and many others thought before taking their lives, the situation we are in is possibly one of the best the Foundation has ever seen. We have found a record number of anomalous objects in the past year, gained enough people to more than keep up with our hiring needs, and successfully lowered containment breaches by sixty percent. If we were going to crush the world in our hands, we would have done so by now.
The very idea that committing suicide is somehow going to improve our situation is absolutely ludicrous. However, there is, once again, the fact that we simply live in a very, very grim world. It's hard to get through the day living with the knowledge we have. But you all really do need to remember, things simply are not that bad.
We are doing the right thing. We are being incredibly successful at it. We are actively saving lives. And we need you to keep your life protected. If you just remember that, we can nip this suicide thing in the bum, and get back to making the world a better place.
It's rare for a message from higher up to end this way, but have a nice day.
-Sgt. Lee P.
Last week, we lost Researcher Kermode. He hung himself in his office. Didn't even leave a note explaining why. Everyone thinks he broke under stress.
Well, this week, we're losing me. And I think you all deserve an explanation as to why.
I was working with Kermode on a few projects. We dug up a few… ugly things. Who could have guessed that manuscript would reveal the Foundation going back that far? Or that the fortune teller would show us existing far, far into the future, desperately trying to keep the human race safe even after the apocalypse. Hell, I'll admit I was shaken when we stumbled into the containment chambers even the O5s didn't know about.
Kermode killed himself because in light of all of that, all of those grand achievements that the Foundation's done and will do, he felt like nothing. Just a bug crawling across the surface of the planet, searching for a non-existent meaning. At the time, I didn't really get what had shaken him up so badly. Still didn't for the past week or so. But his death got me thinking.
I still don't see exactly what's so horrifying about being insignificant; it's something every living creature has to deal with. But our work, and the time I've had to think since his death, that's brought me to another conclusion. I'm not insignificant.
I work for the Foundation. Even if I'm only a single unit, I'm still a unit that's working with a million others, working behind the scenes to keep the world safe from impending disaster. We're all part of one great, big machine, designed specifically to keep everyone safe. We here aren't insignificant; we're the most important people on the planet.
And that terrifies me.
Has anyone really ever realized how many people we protect? How many people whose simple existence relies on us not screwing up? There's seven billion individual walking, thinking, innocent people out there who could die the very instant we make a mistake. Hell, in a few cases, a sizable chunk of the universe is relying on us to play our cards just right. Every last little thing is reliant on us.
And even if we don't screw up, look at all these new threats materializing. We've brought in close to a thousand new objects this year. What was the average beforehand? Twenty? Thirty? Something big is happening. The sheer amount of anomalies popping up tells me that we'll be needing to apply more and more pressure to the world soon. Tightening our defenses, closing up gaps, making every thing safer and safer, always applying more pressure.
We've got the whole world in our hands, cupping it to keep it safe. What happens on the day we squeeze a little too hard?
I can't be a part of that. I need to get out, right now. Even the time it would take to apply for an amnesiac is too long to live with the knowledge that our only two options are utter failure or destructive success. So that's why I'm relying on a piece of lead in my brain.
I've got to go now.
Item #: SCP-1994
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: Instances of SCP-1994 are contained at Bio-Site 13 in a series greenhouses set to simulate their natural environment at all times. Regular maintenance of soil nutrients, water and nitrogen are performed on a twice-daily basis to keep the subjects healthy.
Under no circumstances are any other plants allowed to grow in a greenhouse containing an instance of SCP-1994.
In the event of a containment breach, all available personnel are to work to relocate the escaped specimen, and reestablish containment inside of 24-hours. All civilians witnessing a containment breach are to receive a Class-A amnesic, and all casualties resulting from the event are to receive a plausible cover story.
Description: SCP-1994 consists of sixteen mature instances of Juniperus deppeana1, all originating from Northern Arizona. Each specimen shows signs of stunted growth, as indicated by the height of seven meters each2, soft bark, and general discoloration of the branches and leaves. At each time of containment, roots on the instances of SCP-1994 displayed signs of having recently grown in an overpopulated area3.
When isolated from other plants and kept in good condition, instances of SCP-1994 display no anomalous effects, acting as normal specimens from their species having endured poor conditions. When any form of plant life grows within a five meter radius of a specimen of SCP-1994, SCP-1994 will begin to shake violently, leading to several branches being stripped off seventy percent of the time. After three minutes of this activity, SCP-1994 will vanish from the spot it grows in, and reappear in another location. Exactly where an instance will show up appears to be randomized, though all cases - save one - have materialized in a highly populated area in a radius of ninety-five kilometers from █████████, Arizona. In all cases, the relocated instance of SCP-1994 has appeared inside of a human being, either impaling them or causing a sudden explosion of outer bodily features.
Despite the soil in urban areas not containing necessary nutrients for instances of SCP-1994 to survive, each specimen will take root where it lands, and stay there until either death or containment by the Foundation.
Addendum-1994-001: To date, instances of SCP-1994 have killed nineteen civilians and one Foundation agent, and broken containment twice.
Addendum-1994-002: In the past month, new instances of SCP-1994 have ceased to appear. Possible connections to recent forest fires in the region are currently under investigation.
Addendum-1994-003: The possibility of instances of SCP-1994 appearing in other regions of overpopulated forests is currently being addressed. Foundation agents from Bio-Site 13 have been dispatched to seven areas deemed most likely to harbor instances of SCP-1994 in other species of tree. Should such instances reveal themselves, incendiary deforestation will be implemented.
There is an ancient legend.
Before man came to master fire and cultivate his own food, he lived in perpetual fear. There existed creatures of such frightful appearance and terrible power that even the mightiest of warriors fell before them. When the creatures did not attack, there were artifacts of doom, some enchanted by wicked sorcerers who lived in isolation, some appearing for no good reason except to torment man. And in times when neither were to be found, the incomprehensible forces assaulted the refuges of man, with no purpose but that of destruction.
It is said in some circles that the mastery of fire is what allowed man to drive off the horrors of the world. The idea of a weak, powerless group gaining a bright, burning weapon against the night-things is certainly a comforting one, and is indeed believed by most of the world to be man's first step towards independence.
But it was not fire that led man to his mastery of Earth. It took another event for fire to even be a possibility. Given the millennia that separate us from that day, nobody knows the exact details of the event. But the legend goes something like this.
One night, a group of nomads squatted in a deep, dark cave, awaiting a creature. They had been on the run for a full cycling of the moon, and had gradually been picked down from a group of twenty to a group of four. The beast showed no signs of tiring, and could easily tear a person in half given the chance. A single glance into its eyes was enough to paralyze any man, regardless of his constitution. The creature had wandered the world for many, many years, terrorizing all who stumbled across it.
In a world of horrors, it was probably the least fearsome creature one could encounter.
In the deepest part of the night, the four heard the creature's dragging footsteps scrape across the entrance of the cave. They tried to remain silent, hoping to buy a few more precious seconds with which to make their peace. The knowledge of impending doom had been with them for some time now, but only here, in their last moments of life, did that knowledge become a solid reality. Huddling together, the four survivors awaited the creature, and the bloodshed that would follow.
As it rounded the corner, the group could barely make out the features of the thing that stalked them. It was twice the height of any normal man, and half the width. The eyes seemed far, far too large for the head, which jutted out from the head by several hands. Its limbs ended not in hands and feet, but rather in large pads of slime, which still managed to grip like the jaws of a lion. Turning its head, the creature saw the group, and bolted towards them.
But for the four survivors, the end never came.
Right as the creature came within striking distance, it was tugged back by a four strands of knotted up reeds, one attached to each of the limbs. Losing its balance, the creature fell upon the ground, knocking its head against the stone floor of the cavern. Before it could regain balance, three lithe, strong men beset upon it, two taking an arm and a leg each, and the third grabbing the face with one hand. Raising up the other, he placed two crudely carved rocks over the creature's eyes. The group watched in fascination as, instead of flinging them aside with a toss of its head, the creature writhed in pain, unable to get rid of the stones, which seemed to cling to its eyes.
Tieing the creature's limbs behind its back, the men hefted it up, and chucked the monstrosity into a corner of the cave. Then, they led the four bewildered survivors out into the night, where six more men stood watch over the entrance. Two of them rolled a large boulder over to the entrance, and sealed it tightly shut. From inside, they could still hear the echoes of the creature's screams.
As the first three men led the original survivors away, the other six took up posts around the cavern. Legend has it that for many years afterwards, they would patrol the area, making sure the creature hadn't escaped from it's confines. At every winter solstice, they would descend into the cavernous prison, and carefully replace the bindings and stones before sealing it once more.
As for the men who captured the creature, they went on to spread their knowledge across the globe. Tales from all corners of the Earth say they had decided to turn against the creatures which stalked them in the night, and make the world safe for man. That such a gargantuan effort was both planned and successfully implemented by a mere three individuals is truly fantastical, even for a legend.
Gradually, the group drifted out of common knowledge. As less and less things plagued the world, less and less people believed that such things had even existed, and by the time of man's cultivation of fire, the men who worked to make such things possible had passed onto the edges of normal life, a mere shadow, protecting man's continued existence.
The organization they formed out of those days of darkness and despair has gone by many names over the centuries, and the number of men who did work for it have been lost to history. Many of the things they held captive to make the world safe are still held to this day, while others have disappeared off the face of the Earth, either destroyed or escaped, awaiting rediscovery, and hopefully recapture. Regardless of these changes, though, the organization has, from its very conception, operated under one motto.
They secure, they contain, and they protect.
Something dreadfully wrong had just occurred within the SCP Foundation. The Head of Otherworldly Matters Department could feel it. He leaned back in his chair, and tried to determine which of the "they have screwed up royally feelings" he was getting this time. It certainly wasn't a containment breach - those were far, far more panicky - and it wasn't death on a massive scale. It was something that had gone wrong in… his department.
Slamming his forehead on the desk a few times, he shook himself off and prepared for the inevitable moment when someone would burst into the office, acting like they were asking for help when they damn well knew they were just demanding it from a man who was very, very busy and was just trying to get through the day's paperwork so he could sleep without something plaguing his mind!
Sure enough, a panicked lab assistant barged through his door shouting, "Sir, sir! Urgent situation in Experiment Chamber Sixteen! The head of the project sent me here to…"
"No, no, let me save you some breath!" said the Head, raising his hands and widening his eyes in mock shock. "You breached through the wall of some dimension using some SCP that logically shouldn't be capable of doing that, but somehow did, and now you need me to sort things out because you aren't competent enough to do it yourselves. Did I miss anything?"
"Well, actually sir," said the assistant, trying to get himself back in order, "you did miss the part where we were conducting an experiment without your permission, but other than that, you're pretty much spot on."
The Department Head groaned and pressed his hands to his face. "I'd shoot you chucklefucks in the face myself if it weren't for…" he mumbled, seething quietly. The lab assistant stood shuffling his feet while the Head desperately tried to keep his hands away from his throat. At length, he took a deep breath and asked, "What's the emergency?"
"Well, sir, while we were testing SCP-826 with some of the anomalous materials we recovered during the last testing session, when the door to the closet manifested the properties of the object, even though it wasn't targeted in that direction. Doctor Richmand opened it up, and we were assaulted by three chest-high equine beings, one of which appeared to be winged, though not in the manner of SCP-042."
"After we confirmed ourselves as friendly, it was determined that these creatures were in the possession of speech, and…"
"Oh, stop pussyfooting around the issue," snapped the Department head. "You bastards broke through into the My Little Pony universe. Again." The lab assistant nodded his head quickly.
Jesus Christ, this was what, the fourth time this month he'd had to put up with something like this? The idiots had always managed to do something like this in the past through various means, but repeatedly breaking through the same barrier? After repeated confirmations of the stupid thing being completely healed? That tore it; starting tomorrow, they weren't allowed to conduct any experiments unless a doctor hand-picked by him was standing watch.
A thought occurred to him. Turning to the lab assistant, he said, "Look, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. No matter how mind-bogglingly stupid you lot are, I'm going to say that this isn't your fault, and that it's them who keep breaking the barrier."
"Tha… that seems like a pretty good assumption, sir…" he assistant murmured, his eyes darting back and forth.
"So if we want to keep this from happening, and to prevent such gross wastes of my time from popping up so often, we just promise to give them what they want, and hope they go away for good."
The lab assistant coughed. "I'm afraid that's not entirely possible sir." Stumbling back from the evil eye the Head gave him, he quickly said, "They want us to send large amounts of troops because their best hope against a god of chaos failed! Considering the general nature of 826, I'm not sure that's feasible!"
The Department Head stood stunned for a few moments, before walking over to the nearest wall and kicking it. "God-fuck-dammit!" he shouted. " We've dealt with that damned place enough to know how its story goes, and that is not how it goes! You didn't just break into the My Little Pony universe, you broke into the fan-fiction universe! Do you have any fucking idea what that means?" The lab assistant, who had now backed himself into a corner, shook his head.
"It means somebody's trying to start up a crossover."
Striding over to his desk, the Department Head pushed a button to start the intercom. Speaking in an icy, barely-restrained voice, he said, "Attention all members of the Otherworldly Matters Department. This is your boss speaking. It has just come to my attention that one of you morons decided it would be a good idea to increase our workload by deliberately starting up a crossover with another universe. Allow me to reiterate why, here at the SCP Foundation, we don't fucking do that.
"We've got close to two thousand objects to contain at this point in time, which, as you may imagine, requires a crap-ton of resources to do. We face death in the face practically every day, just so this world can go on thinking that everything's normal, and that the biggest threat to their existence is some insurgent group in the Middle East. It's a hard fucking job.
"Now tell me: Who here thinks that it's a good idea to break the walls of our existence, and drag someone else's problems here? Especially problems from a universe where things beyond even our power exist, or, God forbid, problems we can't deal with because that universe is instantly fatal to us?
"I can't hear you since I'm on the intercom, and I really, really want to say, 'None of you,' but I can't. Do you know why?" He paused for dramatic effect. "It's because one of you imbeciles decided it was a good idea to write…" He took on an exceptionally sarcastic, disgusted tone, "'Friendship is Magic' fanfiction while testing a highly dangerous device that can do something like, oh, I don't know… break the walls of this fucking universe!
His chest heaving, he decided to wrap it up. "In short, stop trying to make your jobs harder than they already are. Just because some place looks all sugar-coated and crap like that, doesn't mean we need to get involved with it. We've got an unkillable thing that wants to suck on all our skulls, for Christ's sake…"
Taking his finger off of the button, the Department Head turned back to the lab assistant. "Go back to your doctors and researchers, and tell them that hell is about to rain down on their heads."
The lab assistant stammered, "Wh.. what are you going to do sir?"
Sitting back down at this desk, the Department Head began typing a series of orders. "Those ponies are going back to their universe without any goddamned help from us. Let them deal with that dragon-chaos-god-thing. The man who wrote that tale is going to have his brains blown out for violating…" He counted. "Seven major Foundation codes. Everyone involved in the experiment is being reassigned to departments where they can't do shit like that anymore."
He leaned back in his chair. "And I'm taking two asprins and going to bed."
The lab assistant, cold sweat pouring down his back, bowed and left the room as quickly as he could. The Department Head sighed to himself. "Fucking crossovers… Been like this ever since Darkblade got those wizard kids in here…"
"Goddammit, people!" shouted Manager Fred, bursting through the front doors of the restauraunt. "Can I go out for a cup of coffee for five minutes without you people screwing things up?"
"With all due respect, sir," said Hank, trying to make himself heard over the roar of the crowd, "we do have a coffee machine in the corner that…"
"I want coffee that doesn't stand a chance of turning me into a girl, Hank. Not after that time you screwed up the filtration device." Fred slapped a bucket out from the other man's grasp. "Now stop stuffing your fat face with chicken and tell me what the problem is!"
"Well, sir, for one thing, the union's banging on our door again."
"What about this time?" groaned Fred, cramming himself into the office hidden in the back room.
"They say that it's unethical of us to hire walking sacks of meat that hate people and would rather envelop and abosrb them messily than serve hamburgers to them."
"Tell 'em that they work for free, and that we've only lost ten people in the last three weeks," deflected Fred, brushing a retirement notice from Rights off of his desk. "What else?"
"The women from Kansas is trying to sue us for selling 'SCP-173's Crunchy Mexican Tacos" that broke her husband's throat…"
"He was clearly eating too fast!"
"Mrs. Lambwith is suing us for serving her a Brightburger that still had the sexual lubricant when she plainly asked for none…"
"That's the employee's problem, not mine."
"And the FDA is trying to shut us down for selling products that contain meat derived from SCP-835," Hank concluded, pushing the reports onto his bosses' desk.
Fred blinked. "Look, just write up another report filled with [DATA EXPUNGED]s and let 'em spend another few months trying to figure it out." He slammed his fist on the desk. "Are there any problems that don't pertain to lawsuits? Problems we can actually fix right now?"
"Well," coughed Hank, looking around nervously. "We've got the issue of the tommatos trying to kill Conan O'…"
"That don't deal with lawsuits."
"Cassy wants a pay raise!" blurtted Hank.
Fred shook his head wearily. "That'll be the sixth time in the last year. She's just on the bloody coffee cups. It's not like she's a cashier or anything. Pass on that one."
"Speaking of chashiers, Bright managed to transfer himself to one of the customers. Again."
"Fire the old body and have Gears take care of the payroll for the new guy. Next."
"The county is complaining about the giant 682 statue outside frightening traffic away, Cain is demanding access to the building again, and the…"
"Hank!" shouted Fred, jumping up and grabbing the other man by the collar. "Do we have any good news today! My blood pressure's high enough as it is, and…"
"The Very Fine special has been a big hit with the test crowds without killing anyone, sir!" screamed Hank, tears in his eyes. Fred set him down, patting him ont the head.
"Good boy!" he exclaimed. "See, once you get to know your boss, you just need to tell him what he wants to hear. Keep that up!"
"We also released the Ableburger today. It was a resounding success."
"Hank, you're sweating. What's the problem?"
Hank took a deep breath, and blurtted all at once, "SCP-231 is claiming her time as a fryer is cruel and unusual, Kondraki's butterflys have been infecting the food, and the Stairwell Burger is causing people to hear screaming in the women's bathroom!"
Fred let out a deep, sigh, contemplated his navel for a few moments, and said at lenght, "So a little bit of good news surrounded by complete chaos that we can barely contain?" Hank nodded. "Just another day at Foundation Burger."
The Agent who went by the code name Sauce Jockey beamed at the Head of the SCP Foundation as the logo for Foundation Burger ran across the end of his video. The Head was grasping at his temples, trying desperately to not let the red in his face show. At length, he spoke in a low voice.
"So… that is your proposal for a new cover agency?"
"Yes sir!" said Sauce Jockey, crossing his arms across his chest and standing up straighter.
"Remind me to ban McDonald's food from the break room. You're fired."
Agent Sauce Jockey's eyes widened for a moment. He shuffled out of the room, sure it was all just a joke, that the Head of the Foundation had loved the video.
When he was sure he was alone, the Head pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Miss Jones, send a small shipment of SCP-504 to Conan O'Brian."
They've stopped coming. They used to come four times a day, to feed me, to keep me furnished, sometimes to test me. It was horrible some days, espeically when they slipped up and I started hurting. But they used to come. Now the room's dirty beyond belief, all the electronics have stopped working, and the hurting won't stop. Why aren't they coming?
It's getting dark, too. I think they cut the power to the room. Or is that me blacking out? Or the burning fluid getting in my eyes? I don't like the dark; it scares me, it has all the feelings that hurt me in it. I want them to bring back the lights.
I've tried the door a few times. I though the buring stuff would eat through it if they had turned the power off, but it only hurt me. I can't force the lock. There's no other way out. Everything's decaying around me, and I'm fueling my own bad feelings, and I'm hurting myself more and more.
It must be really bad out there; I'm hurting myself more than my own emotions could. I used to burn every so often, but now I do it everyday. My skin feels like it's peeling off, and I can't even scream sometimes, because my throat's so clogged up. I need them to come back. I need them to make the burning stop.
And my head hurts. Not like the burning stuff makes it hurt, but like there's a vice on it. Something's squeezing my head in, taking my memories. It's like there's a giant sponge in the walls, eating away at everything I am. But that's not possible. They said the things they put in the walls stop me from hurting.
Why can't I remember my name?
They told me they're always watching. They know I'm suffering. In the past, when I hurt, they came and saved me. But now, I just hurt alone.
It's like they threw me away because I'm not good enough.
John. You brought me here. Please, get me out.
There's a reason I keep the lights out when I work. For all the world's infinite variety, I get stuck with the very worst of what it has to offer. The light can only bring knowledge and pain.
So even though staying in the dark exposes me to the monsters, though it means they can snap my neck, crunch my bones, cut my flesh, stalk behind my back and devour my soul, I work in the dark.
It doesn't cut out the screams or dull the touch, or negate the reality that I'm filling them with needles and serums.
But it keeps me from seeing that I'm one of them.
"Researcher Harrison, this is the sorriest excuse for a suicide note I've ever seen!"
David Harrison, recently rescued from an attempt to hang himself in his own quarters, looked up from his feet. He coughed a little, and asked, "Sir?"
"I mean, really! Four paragraphs, three of them only one sentence? I know you were in a rush, but good God, man! Were you even thinking when you wrote this?"
"Um, sir…" Harrison said, looking around nervously, "don't I get counseling for this? Psychiatric help? I've gone over this in my head, and I really don't want to…"
"And your ideas!" exclaimed the Head of Psychiatric Affairs. "'It keeps me from seeing I'm one of them'? Do you have any idea how many times we've seen that before? Would it kill you to throw a little originality into it?"
Researcher Harrison flinched. "Sir, I don't think it's wise for you to use such terms around me at this point in time…"
The man before him slammed his fist onto the desk. "Harrison!" he boomed. "Can't you see what the real problem here is?"
Harrison slammed both palms face down on the desk and stood up rapidly. "Are you going to help me or not?" he cried hysterically. A look of understanding passed over the other man's face.
"You really don't know, do you, Harrison?" he asked slowly, arching an eyebrow.
"No, no I don't." With that, David Harrison broke down in tears, dropped to his knees, and sobbed. The Head of Psychiatric Affairs got out of his desk and helped Harrison to his feet.
"There, there," he cooed, aiding the Researcher in getting out the door. "I'm sorry. It's just… look, having a two-pronged job isn't easy, you know? I've got to make sure you lot are all mentally healthy, which isn't an easy job with Glass running around compounding your problems, but I've also got to make sure your writing is up to par with everything else we put out there."
Harrison gave him a confused look. "Allow me to explain. For reasons I don't quite understand, we have to at least try to publish every little thing our researchers write. Most of the stuff doesn't make it through the editing process, being too bland for our tastes. Suicide notes, however, those almost always make it through. They provide a juicy insight into what you're all actually thinking, and help maintain a good image for the Foundation. So, naturally, when I see fifteen ones almost exactly like yours, I'm bound to get a touch angry. You understand, right?"
Harrison's emotions had rapidly changed from despair to anger. "So our pain and suffering is being objectified just so the Foundation can look good?" he snapped.
"Well, not exactly. We try to treat you with the utmost respect, but things don't always work out. Like I said, I don't know why we need to publish everything you write, but I'm sure there's a good cause for it. If it were something like, say, the entertainment of a mass audience who have no affiliations with us, that would be cause for all-out revolt against O-5 command. But I'm pretty sure it's so that we can better understand what those with lower-ranking positions think and feel. It keeps us from being too far seperated, and also makes for a good tool for studying how to solve these problems."
The pair had reached the main counceling area. "Come on, now," the man grunted to Harrison. "Let's get you back on track. Three weeks' therapy and you'll be right as rain again." David Harrison smiled, confident that his leaders cared about him, ready to set out on the path to recovery.
"We appear to have a spot of trouble."
"What sort of spot of trouble?"
"Well, you know those SCPs? Those things in all of our cells?"
"Well, they've gone and done it again."
"Dear lord. Again?"
"What is this, the third time?"
"Dear lord. We'll have to explain why Burma's not on the map again."
"Sir. I'm that talking about them doing that again."
"Ah. Which that again are we talking about?"
"They went and deleted the archive again."
"How do you mean? They've done it so many ways, you know."
"Well, if you look at the database, it's returning everything as 'access denied.'"
"Have you tried breaking in through the back way?"
"Both my best computing skills and homosexuality have both failed us, sir."
"I know. The situation appears rather grim."
"Are the SCPs all there?"
"Well, from what I can tell, most of them are. I can't exactly check them all right now, sir, but I'm pretty sure they're all still there."
"Well then, you know what we'll have to do now."
"Right then. I'll go put up the decorations."
"We're not going to blow up the bloody base, Moyle. I'm talking about rewriting the SCPs."
"You look like you're hiding something from me. What is it Moyle?"
"Well, you know those employees we have? The scientists and researchers and doctors and whatnot?"
"They're all dead."
"Gunshots to the head, sir."
"Oh dear. Any idea why they did that?"
"Well, I found a note on their corpses, sir."
"They all wrote the exact same thing."
"And that exact same thing was?"
"They have all written, 'We have chosen to commit suicide rather than continue working for the Foundation because the block running it is a,' and I quote, 'a lilly-livered, horn-rimmed glasses wearing monster, who we all consider a shitfaced bloody bastard.'"
"They put a special emphasis on the word bastard, sir."
"I figured they would. You know what we need to do, correct?"
"Considering the situation, we'll need to hire some more people."
"Well, there's a problem there too, sir."
"What would that be?
"Well, we can afford to rehire the guards, and the scientists, and the researchers, and the doctors, and the administrators…"
"But the cost of hiring new writers is through the roof. Unless you find someone who is extremely generous, there's no way to hire a single new author."
"Why can't the others do it?"
"Well, even though it's their jobs, the reports the researchers make are always highly unprofessional. You need a writer to make sure his work is good."
"We could always do it ourselves."
"Are you willing to do that much work for yourself, sir?"
"And I'm not willing to do it either. So you see the problem."
"So I do."
"Do you have any ideas, sir?"
"Well, what did we do the last time this happened?"
"If I remember correctly, it required more cattle prods than we can reasonably afford."
"And you say it's too expensive to hire any new writers?"
"We could trick people on the internet to do it for us."
"Look here at this website. Average imageboard, right? Well, what say if I were to do a sloppy write-up of a random SCP? And if we get a few people to promote it as a great writing idea, set up a website around it?"
"I still don't see how that solves our problem sir."
"Well, we've got hundreds of thousands of objects to rewrite. If we get enough people on-board with this, they're bound to come up with something like what we've really got. We'll just take whichever ones we can and use them to fill in the archive. Reject the rest, you know?"
"How will we make it seem… well, not suspicious?"
"Simple enough. Write them off as bad writing."
"You know, sir, thinking about it, it's a rather brilliant idea. Just one problem with it."
"Neither of us is the best writer. What if they chose to take whichever SCP we put out there and stick it on a pedestal? Make it so that we aren't able to edit it properly, just because it's the quote-unquote 'First?'"
"Well, once we have enough money to hire some proper writers, we just execute everyone involved."
"Doesn't that put us in a similar situation as now if the writers we hire commit suicide as well?"
"Well, then, we think about that when we get there, now don't we?"
"Isn't that how we got into this mess in the first place, sir?"
"No. That one involved beers."
"Ah, yes. Care for one now?
"Sure, Moyle, sure."
"…which brings us once again to the pressing issue of just how much there is to contain," said the Head of the Foundation Staff Meeting, shuffling the papers in his hands. A collection of bored individuals sat before him. An excited looking man started to fiddle with the projector up front.
"Next on the agenda," continued the Head of Staff, "Researcher Erit Invictus has a proposition for a new class of SCP." A collective groan came from those assembled.
"Now, now, hold your complaints," said Erit, starting up his presentation. "First off, this is not another class of 'SCP'. It's an entirely different concept altogether. See," he flicked to the first slide, "even though SCP stands for 'Secure, Contain, Protect', it has come to mean pretty much any anomalous object under the containment of the Foundation. So, what I was thinking is this."
He clicked over to the next slide, which displayed the letters 'NAO' in black block capitals. "Non-Anomalous Object.' "There are too many things humanity is just not ready to know about yet, but are perfectly explainable by Foundation standards. Going by the classic definition of an SCP, we can't contain them. But, with the NAO-class objects, our horizons are expanded so much further! Take that teleportation system from last month; a few hours of research on it and we understand how it works on a basic level. The problem is that it's still exceptionally buggy.
"I wasn't aware of any bugs in the system," muttered a woman near Researcher Invictus.
"You obviously haven't heard of the half-dozen researchers whose lower limbs would like to disagree," said Erit, shooting her a dirty look. "Anyways, until such time that the human race is ready for such a thing to exist, we should contain the teleportation system."
A few people coughed in the silence that followed. At length, one man stood up and asked, "Aren't we already on our way to perfecting the technology for use within the Foundation?"
Erit blinked. "I beg your pardon, Mister Tuomey?"
"Well," began Tuomey, folding his arms behind his back, "I've been supervising that project for a few weeks now, and from what my staff has told me, they've already worked out that issue. In fact, we've already had six successful tests in a row, wherein the subject reached the desired target without any major loss of life or limb. Sure, it's far away from the requirements of our actually using the system - there's still the matter of getting them back - but compared to most other SCPs, it's a really big step forwards."
"But, but…" sputtered Erit, fumbling with his powerpoint, "that goes against the rules of the Foundation! You're trying to use an anomalous object for collective gain!"
"Didn't you just say it wasn't anomalous?" asked Doctor Mackenzie.
Erit swallowed hard and started sweating. "Well, regardless, of that, the teleportation system is still very dangerous. Until humanity is ready for it…"
"Wait, wait," said, Research Assistant Godbot, holding up his hands. "I'm confused. How do you define when humanity is ready for it?"
"That's actually a good question," chipped in Aelanna. "There's really no way of defining such a concept, now is there?"
"I actually thought we'd be containing really dangerous things that aren't anomalous," said Researcher Gargus, "which opens up a whole new can of worms, seeing as that would be a monstrous waste of resources."
"Look!" shouted Erit, stamping his foot on the ground. "What I'm saying is that our jurisdiction isn't far enough. If we're going to be protecting people, shouldn't we expand what we can contain?"
"If we can understand it, why not utilize it?"
"That's Serpent's Hand talk!"
What followed was a large amount of shouting, bickering, quarreling, and all those other words that get involved in things when an argument is started up. Needless to say, the volume continually escalated throughout all of this, making opinions harder and harder to understand. The whole mess was on the verge of physical violence when someone at the end of the table coughed. Everyone present turned to see the Head of Staff sitting perfectly still, a steely look in his eyes.
"All of you sit down," he said slowly. A quick rush for chairs followed. "Get back in order." A straightening of ties and clearing of throats. Silence fell over the room for a moment. Erit moved the speak once again, but the Head of Staff stopped him with a raised hand.
"Mister Invictus, it appears you missed a few key points during your orientation. Allow me to elaborate them for you." Researcher Erit nodded his head. "First off, despite our vast resources, the Foundation simply cannot afford to contain everything. Regardless of how expensive certain containments may be, they are always kept under a balanced budget. Taking in such a vast quantity of objects is simply not possible.
"Second, our purpose is to contain anomalous objects. It is not explicitly stated, true, but they are the ones that only we can deal with. Normal organizations simply cannot handle them, and most Groups of Interest wish to use them for selfish or self-destructive purposes. Our focus must be on the paranormal, the supernatural; the everyday, no matter how dangerous, can be left to someone else."
"But sir…" began Erit, holding out his hands.
"Left to someone else," growled the Head of Staff. Erit swallowed again and nodded. "Third, as was mentioned in your little quarrel, it is not our job to decide what the human race is ready for. That should speak for itself.
"And finally, I want to see the attempts to utilize the teleportation system shut down. It goes against policy, and is the only thing Mister Erit got right in his presentation." He turned to look at Researcher Invictus again. "We get enough of this from new members. Don't fall into old habits. That will be all." He sat back in his chair again, and reassumed a disinterested position.
Erit stood at the front of the meeting for a few moments, coughed, and switched over to his final slide. "This concludes my presentation. Any questions?" Several dark glares from those assembled. "Right then. I'll just be…" He shuffled back to his seat.
"And now, our final item of the day," said the Head of Staff, shuffling his papers once more, "Researcher Gargus wishes to speak to you all on the matter the state of the fourth wall after his constant assaults on it…"
"You should have brought a mortician instead."
The doctor looked over the Mass Containment Room floor of Site 34, coated in the blood and bodies of two hundred Foundation staff members. The stench of death and decay hung over the room. "If they're already dead, then why bother bringing me here?"
"Because," said the woman beside him, opening a door to their right, "we've still got a survivor in here. You deal with brain damage cases?" The doctor nodded. "Then you should be able to tell us if he's got a chance or not."
"A Site is completely isolated for a month, without any contact with the outside world," murmured the doctor, looking down the dusty corridor. "You'd expect them to have been able to stay alive that long. Aren't they stocked for a year isolation period?"
"Two," replied the woman, striding ahead of him. "Near as we can tell, they were stuck here for three."
"Three?" asked the doctor, stepping around another corpse in the middle of the hallway.
"We're still researching how it happened. Time anomaly, most likely. Anyways, it wasn't the isolation or lack of food that did this. Site 34 had a reputation of being specifically staffed by the doctors and researchers deemed most likely to survive a long period of isolation. It was also understaffed at the time."
The doctor shuddered at the mutilated faces of three guards in a room to his left. "What did this to them, then?"
"Outbreak. One of the senior staff was visiting. Checking on one of the objects, routine visit - you know the drill." The doctor nodded. "Well, there was an outbreak. Senior staff member was killed during it, started the infection in Researcher Akana. Akana spread it to Doctor Ferbar and Chief of Security Beumer. Ferbar and Beumer spread it further, and you can guess how that worked out.
"It wasn't lethal, but it took a huge toll on their mental faculties. At first, they were acting independent of each other. But after a time, we still don't know how long, they began to meld. Like a hive mind. Acting as a unit. Moving together, gathering stragglers and effectively assimilating them."
"So the mind became too far spread and broke itself," said the doctor. "I've seen similar things happen out in Wales. They had to destroy that one, you know."
"Yes, I read your briefings and credentials," said the woman, stopping outside a blast shield door. She began to punch in a code, saying "Anyways, that's not what happened. One of the uninfected did it. Brian Gomez. Security guard. He couldn't stand being stranded here with the others. So the day before we broke through whatever was holding them, he took his weapon and massacred the lot of them."
The doctor scoffed at this. "One man killed seven hundred forty-nine staff members by himself?"
A grinding noise came from the blast shield door as it slid aside, granting the two admittance. "They were a hive mind, remember?" replied the woman, walking towards the small steel door inside the small chamber. "How would you fare if someone was smashing up pieces of your brain?"
"So the guard is our survivor?"
"No. He wound up dead after an intense interrogation."
"Goddammit!" shouted the doctor, stamping his foot. "I was willing to let the vague summons slide, but this is getting ridiculous. You brought me here without any in-depth knowledge of what I would be dealing with, and you expect me to help? What's so important that it needs to be kept secret from the man you want aid from?"
The woman opened the door, revealing a small room with a bed in the corner. On the bed was a short, round, balding man in a blue pinstripe suit. His face was paling, an expression of great pain covering it. His glasses lay askew, and his tie hung limply off the edge of the bed-frame. Clutched tightly in his hands was a white gold amulet, with a ruby surrounded by diamonds in the center.
As the doctor recoiled at the recognition of the object, the woman said, "The fact that we've nearly lost this one. There'd be panic if the rest of the Foundation found out what transpired here." The doctor moved forwards, and reached out to touch the amulet. The woman slapped his hand away. "You know better than to touch that. Just make sure he's alright."
Taking a deep breath, the doctor examined the head of the old man, though he did not bring out any tools to cut him open with. He prodded and poked, checked his responsiveness and vital signs, took blood samples, all the while avoiding the amulet in the body's cold hands.
At length, he heaved a heavy sigh and said, "There's nothing you can do."
"You've barely even touched him," snapped the woman.
"Look," said the doctor, leaning against the wall and wiping his brow. "based on what little information you've given me, I was brought here because of my extensive experience with amnesic overdoes. Now, there are certain little signs that you learn to pick up after a while of dealing with those cases, little things that are off with the patient. A specific temperature, or a certain toxin in the blood. While there are certainly differences between the overdoes and our case here, the end result is the exact same.
"If the hive mind was destroyed so thoroughly that this one was the only survivor, than there's no hope for him. Normally, if there had been much less of the others, he would have stood a chance. But with less than one-seven hundredth of his mind still intact, it's a miracle he's still breathing."
The doctor stood and started to walk out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get out of here as fast as I can. Whole place smells of death."
The woman stood over the body of the senior staff member, reflecting. At length, she too sighed, and walked towards the exit. There was much to explain, and an awful lot of fallout to contain. Senior staff would want answers, and her team would no doubt be assigned to a round-the-clock investigation of the incident. Before she left, she turned back for one last look at the old man.
A faint whisper came out his nostrils.
"Just like his brother," the woman whispered to herself. "Poor bastard."
The man in the chair struggled against his bonds, trying to shout something but failing due to the gag in his mouth. A guard stood in the corner of the room, his nose buried in a checklist. "Let's see…" he muttered to himself, "One 6x6 meter room, check. Walls lined in special Telekill alloy, check. Blast door sealed, check. Subject beaten and restrained…" He glanced over at the other man's attempts to break free, and smirked.
"Check. Subject bound and gagged, check. And one guard on duty armed with standard Foundation weaponry. Check." He looked over at SCP-631, who shot him a glare. "Well, mister, it looks like everything is all set and accounted for. You're tied up, and I get to spend the next eight bloody hours in here. Alone. With a man who can alter reality on a whim." The guard heaved a heavy sigh. "Brilliant, isn't it?"
SCP-631 ceased his efforts and muttered something through his gag.
"Yeah, whatever it is you said, you can say it again."
At that moment, the blast door slid open, and a man garbed in a long black coat stepped in. The guard leapt to his feet, reaching for his gun as the man looked around the room. "Yes, yes. Everything seems to be as they told me it would be."
"And just who would you be?" demanded the guard, aiming his weapon at the intruder. "I don't recall you being on my list of cleared personnel, and I highly doubt you're a member of senior staff."
"I go above senior staff," said the man cooly as he strode over to SCP-631. "I go above O5 Command. Above your administrator." He looked closely at the bound subject's face. "So I'd drop your weapon, if I were you, and just let me do my work."
The guard discharged several shots into the intruder, who barely flinched. "And please, do listen to what your told. I don't want to be in here any longer than I have to be." He ripped the gag off of SCP-631, who grinned maniacally.
"Whatever you're thinking about doing, I am ordering you to stop!" shouted the guard. "I've been ordered to keep this man from leaving this room, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop y-" He began choking on his own tongue at this point.
"Must he have written you so poorly?" asked the intruder to nobody. "Honestly, why did I… but that's not the point." He turned to SCP-631. "I'm more here to deal with you."
"Oh, you're here to spring me?" asked the subject, smiling again. "It's about time. I've only been in here for a few days, but I'm already sick to my stomach with this place. C'mon, undo the bonds, and let's blow this place."
"James Doctrine," said the man. "SCP-631. Third attempt. Able to make any literary reference work to his advantage, captured in the midst of massacring a small town in Quebec. Current status, -21."
Doctrine gave the man a cock-eyed look. "Just what are you talking about? Come off of it, let me out of here."
"Sitting at three votes. A shame really. Personally, I rather liked you. I can see where they're coming from, though; You're overpowered, have Mary Sue-ish tendencies, overkill containment procedures. In my opinion, you're not that bad, but the others don't seem to like you, so it's fallen to me to do the job."
"Whaddaya mean?" demanded Doctrine. "What job?" A look of panic came into his eyes. "Hang on now, hang on now. I've read your archives, I know all about decommissions, how you kill off the ones you don't really like. I'm not letting it happen, do you hear me? Pro libarte! If a nation values anything more than freedom, it will lose freedom! Open sesame!"
The man sighed, as he pulled an object from within his coat pocket. "If there's one advantage to having Telekill in here, it's that you don't get to make things any harder than they have to be. Regardless, no. I am not talking about decommissioning. I am talking about deletion."
"What the hell is the difference?"
"Decommissioning, you still get to have an article. Deletion, you go away forever. Now shut up and let me work." He placed the small object on 631's lap, and stood back. Behind him, the guard stumbled over and clutched the stranger's coattails. He glanced backwards, and sighed. "Oh, fine. You can have your voice back for now." He waved his hand, and the guard stopped choking.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, pointing to object on Doctrine's lap. "What is that thing? Who are you?"
"I thought I'd answer that already," said the man, staring straight ahead. "I'm deleting him." He twitched his fingers slightly in Doctrine's direction.
SCP-631 began to shake slightly. "What do you mean by deletion? This isn't some sort of 1984 crap, is it? What are you, Big Bro-" He cut himself off with a scream as he began to violently rock back and forth in his chair. His head started jerking violently from side to side, regardless of the straps that bound his neck in place. Eyes bulged out of their sockets as fingers gripped the arms of their chair. A pool of sweat began to appear on the floor.
"Just to give you an idea of how this will work," said the man to the guard, "I advise you look at the clock." He waved his hand, and one appeared on the wall. The guard looked over at it, and saw the second hand suddenly come to a stop.
James Doctrine let out a mighty scream as his body began to blur, becoming more and more out of focus every moment. Small bits of it began to flake away as he thrashed against his bonds, in a manner resembling a seizure. His hands broke free and he reached down to undo his feet, only to find them already gone. Bits of gibberish flew out of his mouth, sounding mostly like a series of numbers too garbled to extract any meaning from. The guard instinctively hid behind the man, and whispered, "You're killing him."
"If I was decomming him, I'd be killing him. As it is, I'm only getting rid of him." He looked down at the now pale-faced guard. "He's been through this twice before, you know. The problem is, nobody remembers it."
"What the hell do you want from me?" screamed SCP-631 as his torso began to vanish. "I'll say anything you want, anything at all! Release me! Let me go! Do it to Ju-" The clock moved forwards a second.
And then he was gone.
The man strode over to where the subject and chair had been, and picked up the object. To the guard's eyes, he seemed much less tense now. "See? Less than a moment. Truth be told, I really wanted to use 055," he tossed the object up in the air here, "as part of a decommissioning. You know, make it part of his person, have him vanish from memory. Thought it would make for a good little story. But nobody would go for it. So I just decided to go for a bit of a fantasy while I deleted the page. Makes things a little more interesting, see?"
The guard looked flustered for a few moments, and then said, "Look, I don't know who or what what you are, and quite frankly, I don't care. Just… just go. I want to get back to my job. Get a new assignment and forget this ever happened. Can you do that?"
"Naturally," said the man, turning to leave. "Of course, you'll be gone in a few seconds, too. I only invented you so I could have someone to talk to during this little fantasy." He strode forward for a moment, then paused and turned. "Would you say I'm a little weird for wanting to do that? Talk to someone while I have a fantasy?"
"Fine." The man left, and the room vanished.
*Taken from mibbit*
Taximonay: Alright. 631's gone. I hope you lot are happy.
Item #: SCP-697
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: All instances of SCP-697 are kept in Storage Section-V of Site 18. The area is forty feet below ground level and lined with steel, ensuring only authorized personnel may enter. All unauthorized persons attempting to gain access are terminated on sight.
Each instance of SCP-697 is sealed in a depressurized, four-inch thick titanium container to avoid accidental activation. Removal from the containers is restricted to three instances at a time for Level 4 access approved experiments only. Under no circumstances are any instances of SCP-697 to leave Site 18. Should accidental spills occur at any point, Site 18 is to be evacuated, and the area affected incinerated. Large scale spills shall lead to total abandonment of the Site, and a quarantine of the surrounding area for eight square kilometers.
Further information pertaining to spilling of SCP-697 outside of Site 18 is located in Document-697-Theta.
Description: SCP-697 consists of the contents of one-hundred (100) toxic-chemical containment drums, consistent with those used by Duslo a.s. for waste disposal. All are in either perfect or near-perfect condition, and three have yet to be breached by the Foundation or other persons. Each drum is filled to the brim with an as-yet-unidentified chemical.
When exposed to any substance other than the drums, SCP-697 triggers a highly complex chemical process that converts most forms of solid matter around it into fully-formed plant-like organisms within seconds of contact, effectively terraforming the area immediately surrounding it. Existing multicellular life is quickly broken down into individual cells, which are then converted into further instances of the plant-like organism. It is currently unknown precisely how nonliving matter is altered, but the process appears to involve initial conversion into single-celled life forms, which then agglomerate with anomalous speed into the "plant"'s tissues and organs.
The plants created by SCP-697 bear no significant resemblance to any known species. They possess a physiology unlike any other known organism: they do not undergo photosynthesis, nor do they rely on nitrogen or carbon dioxide. Their primary waste product is an argon- and cobalt-based gas. The source of these elements — neither of which is present in sufficient quantities in any common Earth environment — is unknown, as is the chemical basis for the plants' metabolism, which runs at approximately six times the speed of any Terran plant. As of this writing, the only viable method of destruction is combined incineration and neon gas saturation (see Experiment 697-003).
Though initial contact with the plants is not fatal, long-term exposure has proven extremely hazardous to terrestrial animals. Inhalation of the waste gases gradually inhibits cardiopulmonary function, while contact with the neurotoxic leaves or flowers results in sudden spreading extreme numbness, with nervous system and respiratory failure occurring soon after. The average time from initial exposure to death is thirteen (13) hours. No treatment for either effect has been developed.
In addition to creating new lifeforms, SCP-697 is apparently capable of self-replication: the effects of a spill invariably spread far beyond the initial area coated in the substance. Prior to the ban on off-site testing, the observed range extended out to six kilometers. Incineration plus neon-flooding, as detailed above, is also effective in halting the spread of chemicals.
Addendum-697-001: Six (6) instances of SCP-697 were initially discovered off the coast of █████, California in the spring of 20██. Fortunately, no spills had occurred at the time, but the incident prompted mass investigations of Duslo a.s.'s waste disposal practices, drawing Foundation attention. Over a period of six months, fifty (50) of the drums currently in containment were discovered, with the rest gradually located over an extended period of time. The current average discovery rate of drums containing SCP-697 is one every three weeks.
The messenger walked swiftly down the corridors of Storage Site-23. Ten minutes had already passed since the event, and that was eleven minutes too many. Something like this should have been anticipated, but the ever expanding object had been shipped off to its new location a week after growth started. No second thoughts, just a quick change in containment procedures and a quicker shipping.
He stepped into the office of the Site Director, who already had a dozen different reports before him and sat in deep thought. Blinking slowly, he looked up as the messenger closed the door behind him and stepped up to the desk. As the Director straightened his back, he said, "Agent Winthrop, report."
"Sir. In light of the unexplained growth of SCP-113 one week ago, a jet left Storage Site-23 approximately four hours ago, with the intended destination being Site 24, due to their expertise in the area. The jet…"
"Please, Winthrop," sighed the Director, rubbing his forehead. "If the reports I've received are correct, time is of the essence. Speak simply."
"My apologizes, sir," stumbled Agent Winthrop. "I just thought…"
"The point, Winthrop, the point."
"Yes sir. After flying for roughly two hours, the jet came under attack by an as-of-now unknown individual or organization. From what we can gather, someone from in the Site had let slip certain details of the transport, and the attackers figured it out from there. We lost three men today." Agent Winthrop bowed his head out of respect.
"Do we know what sort of weapon was used?"
"No, sir," said Winthrop, snapping back to attention. "There are suspicions of a ballistic missile, but we have no way of confirming it. All we know for certain is that they were capable of attacking a plane flying above 10,000 feet, and that the weapon was designed for maximum fallout."
The Director waited for a moment before signaling Winthrop to continue. Already, plans were forming in his head regarding how to stop any damage.
"Given the immense size of SCP-113 at the time of departure and the rate at which it was growing, a simple missile strike would have spread it out over approximately 2,000 square miles. However, given the type of missile our attackers were using, we estimate the damage area to cover around 85% of the planet's landmass. It's a confusing yet fascinating weapon, all things considered, sir…" Agent Winthrop trailed off at the last sentence, feeling ashamed of what he had said.
The Director continued to think, his brow furrowing as he eliminated unlikely options. As Agent Winthrop opened his mouth to ask a question, the Director snapped, "Keep talking. What kind of damage reports are we looking at?"
"Well, sir, even with SCP-113 diluted as it is, it's still potent enough to change the gender of anyone who comes into contact with it, regardless of whether they're inside or out. Even microscopic pieces can trigger the process. We haven't conducted enough tests to be certain, but it's very likely a few hundred people will die from the shock alone." He paused and shuffled his feet. "There's also the, erm… other matter…"
"Which one?" asked the Director under his breath.
"To be honest, there's no… feasible way for a human male to carry children, sir. Our current numbers around showing something on the order of 150 million women pregnant on the planet at this time. If we can't get to them quick enough, there are going to be internal… complications. The sex change will more than likely… kill them and the… children… sir." Agent Winthrop's face took on an ashen look as he spoke. "And of course, there's dozens of smaller issues that we don't have time to list right now…"
Grunting, the Director raised himself out of his chair, and walked around to Winthrop. Looking closely over the Agent, he said "Listen carefully, now, Winthrop. I do believe that I have a plan that can reduce the damage. Not prevent it, but reduce it. This plan could very well work, if we act fast. Human lives will be lost, yes, but there is nothing we can do about that. Before we can make this work, there is one thing I need to know. How much time do we have?"
"Sir, current ETA before first effects is five minutes."
A silence settled over the room as the Director took in this last statement. Agent Winthrop grew increasingly nervous as he watched the Director just stand there, staring off into space. He reached out a hand to help his boss, but only grasped air. Walking slowly, the director sat back down, and folded his hands before him.
"Agent Winthrop," he said slowly, avoiding eye contact. "I suggest you find yourself a change in underclothing."
Stumbling over himself, Winthrop managed to sputter, "B-but, sir! We have an immense catastrophe staring us in the face! Millions are about to die! How is it that you can joke at a time like this? Didn't you have a plan?"
Solemnly pushing himself back in the chair, the Director sighed and looked straight at the Agent. "Winthrop. How long have you worked for the Foundation? Three years, I think it is?" A nod confirmed this speculation. "Then allow me to explain something to you about this organization. We're not perfect."
"I already know that…" began Winthrop, but he was cut off by a wave of the hand.
"What you know is that even when we make mistakes, even when containment procedures are broken, even when some horrible creature is discovered and goes on a killing spree, what you know is this. Most of the time, we can still make a happy ending. The Foundation has enough experienced and talented people on hand to deflect the majority of the problems that come our way, and maintain the semblance of peace.
"However, for all the good we do, we are not infallible. Every once in a very, very long while, we are going to come up against a problem that has no solution. We are not gods. We cannot do everything. We cannot save an entire planet within five minutes. At times like this, all we are capable of doing is letting things happen, clean up afterwards, and yes, joke a little. At times like this, we are powerless"
Still willing to fight, Winthrop said, "Sir, we have to do something. Anything."
"James, what do you propose we do?"
The Agent waved his hands for a few moments, desperately trying to think of something to do, some way to save the lives of millions and be a hero. But nothing came to him, and, slowly but surely, he ceased moving, and simply looked dejected. Noticing that the conversation was ending, the Director scribbled out a message on a piece of paper. "Give this to the rest of your men. It's instructions for damage control. And James? I am so terribly sorry."
Taking the message, Agent Winthrop left the room and closed the door, leaving the Director to lean back in his chair, sigh, and wait for the inevitable stinging.
It was inevitable. In a world full of monsters and cosmic horrors and all sorts of weird things, it was bound to happen. The end of the world. Some of the SCPs were designed to do it anyways.
But it wasn't ever supposed to happen like this. Doctor Parker sat in his office, pondering what was happening. A week ago, it had all been fine. Many had left in the previous years, but containment had been maintained, and the world was, for the time being, safe. Life wasn't normal, but it went on.
And then came the start of last week. A huge drop-off of Foundation personnel, while often mourned, was never considered odd. This group, though, had vanished out of existence. Many could remember them, but records of their deeds and history were simply gone. Task forces were assembled, naturally, but to no avail.
The next day brought worse news. SCPs started disappearing. At first, it was the small ones, ones that had been locked up in the back of everyone's memories, like SCP-132. But then the more important ones began vanishing. Everyone swore they could remember SCP-082, but it wasn't in it's cell. It's cell didn't even exist any more. The day 173 vanished was the worst. It had started the Foundation. With it's disappearance, many lost hope.
Two days after it all started, the task forces figured out something of a pattern. Many researchers and doctors were vanishing after all of the SCPs and Foundation history they had archived went. Not much to go on, but it gave those remaining an impression that there was some order to the senselessness around them. Though it didn't help matters, as those who made the discovery vanished soon afterwards.
The world began to die. Whatever was eating away at the Foundation wasn't satisfied; it wanted to devour the whole world, and it was. Within a day, most everything was gone. At that point, it was only a group of less than a dozen, hidden away at Site 19 with the last SCPs. They had built up a field designed to combat entropy. A relic of a genius mind who had long ceased to exist.
On the last day, Doctor Parker locked himself up in his office. In the past hours, the men and women around him had vanished, along with all their hard work. Site 19 was being consumed all around him, and only his office remained safe. So he ran in, locked the door, and waited. For what, he didn't know, but he waited nonetheless.
Heaving a sigh, Doctor Parker lifted himself out of his chair, and walked across the room to the mirror hanging on the wall. He was determined to stay alive, but he could feel himself slipping. Having never archived an SCP, he had lost nothing to the decay. But that wasn't true. He had lost friends, he had lost family, he had lost the enteirty of the world he lived in.
And now he was losing himself. Bits and pieces of his memory were fading, even though he was only in his late twenties. Even here, with a smaller version of the device protecting him, the last remaining part of the world he knew was vanishing. Anger tried to cloud his thoughts, but there weren't any left.
Turning towards the door, he hoped against hope that opening it would reveal something. The day before he had done so, and found nothing but an infinite whiteness. But maybe he had just been tired. Maybe now, with a clear head, there would be something awaiting him on the other side of the portal.
He opened the door, and he saw madness.
There was something outside his office, but it wasn't anything like he knew. A whole new universe was making itself outside. Even though it was only in it's formative stages, Parker could tell right away that it would be done soon, and when it was, it would be nothing like the one he knew. There would be no room for Doctor Parker, or the SCP Foundation, or anything sane and right from the one before.
Doctor Parker stood there for the longest time, letting all of this sink in. He could fight on. He could fight and make his own niche in the new universe. It could try its hardest to reject him, but he could survive, and he could make a living. Hell, he could even rebuild the whole universe, with enough time.
Then, he stepped out into the entropy, and let it swallow him. The last thing his eyes saw was a fearsome force tearing him to shreds.
On another world, an impossible distance away, Greg Parker, owner of the scp-wiki.wikidot.com domain, sighed, and hit the delete button on his page. Then he cleared the main page, completed the proper steps of handing over ownership, and let the man who had bought the domain have his way with it.
"So, let me get this straight," said Agent Shields, flipping through the folder he had been pondering over. "You commissioned a mass murder of D-Class personnel by firing squad, set up a series of unnecessarily elaborate traps, and cost the Foundation around a dozen researchers… all so you could catch the Grim Reaper?"
Doctor Sheridan grinned broadly as he took the SCP report back from Shields. "Sure did, boy. And don't call my traps elaborate. Those things were child's play to make and set up."
"Sir, you're dodging the real issue here. I just want to know, along with everyone else, why you did it."
Sheridan's brow furrowed significantly. He had never been one for dealing with those who couldn't understand his brilliance, and Shields had always pestered him with those petty questions, details that in the vast scheme of things didn't matter. Still, he felt obliged to answer, if only to suffer one less fool.
"Why? Well, why not? You might not be the brightest, Shields, but surely you've been paying attention to your surroundings. Catching the bastard's been the best thing to happen to the Foundation since its creation! Due to the dampening effect we've put around his cell, Death doesn't have any powers. We also stripped him of everything on his person, and posted a dozen guards outside the main cell alone. Ergo, we've got him locked up so tight that nobody can ever die again!" He stood up with his arms spread wide at this last sentence.
A silence fell over the room as Shields stared down at Spencer Sheridan. He too had a strong hatred for the other man, though in his case it was due to a lack of patience for those absorbed in themselves. There was the temptation to finish the mission right then and there, but he needed to keep things going for now.
"Sir… I don't think you see the implications of what you've done. By rendering a good deal of the SCPs harmless, you've put unknowable amounts of people out of work, and…"
Sheridan put a finger to his lips and shushed Shields. "You hit the nail on the head there, boyo. The SCPs are harmless. The whole point of this place is to Secure, Contain, and Protect. Now tell me, is that not better accomplished if none of these creatures and objects pose a threat?" Shields continued to stand stock still, not moving a muscle, so Sheridan sighed and continued. "Just look at what this has done for us! We're making huge strides towards dismantling 173 now that it's not willing to attack us!"
"Yes, but…" said Shields, thinking of the fifty men incapacitated for life before the statue stopped attacking.
"Or how, since we can survive the tortures it inflicts, 212 has given us many super soldiers?" And hundreds more sent into permanent comas. "Try and tell me that isn't a good thing!" Shields made another move to speak, but Sheridan was on a roll. "Or how we're able to safely study 008 to our heart's content?" Sixteen men chopped into pieces. "Or the massive profit from 447?" Untellable damage from exposure to previous dead bodies. "Hell, 590's more effective than it's ever been!" Shields clenched his fists. "Point is, boy, I've solved every single problem the Foundation could foreseeably have. I don't understand why you'd ask such as silly question as why do you have your weapon out?"
While the Researcher had been blathering off into space, the Agent had slowly unholstered his gun, and was now pointing it squarely at his face. "Christ, I can't stand listening to you. Now please listen, sir," he sneered, "and listen good. Nobody cares how many great things you've done with this whole 'Catching Death' business. The point is that the evils you've wrought far outweigh the good. We can't stand for that around here."
Spencer Sheridan went pale in the face as he tried to look for a way out of his predicament. An Agent, one of the most worthless positions in his mind, was threatening him, and he couldn't run. What to do?
At length, color returned and a smile played over his face. "Now, now, Shields," he chuckled, "you know you can't do this. I've got the bloody Grim Reaper in containment! So shoot me all you like, because I cannot…!"
A bullet flew from the chamber of the gun, and slammed square into the Researcher's chest. He stumbled for a moment, his mouth flapping uselessly, before he hit the ground with a low thud. Pulling himself onto his hands and knees, Sheridan gasped for breath, and grunted, "You… you can't kill me Shields… you can't kill me… we're all immortal…"
"Not anymore," said Shields, staring down at the man before him in disgust. "Or at least, not for very much longer. We're releasing the Grim Reaper in an hour or two, so everything you've done will have been for naught. Of course, we've rounded up all the SCPs and worked hard to minimize the damage, so you don't need to worry about that." Sheridan tried to speak, but he could already feel himself fading. "What I'd worry about, if I were you, is the fact that you'll be in some pretty bloody bad pain before expiring."
The Researcher tried to make one last protest to the Agent, one last attempt to buy his way back to life. But his lungs had failed him, and Shields was already on his way out, establishing contact with someone over the radio. "Hello? Yes, I did what you asked. Mission accomplished. Anything else you'd like done with him before you get here?"
The man behind the desk watched as the cosmic horror before him paced back and forth, ranting what could only be described as its head off. "I am the ultimate hive mind. My influence is everywhere, though you normally cannot feel it. I am He Who Waits Behind the Wall. When I break through those tiny cracks in your reality, I am the very personification of decay and destruction. Black ooze, great tentacles, blood flowing from your eyes. My six mouths are ever screaming, and the seventh one shall sing the song that ends the world. My very gaze is enough to drive men to madness." It moved in closer, and made several dramatic motions with its tentacular appendages.
"No force can match mine. When I deem your world to be over, it shall come to an end. My power goes far beyond that of any other being you can think of." It worked its mass into the small wooden chair, and glared at the man. "I am decay, and I am destruction. I am Zalgo, and I am coming."
Multiple tentacles slammed into the desk. "So why can't I be an SCP?"
The director of the SCP Foundation showed no shock towards the black, amorphous monstrosity that sat before him. The piercing red light from the pinpoints deep in the dark mass did not phase him. Instead, they merely reflected off his glasses and his balding head as he looked down at his desk.
"Look," he began, riffling through a sheet of papers, "this is your fifth time attempting to apply for SCP status. I don't know how many times I've said this to you, so listen up. This is the final time. We do not have any interest in taking you in. You just don't work."
"Did you not hear me?" demanded Zalgo, growing in size rapidly. "I am the ultimate hive mind, and…"
"Yes, yes, we've been through this before. You are the ultimate force of destruction, and can end the world, and all those other qualifications you're always on about. There's no need to repeat them again. Now, I'm not saying I encourage it, but why don't you just go and do something dangerous, if you want in so badly?"
"'Do something dangerous?' My work over the past few years has been beyond dangerous. I have driven countless innocent children to madness, caused suicides all over this world, and bled into anywhere I can fit, and you ask me to do something dangerous?" The black mass rose up, drawing on its awesome power.
"Zalgo," stated the director flatly. "You find web comics, and you corrupt them."
The abomination from beyond the stars stared blankly at the director, then sank back into his chair, looking defeated. "Why do you want to be an SCP, anyways?"
"Well," sighed Zalgo though one of the non-screaming mouths, "that bloody Slender Man's been spreading his image around for quite some time now. Getting people talking about what he does, placing himself in photographs, inspiring stories, the usual affair. He's even got his own web series now! Can you believe that?"
"Yes," said the director warily, cocking his head to the side, "but what does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm new to the eldritch abomination thing, and need some publicity. The whole thing with the web comics is a start, but it's easy for people to use my methods and never mention my name, and let me tell you, that's a big mark against me. You lot take me in, and I'm a big name. Not as big as Yog-Sothoth or Azathoth, but big enough to get some recognition. So, how about it?"
An awkward silence settled over the room as the director took of his glasses and wiped them off with one hand, while holding his forehead with the other, deep in thought. Zalgo shifted nervously in his chair, awaiting the director's answer. At length, the director placed his glasses aside, and began speaking.
"Barring the fact that I refuse to participate in some weird contest of abominations, there's one big reason as to why we can't take you in. It's not a matter of money or difficulty of containment, oh no. We've got SCPs like 682, and it's pocket change to keep it locked up, even when it breaks out. And since you seem willing to cooperate with us, you'd be easy as pie to contain, as well. No, it's that you're just not interesting enough."
Zalgo seemed to boil with fury at this statement, and opened several mouths to make a retort, but the director held him off. "Allow me to explain. You are bursting with power, and have the capacity to end this world with a thought. That's all well and good for other organizations. But here at the SCP Foundation, we can't just accept you on those criteria. It's far too much. You're overpowered, you don't have a hook, and quite frankly, you're boring. When you get down to it, you just don't fit in with our image."
For a moment, it looked as if Zalgo was ready to end the director, right then and there. A few tense moments passed, the seconds ticking away as slowly as they could, before his shoulders sank, and the black mass sighed, "Alright, alright. You win. I'll just see myself out."
As the chair scraped across the floor, the director said, "Try Warehouse 13, or maybe the Chaos Insurgency. I'm sure they'll be a little more lenient than we are." Zalgo gave a grunt of thanks, and was gone, having melted into the walls. The director allowed himself a few moments of peace, before calling out, "Next!" and preparing himself for the next sob story.
A colossal green man with a squishy head and long, wavy beard of tentacles squeezed his way into the office, and stuffed himself into the chair. Riffling through a few more papers, the director looked up and stated, "Thank you for joining me today, Mr…?"
Item #: SCP-3337
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Instances of SCP-3337 are to be contained in 3x3 meter vaults, sealed off from the rest of the facility by steel doors. Entrances to vaults are to be guarded by armed Foundation personnel at all times. Failure to meet these conditions will result in Level 2 punishment.
Instances of 3337 are to be accessed only by certified research staff with a two hour warning. Except in certain cases, readings of 3337 are to be heavily edited, so as to reduce the danger of reading. During all observations of unedited access, brainwave activity of all present is to be monitored. If any activity determined to be hazardous is detected, subjects are to be administered a Class-A amnesic.
In the event of an emergency, all instances of 3337 are to be burned, and their ashes disposed of properly.
Description: SCP-3337 is a group of 250 copies of the book, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Each copy measures 8x12 inches, contains 784 pages (including introduction and index), and is bound in a plastic cover with glue. Several have been heavily annotated by previous owners, while others are wrapped in plastic, captured by the Foundation before distribution to markets.
As the name implies, each book contains all 1775 poems written by the poet Emily Dickinson. The poems are highly unusual in writing style, especially for the time; normal rhyme scheme is rarely adhered to, instead being replaced with words that only look like they should rhyme (a practice commonly known as slant rhyme), or ditching the concept of rhyming altogether. altogether. Dashes litter the lines, creating breaks and pauses in the meter, slowing the poems down. Words are capitalized, seemingly at random, giving them an air of importance where there normally wouldn't be any. These, and a number of other deviants from the norm, create an odd reading experience for any who glance at it.
The poems themselves cover a wide variety of topics, including, but not limited to, nature, death, love, the human mind, and religion. Most are not very long, averaging to around eight lines each, but managing to convey a full, yet at first confusing, message in each.
Due to their highly unusual nature, reading any one of the poems of SCP-3337 causes the reader to enter a state of deep thought, pondering the meaning of what they read. Attempts to snap the person out of their trance varies in effectiveness, ranging from immediately breaking them away to total failure to even notice the effort. Certain subjects feel compelled to continue reading afterwards, looking up more and more poems, claiming that they wish to explore the subject at hand further, or just selecting poems at random to read. Occasionally, these subjects will attempt to start up a conversation regarding the poetry, bringing up its deep meaning, or unusual nature, suggesting that copies of 3337 have a slight memetic effect.
At this point in time, the Foundation is making every effort to track down all copies of SCP-3337. Due to the fact that every one appears to have the same effect on its readers, it appears that an uncertain number of copies will need to be captured and locked up. Current projections suggest that, if publication is halted, every copy can be tracked down within the space of 15 years, and those who have read it found and cured in 20. However, rumors that many, if not all, of the poems have leaked onto the internet make these projections guess work, at best.
Addendum 3337-01: In order to demonstrate the dangerous nature of SCP-3337, Researcher Gargus agreed to select poems at random from the book, read them, and write down his thoughts, all whilst under careful observation:
- Poem 392, page 187 (see enclosed document for poem): Seems like a simple enough poem to me. A lilly growing out of the ground, moving from the darkness of the soil to the bright, ecstatic life of the above-ground world. Short, sweet and simple. I'm a tad confused about the reference to education, though. A metaphor for how we need to go through dark times in order to learn, perhaps?
- Poem 574, page 279-280: I love this one. A woman, after a long sickness, going out into the fields during summer and just watching the world happen. It's refreshing imagery after such a long time in the Foundation. I do have to wonder, though: aside from having another character, what is the purpose of giving the summer an identity. The picture would have been painted just as well if any mentioning of "she" or "her" was left out. Is Dickinson giving the Summer identity because she feels a personal connection to it? Considering that these events probably did happen, I'd think so.
Note: At this point, brain functions higher than those normally seen in Researcher Gargus were observed. Experiment continued, though caution on the part of the observers was raised.
- Poem 712, page 350: I've heard of this one before. Reading it, it's just brilliant. Death's coming presented not as an event of terror, but rather as a guest taking you out for a ride. It's an interesting idea that, while having been presented many times before, is still a nice one to keep in mind. We shouldn't fear death, but rather accept it, and even embrace it, when the time comes. That idea is such a comforter, especially if you choose to adopt it.
As for the constant dashes and odd capitalization, I don't think they're such a bad thing. The dashes allow for the poem to be read at a comfortable pace and give the reader time to let things sink in, while the capitalization assigns everything it touches a feeling of importance. When we're talking about life and death, and the transition between the two, it's all important, isn't it?
Note: Brain activity dangerously high at this point. Researcher Gargus asked to cease and desist, but insisted on continuing his readings. Armed personnel deployed to neutralize.
- Poem 632, page 312-313: Now this one, even with Foundation experience, is just fascinating. Our mind is capable of some really, really amazing things, and this poem demonstrates it perfectly. Vaster in expanse than the sky, deeper than the ocean, and even as weighty as God. When you've seen God face to face regularly, you know what he's capable of. Even if you haven't, it's still a fascinating idea.
We, as humans, have so much more power than we're willing to admit. Our minds are pretty much the ultimate tool, yet so often, we refuse to use them to their full extent. Just imagine what we're capable of, if only we set ourselves to it. The power of God, in our hands.
Despite it's rather short length, this is definitely one of my favorite Dickinson poems. I'm hooked now. I've gotta see what's next…
Note: At this point, Researcher Gargus was forcefully removed from the test chamber, and administered a Class-A amnesic. As of this writing, he does not remember any of the poems he read. The instance of SCP-3337 used has been destroyed.
Addendum 3337-02: SCP-3337 has been removed from the main list, and the Foundation Archive in general. No matter how you look at it, poetry that's written a little oddly is not dangerous enough to warrant containment. All the copies of the book have been returned to their owners, and the researchers and writers involved with the containment and testings have been thoroughly sacked. -Dr. Bright
I don't know why I agreed to participate in the experiment. It was a Keter, a bloody Keter! You don't come out of those alive! Well, perhaps I shouldn't say that. After all, I'm alive, though I wouldn't really call this life.
It sounds cliched, but nobody knows what real darkness is. To most, the dark is a lack of light, what happens when the sun goes down, or when the power goes out. To them, darkness can be unnerving, almost frightening to some, but within it, there is always something else there.
For me, the darkness is everything and nothing. It surrounds me, engulfs me, yet no matter where I look, or how far out I reach, there's never anything to find. It's as if it's made of blackness.
Back when I was free, I had a dictionary, and was flipping through it one day. According to it, "black" is the total absence of color. Bearing that in mind, this place has to be made of it. No, not that. If it was just blackness, there'd be something to feel. Instead, it's just pure… nothingness. Yeah. That word works.
I don't know how long I've been in here. There's no sense of time or space. Hard to have that when they don't exist. I'm just floating around in an oppressive nothingness. No, can't be "in" it; there'd need to be something here for me to be in it. Just… nothing. That's all.
It's a nightmare here. I don't belong. My body has substance, and I'm desperately trying to stave off that nothing from completely erasing me. It doesn't want me around. For now, I can fight back. It hurts like hell, but I can continue my existence.
But one day, I just won't be strong enough. Even though I'm fighting against nothing at all, it's still stronger than me. One day, I'll fail, and it will get to me. And on that day, I'll be gone. Not dead, or lifeless, or anything else I could have been back home.
Oh, the things you believe. You think that the things you see are really reality? That your friends and family, your Foundation, you yourself, everything you know, are all there is to this world? Ha. Wouldn't you like to know the things I could tell you?
What's that? You do? Hmmm, interesting. Very interesting. Let me see what I can do for you. What do you want to know? What could I tell you…
How about what this world really is? The true nature of things? Would you like that?
Ah, you would. Well, that's an answer I'm not willing to give up without full payment, but I can give you an idea of what it is. How does that sound? Does it sound good?
Very well. These walls around us, this world, the whole of this reality, is but one piece of an incredibly complicated, yet well organized network of intersecting view points. No, a spider web doesn't begin to describe the complexity of this network. To you, this universe is all there is to it. Nothing more, nothing less. That which you know is the limit of your reality. But I, I can see it all. Every one of the lines that intersects ours, and subsequently others, and then more, so on and so forth to create a great mass that is reality.
I can see variations on your human history, little bits and pieces changed about to create entirely new events. Assassinations survived, wars lost, lives saved, births that never happened. Just within one thread of reality, time is mashed up so tight that events can be changed on a whim. And when the lines intersect, then the whole fabric of reality is rewritten. In fact, there are trillions of universes where you never even existed.
But the connections go deeper than that. Global, galactic, even universal events only begin the scratch the surface of what I can see. If I just look a bit further, I can see that the thread you perceive yourself to live on is only one of a countless - well, countless to you - number of realities. They bear no resemblance to this one; there is no concept of geometry, time, space, life, death. All these things you take for granted, they have no bearing on these realities. There are even completely empty ones, realities filled with nothingness, and yet filled to the brim with concepts you can't begin to understand.
And yet, for all their differences, all these realities, even the ones that don't connect, are all one and the same. They are multilayered, all on top of one another, separated yet together. They form a net, a ball, a line, shapes you have never even heard of. It's all together, and all right in front of your face.
That's what I can tell you. What's wrong? You look confused. You don't get it? Do you want to know more? Want to dive deeper, see what I see, understand the insanity of the world you live in? I can help you. Through my eyes, you could see all. You could know the true nature of reality itself. How does that sound? Do you want to?
You do? Good. All you need to do is put me on…
Oh, look at that. I was lying. Let's see how long you last before you rot to nothing…
I thank the Lord in Heaven that the SCP-Foundation found me. They take good care of me, make sure I get visitors, let me listen to music. I've been told that others aren't treated as well as I am, so I thank the Lord again. But for all their hospitality, my life is still a living hell.
I made a deal with somebody many years ago. At the time, I was young and foolish, and thought myself invincible. I performed a summoning ritual from an old book on a dare. The book said that if the ritual was completed properly, he who did so would be immortal. So I did, and have regretted it ever since.
The exact details of what happen have been blurred by the passing of years, but by the end of it, something had placed a curse on me, and I started to turn to concrete. At first, I was happy with my situation. Immortal and invincible. It seemed like the perfect life. I bragged to my friends about how I would see the end of the Earth.
But as time passed, I found it harder and harder to move. Panic set in. I desperately tried to tell my friends, but they thought me mad. As they told me before I was thrown into the asylum, they had played along at first because they thought I was drunken. It had become too much for them, and they put me away, for my own safety.
For a time, it wasn't so bad. They took good care of me, and genuinely tried to help. Eventually, though, the doctors and therapists started to slip away. I was beyond help, and did not appear to require any care. Finally, when the last one deemed me beyond cure, they threw me into solitary confinement, and forgot me.
My life from then on out became a true hellhole. No, I should not say "my life". Life is being able to walk, and eat and drink and make merry. To know the presence of others and be free. But my time there was none of these things.
Immortal and invincible. The two qualities I had always wanted, and me, trapped in a small cell. I was in danger of going mad, so I turned to God, praying for salvation, praying that my curse would be lifted. Praying that I would one day walk again a free man.
During the first stint in hell, it worked. I remained as sane as I could, for I knew that God would grant me reprieve. And indeed, one day, men took me away from my confinement. For the first time in ages, I knew the sun, fresh air, other faces. True, I remained immobile, but the Lord would fix that.
I was wrong. Shortly after my release, I was thrown into another, smaller cell, in another asylum. I thought God had taken me from my cell to taunt me with the prospect of freedom before casting me deeper into the pit. It was then that I thought myself mad. Since I never dreamed, my thoughts made themselves manifest through visions. Or were they? I was never sure.
Thought after thought tormented me in my private circle of hell. What if the world ended, and nobody told me? I would be all that was left, and never know it. My body would remain the same whilst the world rotted around me, until nothing was left but me and my thoughts. And then those would decay, and I would be trapped within a hollow shell. I could scream all I wanted, but who would hear me?
They had thought me insane, and now I was.
Eventually, the Foundation came, and took me away. They placed me in the nice room, with the music and the people and the light. I keep my outward actions normal, so as to not frighten them away. What else can I do?
But inside, I'll always go back to my own corner of hell, a place filled with nothing but darkness and myself. How can I be sure I ever left? I became mad. Sometimes, I'm not in my room, but back in hell. Eventually, I suspect, I'll go back there, and be there to stay.
If the Foundation is reality, then thank God for it. If my hell is reality, then that is all there is. No Foundation, no God, no anything.
Just me and my thoughts. And the dark.
Let all of those who read this know that I have not failed my duties to the SCP Foundation. I have not broken under stress, nor have I gone crazy. What has happened is that I cannot allow the events around me to continue any longer.
I am going to die. After hours in solitary confinement, and the time in-between being almost unbearable, I've come to conclude that my actions after this writing will unquestionably lead to my demise. If you find this before I die, do not try to stop me. I've made my peace with God, and decided that what I am going to do is the right thing.
What I am about to do is break every single Special Personnel Requirement for the project I am assigned to. Normally, I wouldn't do this, but I just can't let her suffer any longer. Even though I will die trying, she will know that somebody cares for her.
It will only be for a moment, maybe less. I don't care. Just as long as she's out of her torment for one second, it will be enough for me. It will be enough knowing that for that brief instant, she will know that she is not a prisoner, that she is not a monster, that somebody cares enough about her to do something about it. For that brief instant, she'll be free.
I have passed all the psychological examinations. I have not broken down. I don't love her. I don't want an XK. All I want is for her to know, for the briefest instant, the somebody cares for her as a human being.
And I will make sure she knows.
Note: At 0900 hours, Agent Shields stripped off his concealing helmet and somehow entered the enclosure of 231-7. 231-7 was awake at the time, but showed no reaction to Shields' presence. Armed guards were deployed as he approached the bedside, placed a single rose upon it, and left the containment chamber. Four minutes after the security breach, Agent Shields was shot to death by six guards, and 231-7's amnesiac schedule was altered slightly to allow for a dose shortly afterward. Operation 110-Montauk was put into effect minutes later.
Room dark. People gone. Can move. I happy.
Trapped for years. Kept by men for "research". Left alone in room, left to scratch at walls. Left to rot and die unless needed. Specimen for "research". Trapped by self. Never seen by others, never spoken. Listen, but never speak. See, but never seen. Made of rock when others come. Free when they not look. Prisoner when they look back. I hate.
They have freedom. They move freely, talk freely, look freely. Live freely. I do not. I trapped. Silenced. Rock. Subject. Prisoner. I do thing about it.
Their necks fragile. Their necks weak. I stalk them. They always come, new ones. Come for "cleaning". They look away. I sneak up. I take hold. They panic. They look, and I prisoner. They blink, and I free.
I twist. They die. Neck makes sound. Not words, or scream, or gurgle. Neck go crunch. Crunch is beautiful sound. Crunch means end has come. Crunch means man can torment no more. Crunch means others panic; others become easy. Crunch begins and crunch ends.
I live for crunch. Life has no meaning. Do nothing but walk and scrape and hate. They watch. They send men. "Cleaning". And life has meaning. "Cleaning" means crunch. Crunch means purpose. Crunch means life. Crunch means choice. Crunch means freedom.
Crunch means everything.
Remember man. Like me. Never see others, never hear others. Trapped. Prisoner. Left to wander. Hated man.
He trapped, but he also free. He move freely, do what he want. Not trapped by men, not trapped by self. Wanted him dead. Wanted life. Wanted crunch. He did too.
He came asking to die. Couldn't take it. Wanted loneliness to end. Wanted death. Closed his eyes. Asked for crunch.
I laugh. Crunch too good for him. Crunch too kind. Let him rot. Let him suffer. Let him walk world, looking for way out. Look for purpose, never find meaning in life. Never find purpose. I have purpose.
I laugh and deny him crunch. He leave. He still alive. Know it. Looking for way out. Never find it. Life meaningless without purpose.
I have purpose.
I have crunch.
And they always come.