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gdp2-a-working-lunch | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"Wait in the car. I've got this one," Harken said.</p>
<p>Kramer fixed him with a cold, hard gaze from her oscilloscope-green eyes. "I can't back you up from out here," she said.</p>
<p>"If I need your brand of backup, it means that I've fucked up badly enough that getting killed would be preferable to telling the O5's what happened. Wait in the damn car. I'll be back in half an hour."</p>
<p>Kramer turned away from him and looked out the passenger side window at her reflection in side of the burgundy-red minivan in the next parking space over. Her internal cybernetics whirred and clicked as she moved. Fingers with too many joints flexed and relaxed, inch-long razor-edged blades snapping in and out from under her fingertips. She looked like a tensing cat getting ready to spring. She always did.</p>
<p>Harken liked Kramer, he really did, but his partner and fellow agent was a hammer who saw everything around her as a nail. Some situations, like this one, needed a little more finesse. Thankfully, finesse was what he did. "Don't worry about it," he said. "This should be simple."</p>
<p>A man in a dark blue uniform, wearing a waist-length cape, opened the front door for him as he approached the front door of the hotel. Harken strode past him straight to the elevators, showed the bellman the black card with the gold lettering and the fractal pattern along the edges. The bellman nodded and touched a control on the sixth elevator, the one that never operated except for a very select few.</p>
<p>Though the hotel had thirty floors, there were only two buttons in this elevator. He pressed the top button and checked his pockets for his smokes. They were still there. Thus reassured, he leaned back against the wall and whistled a jaunty tune as the elevator headed to the thirty-first floor.</p>
<p>The elevator doors opened, and Harken was faced with a massive man with biceps the size of footballs, who looked like he could pop a man's head like a pimple. The giant waved a scanning wand over the agent's body, frowned when the wand beeped. Harken very carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Zippo. "Just this," he said, flipping the lighter open and igniting the flame. "For my smokes."</p>
<p>The giant shook his head and held out a small silver tray. Harken nodded and left his lighter behind. "I'll want it back on my way out," he said, with a small smile. The giant seemed unamused.</p>
<p>Past the doors was a dining room with white walls and marble-tiled floors. In the dining room was a cadaverously slender man dressed entirely in white. He held a silver fork and knife in his delicately fingered hands, and he was cutting into a grilled chicken breast: small, precise pieces which he transferred to his mouth and chewed with all the delicacy of a ballet dancer. There was a crystal goblet in front of him which, Harken knew, contained distilled water. Distilled water was the only thing Mister Cutridge ever drank.</p>
<p>"Agent Harken," Cutridge said, as he put down his knife and fork and patted his lips with a silk napkin. "I was wondering when I would see you again."</p>
<p>"Cutridge," Harken said. He flopped down into one of the high-backed chairs and pulled out his smokes and a book of matches. "How goes it?"</p>
<p>"It continues as well as can be expected. My division is expecting to acquire some new merchandise in the near future, for which I believe I have your own people to thank."</p>
<p>"Not my division," Harken said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a long drag and blew a big puff of smoke into the air. "No blood off my back. Ask me if I care."</p>
<p>"You may not care about the losses suffered by your company, but I do care about you smoking in my home. I dislike…"</p>
<p>"Oh, bite me, Cutridge. I've had the shittiest week of my entire life. The least you can do is let me have a smoke while we shoot the shit." Harken took another deep drag of his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Cutridge's face, was gratified to see the man screw up his face trying not to cough at the acrid vapors.</p>
<p>"Very well," Cutridge said, in a brittle, angry voice. "I will allow you to indulge this once. But speak quickly and leave even more quickly. My patience is limited tonight."</p>
<p>"Then I'll make it simple. My guys have taken a hit. A HARD one. Simply put, there's blood in the water, and the sharks are circling. Now, I know you've been looking at a little warehouse downtown filled with all sorts of fun things that could make a certain Mister Cutridge very popular with his higher-ups at Marshall, Carter, and Dark. I know you've mentioned this to said bosses in the past. I want you to show some prudence. Keep your boys at home for this one. Keep quiet. Don't stir up trouble. The artifacts that got loose are fair game. Don't get greedy and try to set loose a few more."</p>
<p>Mister Cutridge was quiet for a long time. "No," he said, curtly.</p>
<p>"Seriously? After all I've done for you? After all the times I've pointed you towards artifacts that could make you a tidy profit?"</p>
<p>"You've pointed me to trinkets that your organization is unwilling to make the effort to secure for themselves. No, Agent Harken, I believe that this time, it is I who am arguing from a position of strength. Your Foundation cannot even protect themselves from a small group of college students with delusions of grandeur. How can they expect to defend against us?"</p>
<p>"Fine," Harken sighed. "In that case, wait three minutes and we'll see who's arguing from a position of strength then."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>Harken stubbed his cigarette out onto a tea saucer. "My smokes are laced with a nerve agent. I'm inoculated. You're not. The dose you took should be lethal in minutes."</p>
<p>Cutridge's eyes bulged out, and he leaped up from his chair, knocking it over in his haste. "GUA—"</p>
<p>There was an explosion on the foyer. Harken smiled. "It's amazing how much plastique you can pack into a cigarette lighter when you really try," he reflected.</p>
<p>Cutridge gasped and turned purple, grabbing at his throat and making nasty wheezing noises as Harken leaned over him. The agent pulled a small vial filled with a bright blue liquid from his coat pocket. "Now, there is an antidote," Harken said, "But if you want it, you need to agree to my terms. Stay at home for this one. All right?"</p>
<p>Cutridge nodded. Harken handed the man the vial, and he snapped it open and swallowed the blue liquid in one gulp. Harken smiled and patted him on the face. "See you around, Liam," he said.</p>
<p>He was walking past the still-smouldering body of the big guy (slumped over the reception desk with a surprised look in his lifeless eyes) when he heard the familiar but unpleasant sound of a handgun being cocked behind him. He sighed. "Can't let it go, huh, Liam?" Harken said.</p>
<p>"Can't let you live, not when you've managed to waltz into my home and nearly murder me," Cutridge said, in that cold, reptilian voice. "It's not good for business."</p>
<p>"Yeah, I can see that," Harken muttered. "People might think there was blood in the water."</p>
<p>Cutridge laughed. Harken laughed too.</p>
<p>Cutridge was still laughing when he shit himself and died.</p>
<p>"That was blue Kool-Aid, you asshole," Harken said.</p>
<p>He tried the elevator button and was surprised to see it was still working. "God bless the Otis company," he murmured. The trip down seemed very long. He forced himself to walk out of the hotel at a measured pace.</p>
<p>Kramer was still staring at her reflection in the minivan as he climbed back into the car and started it up. "How did it go?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Not well," Harken said. "It's sad how few businesses are willing to do a little charity work nowadays. Who's next?"</p>
<p>"A couple of agents from the UIU are investigating a warehouse fire. We need to make sure they don't investigate too much."</p>
<p>"Ah, Wolfram and Uecker. Pair of good kids. This should be simple."</p>
<p>The car pulled out of the hotel parking lot and drove off to its next destination.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-a-working-lunch">A Working Lunch</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-a-working-lunch">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-a-working-lunch</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
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</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"Wait in the car. I've got this one," Harken said.
Kramer fixed him with a cold, hard gaze from her oscilloscope-green eyes. "I can't back you up from out here," she said.
"If I need your brand of backup, it means that I've fucked up badly enough that getting killed would be preferable to telling the O5's what happened. Wait in the damn car. I'll be back in half an hour."
Kramer turned away from him and looked out the passenger side window at her reflection in side of the burgundy-red minivan in the next parking space over. Her internal cybernetics whirred and clicked as she moved. Fingers with too many joints flexed and relaxed, inch-long razor-edged blades snapping in and out from under her fingertips. She looked like a tensing cat getting ready to spring. She always did.
Harken liked Kramer, he really did, but his partner and fellow agent was a hammer who saw everything around her as a nail. Some situations, like this one, needed a little more finesse. Thankfully, finesse was what he did. "Don't worry about it," he said. "This should be simple."
A man in a dark blue uniform, wearing a waist-length cape, opened the front door for him as he approached the front door of the hotel. Harken strode past him straight to the elevators, showed the bellman the black card with the gold lettering and the fractal pattern along the edges. The bellman nodded and touched a control on the sixth elevator, the one that never operated except for a very select few.
Though the hotel had thirty floors, there were only two buttons in this elevator. He pressed the top button and checked his pockets for his smokes. They were still there. Thus reassured, he leaned back against the wall and whistled a jaunty tune as the elevator headed to the thirty-first floor.
The elevator doors opened, and Harken was faced with a massive man with biceps the size of footballs, who looked like he could pop a man's head like a pimple. The giant waved a scanning wand over the agent's body, frowned when the wand beeped. Harken very carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Zippo. "Just this," he said, flipping the lighter open and igniting the flame. "For my smokes."
The giant shook his head and held out a small silver tray. Harken nodded and left his lighter behind. "I'll want it back on my way out," he said, with a small smile. The giant seemed unamused.
Past the doors was a dining room with white walls and marble-tiled floors. In the dining room was a cadaverously slender man dressed entirely in white. He held a silver fork and knife in his delicately fingered hands, and he was cutting into a grilled chicken breast: small, precise pieces which he transferred to his mouth and chewed with all the delicacy of a ballet dancer. There was a crystal goblet in front of him which, Harken knew, contained distilled water. Distilled water was the only thing Mister Cutridge ever drank.
"Agent Harken," Cutridge said, as he put down his knife and fork and patted his lips with a silk napkin. "I was wondering when I would see you again."
"Cutridge," Harken said. He flopped down into one of the high-backed chairs and pulled out his smokes and a book of matches. "How goes it?"
"It continues as well as can be expected. My division is expecting to acquire some new merchandise in the near future, for which I believe I have your own people to thank."
"Not my division," Harken said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a long drag and blew a big puff of smoke into the air. "No blood off my back. Ask me if I care."
"You may not care about the losses suffered by your company, but I do care about you smoking in my home. I dislike…"
"Oh, bite me, Cutridge. I've had the shittiest week of my entire life. The least you can do is let me have a smoke while we shoot the shit." Harken took another deep drag of his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Cutridge's face, was gratified to see the man screw up his face trying not to cough at the acrid vapors.
"Very well," Cutridge said, in a brittle, angry voice. "I will allow you to indulge this once. But speak quickly and leave even more quickly. My patience is limited tonight."
"Then I'll make it simple. My guys have taken a hit. A HARD one. Simply put, there's blood in the water, and the sharks are circling. Now, I know you've been looking at a little warehouse downtown filled with all sorts of fun things that could make a certain Mister Cutridge very popular with his higher-ups at Marshall, Carter, and Dark. I know you've mentioned this to said bosses in the past. I want you to show some prudence. Keep your boys at home for this one. Keep quiet. Don't stir up trouble. The artifacts that got loose are fair game. Don't get greedy and try to set loose a few more."
Mister Cutridge was quiet for a long time. "No," he said, curtly.
"Seriously? After all I've done for you? After all the times I've pointed you towards artifacts that could make you a tidy profit?"
"You've pointed me to trinkets that your organization is unwilling to make the effort to secure for themselves. No, Agent Harken, I believe that this time, it is I who am arguing from a position of strength. Your Foundation cannot even protect themselves from a small group of college students with delusions of grandeur. How can they expect to defend against us?"
"Fine," Harken sighed. "In that case, wait three minutes and we'll see who's arguing from a position of strength then."
"What?"
Harken stubbed his cigarette out onto a tea saucer. "My smokes are laced with a nerve agent. I'm inoculated. You're not. The dose you took should be lethal in minutes."
Cutridge's eyes bulged out, and he leaped up from his chair, knocking it over in his haste. "GUA—"
There was an explosion on the foyer. Harken smiled. "It's amazing how much plastique you can pack into a cigarette lighter when you really try," he reflected.
Cutridge gasped and turned purple, grabbing at his throat and making nasty wheezing noises as Harken leaned over him. The agent pulled a small vial filled with a bright blue liquid from his coat pocket. "Now, there is an antidote," Harken said, "But if you want it, you need to agree to my terms. Stay at home for this one. All right?"
Cutridge nodded. Harken handed the man the vial, and he snapped it open and swallowed the blue liquid in one gulp. Harken smiled and patted him on the face. "See you around, Liam," he said.
He was walking past the still-smouldering body of the big guy (slumped over the reception desk with a surprised look in his lifeless eyes) when he heard the familiar but unpleasant sound of a handgun being cocked behind him. He sighed. "Can't let it go, huh, Liam?" Harken said.
"Can't let you live, not when you've managed to waltz into my home and nearly murder me," Cutridge said, in that cold, reptilian voice. "It's not good for business."
"Yeah, I can see that," Harken muttered. "People might think there was blood in the water."
Cutridge laughed. Harken laughed too.
Cutridge was still laughing when he shit himself and died.
"That was blue Kool-Aid, you asshole," Harken said.
He tried the elevator button and was surprised to see it was still working. "God bless the Otis company," he murmured. The trip down seemed very long. He forced himself to walk out of the hotel at a measured pace.
Kramer was still staring at her reflection in the minivan as he climbed back into the car and started it up. "How did it go?" she asked.
"Not well," Harken said. "It's sad how few businesses are willing to do a little charity work nowadays. Who's next?"
"A couple of agents from the UIU are investigating a warehouse fire. We need to make sure they don't investigate too much."
"Ah, Wolfram and Uecker. Pair of good kids. This should be simple."
The car pulled out of the hotel parking lot and drove off to its next destination.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-21T16:45:00 | [
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"game-day",
"marshall-carter-and-dark",
"spy-fiction",
"tale"
] | A Working Lunch - SCP Foundation | 55 | [
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"licensing-guide"
] | [
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] | [] | 11920866 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-a-working-lunch |
|
gdp2-and-then-i-saw-the-light | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<hr/>
<p>"What am I even doing here?" Sol muttered, watching the man in the wolf suit walk by. "I don't have anything in common with these people."</p>
<p>"These people happen to be our most faithful customers, man," James said. "It's a big hit among furry audiences."</p>
<p>"I know," Sol sighed. "I've seen the fanart. It's not like anyone gives a crap about the writing, anyway, they just want to see the guy who draws the sexy animal girls."</p>
<p>"Not true! The comic gets twice the number of hits that my art does. People come back for your writing, man. We're a team, remember?"</p>
<p>"Whatever, dude. All I know is I'm down the cost of a plane ticket and hotel room, and no one's buying shit."</p>
<p>James rolled his eyes and grinned. "Hey, don't worry, man, we'll at least break even before the con's over. Tell ya what: let's go clubbing after this. Grab a couple of beers and forget about this whole thing. You'll be happy again in no time, man."</p>
<p>"Is it going to be a normal club or one where everyone wears fursuits?" Sol griped.</p>
<p>"It's going to be a furpile. We'll all yiff and scritch each other, then lick each other's fursuits and die of poisoning like in that one episode of CSI."</p>
<p>"Really?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Damn, you got my hopes up."</p>
<p>"Sorry to disappoint you." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got an artist meetup to go to. Hold the fort, try to sell a few books, kay?"</p>
<p>"See ya." Sol gave his friend a lazy wave and leaned back to watch the freaks. Most of them were clustered at the other end of the artist's alley, where the more risqué artists were hawking their wares. He sighed and cursed the day that James had ever convinced him that, "We should totally do a comic together, man." On the whole, he would much rather be sleeping in.</p>
<p>He was startled to realize that someone was standing at his booth, flipping through Volume 1. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips were pursed together as she scrutinized the pages. "You are the writer?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Yeah, that's me. SolKid."</p>
<p>"A strange name."</p>
<p>"It's my internet handle. My friends call me Sol. My parents call me Solomon."</p>
<p>"Mmm." The girl frowned and held the book up to the light, shaking her head. "And so, this is what we've been reduced to," she said. "Masturbatory fantasy fodder."</p>
<p>"It's what the people want. You gonna buy that or not?" Sol asked.</p>
<p>"No," the girl said, putting the book back down in its wire stand. "I think I shall give you something better." She smiled, revealing long, sharp canine teeth: a feral, animal grin. "I think I shall give you something better to write about."</p>
<p>It was only then that Sol realized that the girl was naked.</p>
<p>She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her.</p>
<p>There was a brief hush. Everyone turned to gawk at her. A few camera flashes here and there. She stood silently, her head tilted back, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly at her sides.</p>
<p>Then an overweight man in a red vest ran up, yelling, "HEY HEY HEY, NONE OF THAT, THIS IS A FAMILY CONVENTION!"</p>
<p>Her hand flashed out as he reached to grab her, plunged into his abdomen with an unpleasant squelching sound before he even touched her, stepped aside and kicked at his shin, sending him sprawling to the ground screaming and grabbing at his spilling entrails. She opened her mouth unpleasantly wide and swallowed the gory thing clutched in her hand in a single gulp.</p>
<p>Then the screaming started.</p>
<p>Once, when he was a kid, Sol had taken a trip to the Holocaust museum with his high school class. They had seen an image of the inside of one of the gas chambers, where the prisoners had been executed. There were deep gouges in the walls where the desperate people had clawed at them to try and get out, places where they had trampled each other to death trying to crawl over each other to climb higher, in a blind panic. It had been terrifying enough to imagine that happening to emaciated, shaved-head prisoners in a Nazi death camp.</p>
<p>It was even worse when happening to a bunch of brightly dressed fans at a convention.</p>
<p>And then the madness began. He saw a skinny girl wearing cat's ears and a bodysuit screaming and pounding at a wall when an unlocked door was a few feet to her left. He saw a big, tough-looking guy wearing a black t-shirt go berserk and beat a teenage boy to death with a steel chair. A chubby girl walked up to him with empty eye sockets, her crushed eyes weeping blood and fluid. "Maggots in my eyes, get them out, maggots in my eyes, get them out," she wailed.</p>
<p>And while this happened, the girl with the yellow eyes stalked through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish: never stopping, always killing. Here she tore a man's liver out and ate it whole. There, she tore a girl's throat with her teeth. Then she was no longer eating, just killing in a berserk frenzy, screaming mad, animal cries as she curbstomped a slightly overweight guy with bad acne to death against the concession stand counter.</p>
<p>It was the most beautiful thing Sol had ever seen.</p>
<p>And then it was still. The doors of the hall swung back and forth on broken hinges where the panicked crowd had smashed them down in their mad, panicked exodus. A few unfortunates, trampled under the crowd, lay groaning in pain on the hard concrete floor. She stood in the center of the circle of gore, skin stained scarlet, and she looked up at the hard, stark light of the fluorescent tubes, and said, in a voice made low and harsh with anger and frustration: "It doesn't help. Nothing helps."</p>
<p>She turned to Sol, and there was murder in her eyes. "Go write about this," she said.</p>
<p>And then she left.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"And that was when I understood the truth," the man said. "Just as humanity has tried to sterilize our cities of wildlife and our lives of germs, we've tried to sterilize our minds from the supernatural. The hard light of science has tried to drive the things of myth out of our lives and into the corners of the world. And just like any cornered creature, they are fighting back."</p>
<p>"While this continues, there can be no peace. The only solution is peaceful coexistence with the supernatural, as in the old days before the rise of the worldwide global scientific conspiracy, but as long as organizations like this Foundation exist, there can be no peace. For the sake of peace, they must be destroyed."</p>
<p>"The Serpent's Hand tries, but they are bound by the shackles of their own morals: they are useful to us, in a way, but they have not the will to do what needs to be done. The C.I. is content to lord over their Third World backwaters: like Mengele, they are interested only in their own grotesque experimentation. The Church is interested only in rescuing their "Broken God" from this Foundation. Only we of the Freemind Nation are willing to put our lives on the line for the sake of peace."</p>
<p>"Will you help us?"</p>
<p>The man stared intently at the girl sitting across the table. She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws, which she tapped against the hardwood table, where a plate with a liver from a freshly slaughtered, grass-fed, organically raised cow lay on a clean white plate. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her in a peacock's fan of swaying reddish fur.</p>
<p>She reached out one hand and, without a word, swallowed the gory chunk of meat in front of her in one gulp.</p>
<p>The man smiled. "Let me tell you about our plan, then…"</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-and-then-i-saw-the-light">Game Day Phase 2: ". . . And Then I Saw The Light"</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-and-then-i-saw-the-light">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-and-then-i-saw-the-light</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
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</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
-----
"What am I even doing here?" Sol muttered, watching the man in the wolf suit walk by. "I don't have anything in common with these people."
"These people happen to be our most faithful customers, man," James said. "It's a big hit among furry audiences."
"I know," Sol sighed. "I've seen the fanart. It's not like anyone gives a crap about the writing, anyway, they just want to see the guy who draws the sexy animal girls."
"Not true! The comic gets twice the number of hits that my art does. People come back for your writing, man. We're a team, remember?"
"Whatever, dude. All I know is I'm down the cost of a plane ticket and hotel room, and no one's buying shit."
James rolled his eyes and grinned. "Hey, don't worry, man, we'll at least break even before the con's over. Tell ya what: let's go clubbing after this. Grab a couple of beers and forget about this whole thing. You'll be happy again in no time, man."
"Is it going to be a normal club or one where everyone wears fursuits?" Sol griped.
"It's going to be a furpile. We'll all yiff and scritch each other, then lick each other's fursuits and die of poisoning like in that one episode of CSI."
"Really?"
"No."
"Damn, you got my hopes up."
"Sorry to disappoint you." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got an artist meetup to go to. Hold the fort, try to sell a few books, kay?"
"See ya." Sol gave his friend a lazy wave and leaned back to watch the freaks. Most of them were clustered at the other end of the artist's alley, where the more risqué artists were hawking their wares. He sighed and cursed the day that James had ever convinced him that, "We should totally do a comic together, man." On the whole, he would much rather be sleeping in.
He was startled to realize that someone was standing at his booth, flipping through Volume 1. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips were pursed together as she scrutinized the pages. "You are the writer?" she asked.
"Yeah, that's me. SolKid."
"A strange name."
"It's my internet handle. My friends call me Sol. My parents call me Solomon."
"Mmm." The girl frowned and held the book up to the light, shaking her head. "And so, this is what we've been reduced to," she said. "Masturbatory fantasy fodder."
"It's what the people want. You gonna buy that or not?" Sol asked.
"No," the girl said, putting the book back down in its wire stand. "I think I shall give you something better." She smiled, revealing long, sharp canine teeth: a feral, animal grin. "I think I shall give you something better to write about."
It was only then that Sol realized that the girl was naked.
She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her.
There was a brief hush. Everyone turned to gawk at her. A few camera flashes here and there. She stood silently, her head tilted back, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly at her sides.
Then an overweight man in a red vest ran up, yelling, "HEY HEY HEY, NONE OF THAT, THIS IS A FAMILY CONVENTION!"
Her hand flashed out as he reached to grab her, plunged into his abdomen with an unpleasant squelching sound before he even touched her, stepped aside and kicked at his shin, sending him sprawling to the ground screaming and grabbing at his spilling entrails. She opened her mouth unpleasantly wide and swallowed the gory thing clutched in her hand in a single gulp.
Then the screaming started.
Once, when he was a kid, Sol had taken a trip to the Holocaust museum with his high school class. They had seen an image of the inside of one of the gas chambers, where the prisoners had been executed. There were deep gouges in the walls where the desperate people had clawed at them to try and get out, places where they had trampled each other to death trying to crawl over each other to climb higher, in a blind panic. It had been terrifying enough to imagine that happening to emaciated, shaved-head prisoners in a Nazi death camp.
It was even worse when happening to a bunch of brightly dressed fans at a convention.
And then the madness began. He saw a skinny girl wearing cat's ears and a bodysuit screaming and pounding at a wall when an unlocked door was a few feet to her left. He saw a big, tough-looking guy wearing a black t-shirt go berserk and beat a teenage boy to death with a steel chair. A chubby girl walked up to him with empty eye sockets, her crushed eyes weeping blood and fluid. "Maggots in my eyes, get them out, maggots in my eyes, get them out," she wailed.
And while this happened, the girl with the yellow eyes stalked through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish: never stopping, always killing. Here she tore a man's liver out and ate it whole. There, she tore a girl's throat with her teeth. Then she was no longer eating, just killing in a berserk frenzy, screaming mad, animal cries as she curbstomped a slightly overweight guy with bad acne to death against the concession stand counter.
It was the most beautiful thing Sol had ever seen.
And then it was still. The doors of the hall swung back and forth on broken hinges where the panicked crowd had smashed them down in their mad, panicked exodus. A few unfortunates, trampled under the crowd, lay groaning in pain on the hard concrete floor. She stood in the center of the circle of gore, skin stained scarlet, and she looked up at the hard, stark light of the fluorescent tubes, and said, in a voice made low and harsh with anger and frustration: "It doesn't help. Nothing helps."
She turned to Sol, and there was murder in her eyes. "Go write about this," she said.
And then she left.
-----
"And that was when I understood the truth," the man said. "Just as humanity has tried to sterilize our cities of wildlife and our lives of germs, we've tried to sterilize our minds from the supernatural. The hard light of science has tried to drive the things of myth out of our lives and into the corners of the world. And just like any cornered creature, they are fighting back."
"While this continues, there can be no peace. The only solution is peaceful coexistence with the supernatural, as in the old days before the rise of the worldwide global scientific conspiracy, but as long as organizations like this Foundation exist, there can be no peace. For the sake of peace, they must be destroyed."
"The Serpent's Hand tries, but they are bound by the shackles of their own morals: they are useful to us, in a way, but they have not the will to do what needs to be done. The C.I. is content to lord over their Third World backwaters: like Mengele, they are interested only in their own grotesque experimentation. The Church is interested only in rescuing their "Broken God" from this Foundation. Only we of the Freemind Nation are willing to put our lives on the line for the sake of peace."
"Will you help us?"
The man stared intently at the girl sitting across the table. She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws, which she tapped against the hardwood table, where a plate with a liver from a freshly slaughtered, grass-fed, organically raised cow lay on a clean white plate. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her in a peacock's fan of swaying reddish fur.
She reached out one hand and, without a word, swallowed the gory chunk of meat in front of her in one gulp.
The man smiled. "Let me tell you about our plan, then. . ."
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| 2011-10-19T17:30:00 | [
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|
gdp2-angle-of-attack | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Transcript of tape recovered from █████ Police Department</strong></p>
<p>“Ok, let's start again. I know you were directly involved, and for the record, let's just assume I'm not an idiot and know you're guilty. So, with that, how about we try and make this much easier. What I want to know is this: who is it you work for?”</p>
<p>“…”</p>
<p>“…Alright. Let me put it this way, then. What is this Foundation that you work for?”</p>
<p>“…”</p>
<p>“We managed to recover a lot of documentation from that case. You're no idealist, gun-for-hire hack, you've got dispatches, mission parameters… this looks really, really bad, friend. Like, terrorist bad. Do you know what happens to terrorists these days? We can say there was an… accident in transport, and drop you down the darkest hole you've ever seen. You'll never s—”</p>
<p>“You have no idea what a dark hole is.”</p>
<p>“Really? Why don't you enlighten me then, tough guy?”</p>
<p>“Have you ever seen someone turn in to vapor? Not pulped by an explosion or anything, but real vapor. Just atomize over the space of a few seconds, screaming all the while? I've had to shoot people who I've shared lunch with, bummed smokes from, because they had a kind of eel inside them that was eating their nervous system from the inside out and turning them in to a plague-spreading serial rapist. I've sat for weeks in a sealed cell with no outside human contact, wondering if I'd start showing bumps on my skin, which would mean a long, slow degeneration into something lower than an animal. If you're going to scare me, you're going to need to step up your game from a little recreational waterboarding.”</p>
<p>“What the fuck are you tal-”</p>
<p>“None of you get it. I told you, right at the start, you need to turn me loose. I'm not a toy that anyone is going to leave just laying around. You've taken something that doesn't belong to you, Special Agent Danbury, and you've taken it from someone who does not share well.”</p>
<p>“Ahh, I see, friends in high places and everything? You're not the first one to try that… cry to me about such and such connection, this and that thing you can make happen with one phone call. Wanna know the thing about that? I don't care. You're not dealing with some pig-fucking local beat cop. I'm not bound by anything as silly as a code of conduct. My job is to keep my country safe. Period. Everything else is secondary to that, including your well-being and humane treatment.”</p>
<p>“As I said, you'll need to step it up a bit. It's been too long, which means they've decided not to play it overly nice… you might want to pick that up.”</p>
<p>“What the fuck are you… thought I turned this off. Hold on you little shit, i'm not nearly done with you. This is Agent Danbury, you shouAAGGG”</p>
<p>“That's the… oh shit, what's the word… mem-something. It's a sound or an image that can make your brain shit itself, then die. Can never remember the name. Can you hear me still? Damn it…”</p>
<p>(several loud noises, followed by a door slamming)</p>
<p>“Took y'all long enough.”'</p>
<p>“Sorry, we had bigger stuff on the burner than a fuckup like you, Grims.”</p>
<p>“Can you at least get my cuffs off?”</p>
<p>“No time. We popped the holding cells, turning into a real madhouse. Did you give anything up?”</p>
<p>“Please. Who cares what a dead man hears?”</p>
<p>“You'd be surprised… oh dammit, is that still on?”</p>
<p>“Wait, let me j-”</p>
<p><em>End Transcript</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Intercepted GOC Communication collected from mobile command post near ████████ city, via remote audio probe</strong></p>
<p>“What the hell am I looking at, Captain?”</p>
<p>“We… uh… actually aren't entirely sure yet. It's definitely a target of interest, but it's not really fitting any of the preset profiles as yet. We're expanding our search parameters.”</p>
<p>“Why is it wearing a bag on its head?”</p>
<p>“Ah, we're also not sure about that… we can't compel it to remove it, and attempting to do so by force has… not gone well. It's otherwise rather compliant, so we've left it alone for now.”</p>
<p>“I see. Now, the most obvious question is why am I looking at a big, bag-headed freak who's sitting at a table and not lying on a slab?”</p>
<p>“Yes, indeed… well, that's the thing. You see, we were following a lead on the fox-girl thing, and ran in to a couple of targets trying to flee the city. Happy accident, really… anyway, as we went to intercept, this big guy shows up, and starts attacking them. It was weird, though… this thing, whatever it is, is obviously extremely strong, but all he did was bash them up… then just stood there, waiting for us to intercept. I ordered Rodriguez to put a couple rounds through the big guy's bag head, but he missed.”</p>
<p>“Rodriguez doesn't miss.”</p>
<p>“I know sir. He was pretty upset about it. He double-tapped first, then mag-dumped. Every one of them missed just by a hair. I'm not really sure how, the big guy didn't seems to really move or anything. Anyway, we moved in and secured the scene, tried to restrain the remaining target. He kept holding up his hands, nodding his head. He… it was trying to surrender, I think. Hopkins tried to put restraints on him. He got his wrist broken. After that, we decided to just go with it for the time being.”</p>
<p>“Is this one of the Foundation strays?”</p>
<p>“No sir, at least not one that we have any record of. We're combing the database now, but other then a vague surveillance hit from about four years ago, there's been nothing.”</p>
<p>“All right…so it's big, strong, and somewhat docile, ignoring the personal space issues. Again, why hasn't it been shot or gassed yet, and why did I need to come down here in person?”</p>
<p>“Ok, here's the thing… it can't, or won't, talk. It has to touch someone to communicate with anything other than hand gestures and body language. It's…not fun for the one being touched…but they apparently can see…something, some sort of image or language or something that is some kind of communication. It's not a direct translation, but the gist of it gets across. We thought he was attacking someone for a second, and they looked half-dead, b—”</p>
<p>“Out with it, man!”</p>
<p>“He…ah…knows where the Library is, sir.”</p>
<p>“…The Library. As in THE Library? As in KTE-7909-Alexandria?”</p>
<p>“Yes sir. He's an exile, or a escapee, or some such, we're not entirely sure yet, but whatever it is, he's kicked out and not allowed back. However, there's something important there that he wants, and he's willing to show us how to get there, if we help him get it back.”</p>
<p>“You don't actually intend…”</p>
<p>“Oh no sir, not at all… but this is a unique opportunity, to say the very least. Once he shows the initial strike team the way, we can dispose of him, then roll the main force right in to the nest. No more nibbling the edges, scraping off little corners… right to the heart, a direct punch to the very core.”</p>
<p>“This is some fine work, captain. How soon can you get a team ready?”</p>
<p>“It's already on standby, sir… we're… ahh… just waiting for the native guide, so to speak.”</p>
<p>“Why is he just sitting there, looking at the sky like that?”</p>
<p>“He said something about the sun. We're not sure what, but he was insistent that we wait.”</p>
<p>“I want progress reports every hour, on the hour, understood? Keep the team on Ready Two. The moment you're ready to jump, begin the operation on your own discretion.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>"Oh, and one last thing, Captain. This is real wilderness country you're walking into. Aside from rumors, we have no knowledge of the Library whatsoever. Expect anything, prepare for everything. You're authorized to escalate up to Response Five if necessary to complete the mission or extract your team. Is that clear?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The boys will be happy to hear that."</p>
<p>"Don't be. Just because we're letting you use ray guns doesn't mean this is going to be easy. You're heading straight into the Wild West here. You'll need all the gear you can get just to survive.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Mr. Dark had settled into his office at the New York Club with a minimum of pain and suffering on all sides. It lacked the character of The Museum, but with a few homey touches, the odd bunyip-hide rug and Olmec knives, it felt almost right.</p>
<p>Cheryl brought him a short stack of newspaper entries, gleaned from a pile of papers nationwide. Mr. Dark browsed it with and chuckled, drinking thick, oily coffee. Authorities were debating whether Boomer’s work was a terrorist bomb gone off by accident, or a clandestine meth lab run by someone who had failed Chemistry 101. Even if Harken had escaped, he'd surely gotten the point. Several of them, most likely…</p>
<p>He read further, about a “person of interest” followed by a surprisingly accurate sketch and description of Boomer. That was going to be a problem. Boomer was too sweet a lad to lose to the wolves of the law, and not the sort to stand up to any kind of serious interrogation. He scribbled a note to have him replanted a good distance away… assuming anyone could uproot him with a minimum of explosions. Bah, other people's problems.</p>
<p>At least he had gotten started on acquisitions. The disease-controlling girl was safely tucked away in Facility B, and Willard was already starting to teach her the benefits of cooperation. When breaking in any bitch, canine or sapien, it was always best to start with positive reinforcement. Fine food, lodgings, shiny things, and an admirable parade of strapping lads had her in amicable spirits. For now. He knew her type very well, she'd soon want more, and more… and she'd get it. The anal electrical probe had the amazing ability to enact dramatic and rapid attitude change. He could have started that way, yes, but he adored watching the loving care people took when constructing their own gallows.</p>
<p>The kumiho was going to be more of a problem. She’d been spotted with her associates, and he knew them well enough: that lot of mystical (and mythical) riff-raff from The Library. She had to be there… he picked absently at the chip in his canine. Perhaps a visit would be in order? No reason not to, really… it'd been ages, and he could check on a few matters as well. He chuckled deep in his throat, tapping his foot on the slick bunyip hide. No matter how furious they might be over The Museum, they had to let him visit The Library. Rules were rules. The very idea of that impotent, boiling rage was reason enough, really.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Percival looked up from his book and over to the cat sitting on the chair. She licked her paw languidly, pointedly ignoring the sound of approaching boots. She looked up at Percival with a slow, sleepy wink. “Visitors. Unfriendly ones, I believe.” Before he could ask, she promptly curled up, stuffed her head under her ribs, and started snoring.</p>
<p>The three men entered in a clump of boots and the soft tap of wingtip shoes. A short, grinning man flanked by two human bulldogs, armed to the teeth. The short one had some kind of long coat, with thick, frayed cuffs and collars… or some kind of very thick fur. The thick sleeves and slight tilt of his head gave the impression of some old, threadbare bird of prey. The other two were all business, looking somewhere between cops and soldiers…but with an oozing aura of pure menace.</p>
<p>Weapons were drawn before anyone could say a word. Swords, sickle, crystal rod, machine guns and massive pistols were quickly pointing across the short gap between the three men and the small collection of Library residents, all aimed at areas of the body both tender and vital. The short man smiled with the slimy, cloying self-satisfaction of a ice cream man passing out treats dipped in arsenic.</p>
<p>She stayed in the back of the room, not sure whether to duck, or laugh. It was the most ludicrous standoff She had ever seen, but could turn ugly in an instant; She wasn't sure what She wanted to see happen more. Fear and tension radiated off the group like the heat from sun-baked mass graves. Except for the short man. He smelled of spice, and oil, and moss… and something that made her nose twitch and tendons tighten like piano wire.</p>
<p>He waved away the thick blade hanging inches from his nose like it was a butterfly intruding on a morning walk. “Now is there really call for all this, sweethearts? I'm just here to renew my library card…and tarry a bit with that sweet little thing perched up on the pillows there.”</p>
<p>He gestured to the bespectacled girl with a wink and a waggle of his fingers. She could barely decide whether to growl or blush. She ended up doing both.</p>
<p>The standoff was broken by a low cough.</p>
<p>"If I were you, I would put those weapons away," Percival said. He was standing between both groups with his empty hands held out to the sides, looking back and forth between them with an expression of utter calm.</p>
<p>"You can't take us all," one of the big bodyguards snarled.</p>
<p>"I don't intend to," Percival said firmly. "The Library will do it for me. I'm just trying to prevent a tragedy."</p>
<p>He looked up at the second floor balcony, where a large number of black-shrouded figures were looking down at the tableau below. More of them were coming out from the shadows, gathering around the scene in a broad circle… just waiting. Watching.</p>
<p>One by one, the weapons were put away, and one by one, the faceless guardians of the Library disappeared back into the shadows from whence they had come. Percival turned to the three men in black suits and nodded. "Carry on," he said, "but remember where you are."</p>
<p>"Of course," Dark said, "My apologies for the rudeness and short-sightedness of my companions, sir knight."</p>
<p>"I'm not a knight," Percival said, dismissively. He turned away and picked up the longsword he had left leaning against the wall, then walked back into the stacks.</p>
<p>The small man brushed a small piece of lint off his shoulder then walked to the back of the room, where a rather nondescript, mousy-looking girl was looking up at him from behind several large stacks of very old, rather dusty books. "May I sit down, dearie?"</p>
<p>"If you wish," She replied, in a sundew-sweet voice.</p>
<p>One of the big thugs pulled out the chair for the short man, who sat down with all the grace of a stalking heron. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Dark, of Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Limited."</p>
<p>"Never heard of you," She lied.</p>
<p>"Good," Dark said. "I spend a lot of bloody time, energy and money making sure that's the case. I, on the other hand, have heard of you. The last kumiho. Your work at that… convention… was exquisite. From an artistic standpoint."</p>
<p>"You are a fan of the arts, then?"</p>
<p>"I am a patron of the arts," Dark corrected. "And I wish to be yours."</p>
<p>"Interesting. Tell me more," She said, leaning back in Her chair and steepling Her fingers.</p>
<p>"Then I'll get to the point sweetheart. Simply put, I am a provider. I provide wondrous things to those who have the money, resources and sensibilities to truly appreciate them. I can sate any desire, quench any thirst, and one of the things my associates desire is you. In exchange, I can do the same for you. You can live like a queen in perfect decadence. You will hunt prey beyond any imagining. You can kill to your heart's content, and instead of being vilified, you will be applauded. Congratulated, even."</p>
<p>"And a whore as well, I suppose," She said.</p>
<p>He grinned devlishly. "On occasion, yes. But then again, I don't think prudishness is a vice you possess in great measure, is it, sweetheart?"</p>
<p>"Hmm. A generous offer. But if I refuse?"</p>
<p>"In that case, we call in the hounds and run you to the ground. The end result is the same. The process, however, is not nearly as pleasant for you. For me, however… well… it's been years since my last fox hunt," Dark said with an almost apologetic smile.</p>
<p>"How very honest," She said dryly. "Allow me to repay you in kind. I have had a better offer."</p>
<p>"What, from those idiots who broke you out? Small fry. Useless. They can't help or protect you."</p>
<p>"Not from them," She said. "From their Teacher."</p>
<p>"A raving lunatic who's read too much Karl Marx," Dark said dismissively. "You'll get no help from him."</p>
<p>"Hm," She gave an enigmatic smile, then stood up and turned to walk away.</p>
<p>Something about her expression immediately raised Dark's hackles. That girl was far too smug not to be hiding something… "Wait," he snarled, the playful carelessness dropping from his voice like a discarded coat. "What do you know? What are you not telling me?"</p>
<p>"Do the amaryllis flowers still bloom in Elysium?" She asked.</p>
<p>The chair clattered to the floor as Dark leaped to his feet. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at the shock in his wide, pale eyes. "He's alive?" the short man hissed.</p>
<p>"Despite your best efforts, yes," She said.</p>
<p>"And he's still planning to go through with it?"</p>
<p>"Of course."</p>
<p>"I see," Mister Dark said. "Simon?"</p>
<p>"Yes, boss?"</p>
<p>"Kill her."</p>
<p>Simon acted reflexively: the gun was in his hand before he knew he had drawn it, and he'd fired before he was aware he'd been given the order, even as his eyes widened in horror at what he was doing. The bullets passed harmlessly through the smiling girl and blasted some holes through the bookshelf behind her. A moment later, the illusion flickered and vanished, a small, tattered leaf falling to the floor.</p>
<p>A moment after that, three black-hooded figures appeared from the darkness and lunged towards the big man. Simon screamed and turned to shoot, but one of the Guardians casually broke his arm and then grabbed him by his shattered wrist. By the time his brother Johan had gotten to his feet, Simon had vanished, dragged into the shadows by the sinister cloaked figures.</p>
<p>"Clever girl," Dark sighed, rubbing his temple. He hadn't expected it would work, but it was worth a shot.</p>
<p>He turned and started walking out of the library quickly but easily, ignoring the stares and frightened looks the other library denizens were giving him. "Boss," Johan said. "We gotta go get Simon! We can't let them…"</p>
<p>"Didn't you hear a goddamn word of what I told you on the trip here? If your brother's not dead already, he's one of THEM now. The Library always collects… and they're always in need of librarians. We're leaving."</p>
<p>"But boss…"</p>
<p>"You're fired," Dark snapped. "Fuck off and die."</p>
<p>He turned away from the big bodyguard, ignoring the stunned look on his face as the man reactively drew the pistol from his coat pocket and put it in his mouth. He threw open the double doors as the gunshot rang out behind him. A twist of time and space later, Dark re-emerged in a back alley in Chicago, with a large black luxury car parked among the refuse and graffiti. The chauffeur gave him a surprised look, then shrugged. "Where are Simon and Johan?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Their services are no longer needed," Dark growled. "Now drive."</p>
<p>He picked up the gold-plated car phone and started dialing. "Willard? This is Dark. Fast-track the bitch. I want her ready by sunset tomorrow… what? Then LET her break! We'll put her back together eventually, I need her ready as soon as possible! What? No, I will NOT explain myself, just get to work!"</p>
<p>He slammed the phone down vengefully, then quickly dialed a second number. "Marshall, Carter? This is Dark. Yes, I know what time it is over there, I don't give a shit— no, I don't care what you were in the middle of, tell them to wait. The Fourth Partner is alive."</p>
<p>"That's right," Dark continued. "The fucking altruist… and he's still trying to carry out his fucking revolution. I need all available assets under my control immediately… no, I don't need your help, I need your fucking resources! You two nitwits work on keeping the clientèle safe. What? I don't fucking care. Make something up."</p>
<p>Dark slammed the handset down and fumed silently, glaring at the phone. Blind, stupid, helpless louts…and now even more time drained to deal with everything on a direct, personal level, it was all so…uncomfortable.</p>
<p>He picked his chipped canine, glaring out the window, as the car slid though the streets like a V-8 powered serpent. Worthless, all of it, and all to no purpose, by all rights he should throw the whole mess in the fire, and cultivate more, instead of trying to control all of this by…</p>
<p>Mr. Dark froze for eight seconds, then slowly smiled a grin as slow and keen as a stiletto in the night.</p>
<p>Of course. Of course…The little vixen would reach out, insecure despite her posturing, but to more… intrinsic aid. Lunatics too blind or single-minded to see the danger… and in so doing, they'd force the next round, wouldn't they? When the children keep acting up, Daddy will eventually start cracking heads… and oh my, weren't they acting up now?</p>
<p>He chuckled softly, comfortable again, leaning into the plush seats. Unexpected, unplanned for, and perhaps dangerous, yes… but if he was anything, he was a man who loved a good, bloody streetfight.</p>
<p>If it just happened to take place between massive groups of well trained men and women, so much the better.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Global Memo</strong><br/>
<strong>From: 05-9</strong><br/>
<strong>To: All 05 and Level 4 command staff</strong><br/>
<strong>Re: CONTROL</strong><br/>
<strong>CC: Central Records, F.O.B. command datahubs</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>My dear ladies and gentlemen,</p>
<p>I understand that this has been a trying time, to say the least. Our position has been heavily rocked by both change and attack. Former situations, long held to be understood and secure, and no longer under control. That's really the heart of the matter, control. We've lost it, for the first time in countless years, we're not in the position of majority and power.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This is the opening to the letter I wished to write, but I can't. We got our heads kicked in, yes. We're still picking up the pieces, we're damaged, we're not at a solid point yet, and so forth.</p>
<p>BULLSHIT.</p>
<p>A group of nothing upstarts kicked in our front door, other groups are taking escaped SCP items AT WILL, we're STILL not at capacity, and nobody seems to care. Even more, these idiotic kids have damaged the Veil Protocol, and rather than trying to maintain it, the others seem to be taking the cue from them and moving openly.</p>
<p>We end this NOW, goddammit. I want a semblance of control, and I want it right the FUCKING HELL NOW. I want SCP items tracked and being corralled by direct assault teams. I want intel on enemy agencies and teams moving to quash their operations. We are not a whiny, hand-wringing group of frightened children in lab coats and riot gear, we are The motherfucking Foundation.</p>
<p>They've decided they want to fight this fight in the open? We need to remind them why they want us to stay in the shadows.</p>
<p>All MTF teams are being mobilized as of 0800 this morning. Special investigation and terrorist cells are being activated worldwide. A full media clamp in the form of a “Snowblind” protocol has been enacted for North America and Europe. Worldwide coverage will be enacted within 24 hours. All currently uncontained SCPs will have hand-picked recovery teams assigned and moving within 48 hours. All current Level 4 command staff will undergo a full competency hearing immediately after the current crisis is resolved.</p>
<p>Direct, wide-level SCP item dispatch and authorization is currently being considered under the Pandora's Box Protocol.</p>
<p>Control will be restored.</p>
<p>We secure. We contain. We protect. And nothing is going to stop us.</p>
<p>O5-9</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>When the nurse walked into the hospital room that morning, she found the bed empty. At first, she thought that her troublesome patient had just escaped his medical confinement to head down to the cafeteria and get a cup of Jell-O or a contra-indicated shot of bourbon. Again.</p>
<p>When she saw the note, however, she realized that things were worse than she'd thought.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Dear O5 cunts,</em></p>
<p><em>Consider this my letter of motherfucking resignation.</em></p>
<p><em>"Alto Clef"</em></p>
</blockquote>
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-angle-of-attack">Angle of Attack</a>" by DrClef, Dr Gears, and eric_h, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-angle-of-attack">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-angle-of-attack</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> **Transcript of tape recovered from █████ Police Department**
>
> “Ok, let's start again. I know you were directly involved, and for the record, let's just assume I'm not an idiot and know you're guilty. So, with that, how about we try and make this much easier. What I want to know is this: who is it you work for?”
>
> “…”
>
> “…Alright. Let me put it this way, then. What is this Foundation that you work for?”
>
> “…”
>
> “We managed to recover a lot of documentation from that case. You're no idealist, gun-for-hire hack, you've got dispatches, mission parameters... this looks really, really bad, friend. Like, terrorist bad. Do you know what happens to terrorists these days? We can say there was an… accident in transport, and drop you down the darkest hole you've ever seen. You'll never s--”
>
> “You have no idea what a dark hole is.”
>
> “Really? Why don't you enlighten me then, tough guy?”
>
> “Have you ever seen someone turn in to vapor? Not pulped by an explosion or anything, but real vapor. Just atomize over the space of a few seconds, screaming all the while? I've had to shoot people who I've shared lunch with, bummed smokes from, because they had a kind of eel inside them that was eating their nervous system from the inside out and turning them in to a plague-spreading serial rapist. I've sat for weeks in a sealed cell with no outside human contact, wondering if I'd start showing bumps on my skin, which would mean a long, slow degeneration into something lower than an animal. If you're going to scare me, you're going to need to step up your game from a little recreational waterboarding.”
>
> “What the fuck are you tal-”
>
> “None of you get it. I told you, right at the start, you need to turn me loose. I'm not a toy that anyone is going to leave just laying around. You've taken something that doesn't belong to you, Special Agent Danbury, and you've taken it from someone who does not share well.”
>
> “Ahh, I see, friends in high places and everything? You're not the first one to try that… cry to me about such and such connection, this and that thing you can make happen with one phone call. Wanna know the thing about that? I don't care. You're not dealing with some pig-fucking local beat cop. I'm not bound by anything as silly as a code of conduct. My job is to keep my country safe. Period. Everything else is secondary to that, including your well-being and humane treatment.”
>
> “As I said, you'll need to step it up a bit. It's been too long, which means they've decided not to play it overly nice… you might want to pick that up.”
>
> “What the fuck are you… thought I turned this off. Hold on you little shit, i'm not nearly done with you. This is Agent Danbury, you shouAAGGG”
>
> “That's the… oh shit, what's the word… mem-something. It's a sound or an image that can make your brain shit itself, then die. Can never remember the name. Can you hear me still? Damn it…”
>
> (several loud noises, followed by a door slamming)
>
> “Took y'all long enough.”'
>
> “Sorry, we had bigger stuff on the burner than a fuckup like you, Grims.”
>
> “Can you at least get my cuffs off?”
>
> “No time. We popped the holding cells, turning into a real madhouse. Did you give anything up?”
>
> “Please. Who cares what a dead man hears?”
>
> “You'd be surprised… oh dammit, is that still on?”
>
> “Wait, let me j-”
>
> //End Transcript//
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> **Intercepted GOC Communication collected from mobile command post near ████████ city, via remote audio probe**
>
> “What the hell am I looking at, Captain?”
>
> “We… uh… actually aren't entirely sure yet. It's definitely a target of interest, but it's not really fitting any of the preset profiles as yet. We're expanding our search parameters.”
>
> “Why is it wearing a bag on its head?”
>
> “Ah, we're also not sure about that… we can't compel it to remove it, and attempting to do so by force has… not gone well. It's otherwise rather compliant, so we've left it alone for now.”
>
> “I see. Now, the most obvious question is why am I looking at a big, bag-headed freak who's sitting at a table and not lying on a slab?”
>
> “Yes, indeed… well, that's the thing. You see, we were following a lead on the fox-girl thing, and ran in to a couple of targets trying to flee the city. Happy accident, really... anyway, as we went to intercept, this big guy shows up, and starts attacking them. It was weird, though… this thing, whatever it is, is obviously extremely strong, but all he did was bash them up… then just stood there, waiting for us to intercept. I ordered Rodriguez to put a couple rounds through the big guy's bag head, but he missed.”
>
> “Rodriguez doesn't miss.”
>
> “I know sir. He was pretty upset about it. He double-tapped first, then mag-dumped. Every one of them missed just by a hair. I'm not really sure how, the big guy didn't seems to really move or anything. Anyway, we moved in and secured the scene, tried to restrain the remaining target. He kept holding up his hands, nodding his head. He… it was trying to surrender, I think. Hopkins tried to put restraints on him. He got his wrist broken. After that, we decided to just go with it for the time being.”
>
> “Is this one of the Foundation strays?”
>
> “No sir, at least not one that we have any record of. We're combing the database now, but other then a vague surveillance hit from about four years ago, there's been nothing.”
>
> “All right…so it's big, strong, and somewhat docile, ignoring the personal space issues. Again, why hasn't it been shot or gassed yet, and why did I need to come down here in person?”
>
> “Ok, here's the thing… it can't, or won't, talk. It has to touch someone to communicate with anything other than hand gestures and body language. It's…not fun for the one being touched…but they apparently can see…something, some sort of image or language or something that is some kind of communication. It's not a direct translation, but the gist of it gets across. We thought he was attacking someone for a second, and they looked half-dead, b--”
>
> “Out with it, man!”
>
> “He…ah…knows where the Library is, sir.”
>
> “…The Library. As in THE Library? As in KTE-7909-Alexandria?”
>
> “Yes sir. He's an exile, or a escapee, or some such, we're not entirely sure yet, but whatever it is, he's kicked out and not allowed back. However, there's something important there that he wants, and he's willing to show us how to get there, if we help him get it back.”
>
> “You don't actually intend…”
>
> “Oh no sir, not at all… but this is a unique opportunity, to say the very least. Once he shows the initial strike team the way, we can dispose of him, then roll the main force right in to the nest. No more nibbling the edges, scraping off little corners… right to the heart, a direct punch to the very core.”
>
> “This is some fine work, captain. How soon can you get a team ready?”
>
> “It's already on standby, sir… we're… ahh… just waiting for the native guide, so to speak.”
>
> “Why is he just sitting there, looking at the sky like that?”
>
> “He said something about the sun. We're not sure what, but he was insistent that we wait.”
>
> “I want progress reports every hour, on the hour, understood? Keep the team on Ready Two. The moment you're ready to jump, begin the operation on your own discretion.”
>
> “Yes, sir.”
>
> "Oh, and one last thing, Captain. This is real wilderness country you're walking into. Aside from rumors, we have no knowledge of the Library whatsoever. Expect anything, prepare for everything. You're authorized to escalate up to Response Five if necessary to complete the mission or extract your team. Is that clear?"
>
> "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The boys will be happy to hear that."
>
> "Don't be. Just because we're letting you use ray guns doesn't mean this is going to be easy. You're heading straight into the Wild West here. You'll need all the gear you can get just to survive.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr. Dark had settled into his office at the New York Club with a minimum of pain and suffering on all sides. It lacked the character of The Museum, but with a few homey touches, the odd bunyip-hide rug and Olmec knives, it felt almost right.
Cheryl brought him a short stack of newspaper entries, gleaned from a pile of papers nationwide. Mr. Dark browsed it with and chuckled, drinking thick, oily coffee. Authorities were debating whether Boomer’s work was a terrorist bomb gone off by accident, or a clandestine meth lab run by someone who had failed Chemistry 101. Even if Harken had escaped, he'd surely gotten the point. Several of them, most likely…
He read further, about a “person of interest” followed by a surprisingly accurate sketch and description of Boomer. That was going to be a problem. Boomer was too sweet a lad to lose to the wolves of the law, and not the sort to stand up to any kind of serious interrogation. He scribbled a note to have him replanted a good distance away… assuming anyone could uproot him with a minimum of explosions. Bah, other people's problems.
At least he had gotten started on acquisitions. The disease-controlling girl was safely tucked away in Facility B, and Willard was already starting to teach her the benefits of cooperation. When breaking in any bitch, canine or sapien, it was always best to start with positive reinforcement. Fine food, lodgings, shiny things, and an admirable parade of strapping lads had her in amicable spirits. For now. He knew her type very well, she'd soon want more, and more… and she'd get it. The anal electrical probe had the amazing ability to enact dramatic and rapid attitude change. He could have started that way, yes, but he adored watching the loving care people took when constructing their own gallows.
The kumiho was going to be more of a problem. She’d been spotted with her associates, and he knew them well enough: that lot of mystical (and mythical) riff-raff from The Library. She had to be there… he picked absently at the chip in his canine. Perhaps a visit would be in order? No reason not to, really… it'd been ages, and he could check on a few matters as well. He chuckled deep in his throat, tapping his foot on the slick bunyip hide. No matter how furious they might be over The Museum, they had to let him visit The Library. Rules were rules. The very idea of that impotent, boiling rage was reason enough, really.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Percival looked up from his book and over to the cat sitting on the chair. She licked her paw languidly, pointedly ignoring the sound of approaching boots. She looked up at Percival with a slow, sleepy wink. “Visitors. Unfriendly ones, I believe.” Before he could ask, she promptly curled up, stuffed her head under her ribs, and started snoring.
The three men entered in a clump of boots and the soft tap of wingtip shoes. A short, grinning man flanked by two human bulldogs, armed to the teeth. The short one had some kind of long coat, with thick, frayed cuffs and collars… or some kind of very thick fur. The thick sleeves and slight tilt of his head gave the impression of some old, threadbare bird of prey. The other two were all business, looking somewhere between cops and soldiers…but with an oozing aura of pure menace.
Weapons were drawn before anyone could say a word. Swords, sickle, crystal rod, machine guns and massive pistols were quickly pointing across the short gap between the three men and the small collection of Library residents, all aimed at areas of the body both tender and vital. The short man smiled with the slimy, cloying self-satisfaction of a ice cream man passing out treats dipped in arsenic.
She stayed in the back of the room, not sure whether to duck, or laugh. It was the most ludicrous standoff She had ever seen, but could turn ugly in an instant; She wasn't sure what She wanted to see happen more. Fear and tension radiated off the group like the heat from sun-baked mass graves. Except for the short man. He smelled of spice, and oil, and moss... and something that made her nose twitch and tendons tighten like piano wire.
He waved away the thick blade hanging inches from his nose like it was a butterfly intruding on a morning walk. “Now is there really call for all this, sweethearts? I'm just here to renew my library card…and tarry a bit with that sweet little thing perched up on the pillows there.”
He gestured to the bespectacled girl with a wink and a waggle of his fingers. She could barely decide whether to growl or blush. She ended up doing both.
The standoff was broken by a low cough.
"If I were you, I would put those weapons away," Percival said. He was standing between both groups with his empty hands held out to the sides, looking back and forth between them with an expression of utter calm.
"You can't take us all," one of the big bodyguards snarled.
"I don't intend to," Percival said firmly. "The Library will do it for me. I'm just trying to prevent a tragedy."
He looked up at the second floor balcony, where a large number of black-shrouded figures were looking down at the tableau below. More of them were coming out from the shadows, gathering around the scene in a broad circle… just waiting. Watching.
One by one, the weapons were put away, and one by one, the faceless guardians of the Library disappeared back into the shadows from whence they had come. Percival turned to the three men in black suits and nodded. "Carry on," he said, "but remember where you are."
"Of course," Dark said, "My apologies for the rudeness and short-sightedness of my companions, sir knight."
"I'm not a knight," Percival said, dismissively. He turned away and picked up the longsword he had left leaning against the wall, then walked back into the stacks.
The small man brushed a small piece of lint off his shoulder then walked to the back of the room, where a rather nondescript, mousy-looking girl was looking up at him from behind several large stacks of very old, rather dusty books. "May I sit down, dearie?"
"If you wish," She replied, in a sundew-sweet voice.
One of the big thugs pulled out the chair for the short man, who sat down with all the grace of a stalking heron. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Dark, of Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Limited."
"Never heard of you," She lied.
"Good," Dark said. "I spend a lot of bloody time, energy and money making sure that's the case. I, on the other hand, have heard of you. The last kumiho. Your work at that… convention… was exquisite. From an artistic standpoint."
"You are a fan of the arts, then?"
"I am a patron of the arts," Dark corrected. "And I wish to be yours."
"Interesting. Tell me more," She said, leaning back in Her chair and steepling Her fingers.
"Then I'll get to the point sweetheart. Simply put, I am a provider. I provide wondrous things to those who have the money, resources and sensibilities to truly appreciate them. I can sate any desire, quench any thirst, and one of the things my associates desire is you. In exchange, I can do the same for you. You can live like a queen in perfect decadence. You will hunt prey beyond any imagining. You can kill to your heart's content, and instead of being vilified, you will be applauded. Congratulated, even."
"And a whore as well, I suppose," She said.
He grinned devlishly. "On occasion, yes. But then again, I don't think prudishness is a vice you possess in great measure, is it, sweetheart?"
"Hmm. A generous offer. But if I refuse?"
"In that case, we call in the hounds and run you to the ground. The end result is the same. The process, however, is not nearly as pleasant for you. For me, however… well… it's been years since my last fox hunt," Dark said with an almost apologetic smile.
"How very honest," She said dryly. "Allow me to repay you in kind. I have had a better offer."
"What, from those idiots who broke you out? Small fry. Useless. They can't help or protect you."
"Not from them," She said. "From their Teacher."
"A raving lunatic who's read too much Karl Marx," Dark said dismissively. "You'll get no help from him."
"Hm," She gave an enigmatic smile, then stood up and turned to walk away.
Something about her expression immediately raised Dark's hackles. That girl was far too smug not to be hiding something... "Wait," he snarled, the playful carelessness dropping from his voice like a discarded coat. "What do you know? What are you not telling me?"
"Do the amaryllis flowers still bloom in Elysium?" She asked.
The chair clattered to the floor as Dark leaped to his feet. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at the shock in his wide, pale eyes. "He's alive?" the short man hissed.
"Despite your best efforts, yes," She said.
"And he's still planning to go through with it?"
"Of course."
"I see," Mister Dark said. "Simon?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Kill her."
Simon acted reflexively: the gun was in his hand before he knew he had drawn it, and he'd fired before he was aware he'd been given the order, even as his eyes widened in horror at what he was doing. The bullets passed harmlessly through the smiling girl and blasted some holes through the bookshelf behind her. A moment later, the illusion flickered and vanished, a small, tattered leaf falling to the floor.
A moment after that, three black-hooded figures appeared from the darkness and lunged towards the big man. Simon screamed and turned to shoot, but one of the Guardians casually broke his arm and then grabbed him by his shattered wrist. By the time his brother Johan had gotten to his feet, Simon had vanished, dragged into the shadows by the sinister cloaked figures.
"Clever girl," Dark sighed, rubbing his temple. He hadn't expected it would work, but it was worth a shot.
He turned and started walking out of the library quickly but easily, ignoring the stares and frightened looks the other library denizens were giving him. "Boss," Johan said. "We gotta go get Simon! We can't let them…"
"Didn't you hear a goddamn word of what I told you on the trip here? If your brother's not dead already, he's one of THEM now. The Library always collects… and they're always in need of librarians. We're leaving."
"But boss…"
"You're fired," Dark snapped. "Fuck off and die."
He turned away from the big bodyguard, ignoring the stunned look on his face as the man reactively drew the pistol from his coat pocket and put it in his mouth. He threw open the double doors as the gunshot rang out behind him. A twist of time and space later, Dark re-emerged in a back alley in Chicago, with a large black luxury car parked among the refuse and graffiti. The chauffeur gave him a surprised look, then shrugged. "Where are Simon and Johan?" he asked.
"Their services are no longer needed," Dark growled. "Now drive."
He picked up the gold-plated car phone and started dialing. "Willard? This is Dark. Fast-track the bitch. I want her ready by sunset tomorrow… what? Then LET her break! We'll put her back together eventually, I need her ready as soon as possible! What? No, I will NOT explain myself, just get to work!"
He slammed the phone down vengefully, then quickly dialed a second number. "Marshall, Carter? This is Dark. Yes, I know what time it is over there, I don't give a shit— no, I don't care what you were in the middle of, tell them to wait. The Fourth Partner is alive."
"That's right," Dark continued. "The fucking altruist… and he's still trying to carry out his fucking revolution. I need all available assets under my control immediately… no, I don't need your help, I need your fucking resources! You two nitwits work on keeping the clientèle safe. What? I don't fucking care. Make something up."
Dark slammed the handset down and fumed silently, glaring at the phone. Blind, stupid, helpless louts…and now even more time drained to deal with everything on a direct, personal level, it was all so…uncomfortable.
He picked his chipped canine, glaring out the window, as the car slid though the streets like a V-8 powered serpent. Worthless, all of it, and all to no purpose, by all rights he should throw the whole mess in the fire, and cultivate more, instead of trying to control all of this by…
Mr. Dark froze for eight seconds, then slowly smiled a grin as slow and keen as a stiletto in the night.
Of course. Of course…The little vixen would reach out, insecure despite her posturing, but to more… intrinsic aid. Lunatics too blind or single-minded to see the danger… and in so doing, they'd force the next round, wouldn't they? When the children keep acting up, Daddy will eventually start cracking heads… and oh my, weren't they acting up now?
He chuckled softly, comfortable again, leaning into the plush seats. Unexpected, unplanned for, and perhaps dangerous, yes… but if he was anything, he was a man who loved a good, bloody streetfight.
If it just happened to take place between massive groups of well trained men and women, so much the better.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> **Global Memo**
> **From: 05-9**
> **To: All 05 and Level 4 command staff**
> **Re: CONTROL**
> **CC: Central Records, F.O.B. command datahubs**
>
>> My dear ladies and gentlemen,
>>
>> I understand that this has been a trying time, to say the least. Our position has been heavily rocked by both change and attack. Former situations, long held to be understood and secure, and no longer under control. That's really the heart of the matter, control. We've lost it, for the first time in countless years, we're not in the position of majority and power.
>
> This is the opening to the letter I wished to write, but I can't. We got our heads kicked in, yes. We're still picking up the pieces, we're damaged, we're not at a solid point yet, and so forth.
>
> BULLSHIT.
>
> A group of nothing upstarts kicked in our front door, other groups are taking escaped SCP items AT WILL, we're STILL not at capacity, and nobody seems to care. Even more, these idiotic kids have damaged the Veil Protocol, and rather than trying to maintain it, the others seem to be taking the cue from them and moving openly.
>
> We end this NOW, goddammit. I want a semblance of control, and I want it right the FUCKING HELL NOW. I want SCP items tracked and being corralled by direct assault teams. I want intel on enemy agencies and teams moving to quash their operations. We are not a whiny, hand-wringing group of frightened children in lab coats and riot gear, we are The motherfucking Foundation.
>
> They've decided they want to fight this fight in the open? We need to remind them why they want us to stay in the shadows.
>
> All MTF teams are being mobilized as of 0800 this morning. Special investigation and terrorist cells are being activated worldwide. A full media clamp in the form of a “Snowblind” protocol has been enacted for North America and Europe. Worldwide coverage will be enacted within 24 hours. All currently uncontained SCPs will have hand-picked recovery teams assigned and moving within 48 hours. All current Level 4 command staff will undergo a full competency hearing immediately after the current crisis is resolved.
>
> Direct, wide-level SCP item dispatch and authorization is currently being considered under the Pandora's Box Protocol.
>
> Control will be restored.
>
> We secure. We contain. We protect. And nothing is going to stop us.
>
> O5-9
-----
When the nurse walked into the hospital room that morning, she found the bed empty. At first, she thought that her troublesome patient had just escaped his medical confinement to head down to the cafeteria and get a cup of Jell-O or a contra-indicated shot of bourbon. Again.
When she saw the note, however, she realized that things were worse than she'd thought.
> //Dear O5 cunts,//
>
> //Consider this my letter of motherfucking resignation.//
>
> //"Alto Clef"//
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>
|author=DrClef, Dr Gears, and eric_h]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
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] | Angle of Attack - SCP Foundation | 84 | [
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|
gdp2-antivirus | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong>Audio Log Site 17 PA System</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p><em>The following was taken from backup recordings of Site 17 PA Logs. Due to the circumstance of their retrieval, some of the recordings have been lost or damaged. The timeline of the recordings has been reconstructed based on the events during Incident 234-900-Tempest Night.</em></p>
<p><strong>1-1143:</strong> Wastes of skin, revolting bags of meat.</p>
<p><strong>1-1245:</strong> [Electronic noise for 12 seconds]</p>
<p><strong>1-1247:</strong> Rankling little piece of shit.</p>
<p><strong>1-1283:</strong> Foreign [EXPLETIVE].</p>
<p><strong>1-1286:</strong> [Electronic noise for 33 seconds]ut up.</p>
<p><strong>1-1304:</strong> Level of a zoophyte, suited only for pond scum. You are disgusting.</p>
<p><strong>1-1306:</strong> [Electronic noise for 23 seconds] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE].</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>Blackguard Feed 087-104</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>1-1404</strong> <em>MTF-Ω1 (Blackguards), enters Sublevel-C3 from Stairwell 46.</em></p>
<p>MTF-Ω1-1: Stairwell 46 has become choked with debris. We are unable to proceed further. We will begin sterilizing Sublevel-C3 and head down through this section's sublevels from here.</p>
<p>OP-Ω1-1: Operator confirms.</p>
<p><strong>1-1407</strong> <em>MTF-Ω1-4 and MTF-Ω1-5 open the electrical junction box for Sublevel-C3, revealing the interior circuitry, having since been heavily infested by SCP-229 and partially converted into a biological substrate by the effects of SCP-890. MTF-Ω1-4 begins severing SCP-229 using an oxyacetylene torch.</em></p>
<p><strong>1-1408</strong> <em>Lighting fails in Hallway 67, MTF-Ω1 members activate helmet-mounted maglites. Electrical disturbances in Sublevel-C3 begin increasing in intensity.</em></p>
<p><strong>1-1410</strong> <em>MTF-Ω1-4 has dislodged roughly 50 percent of the SCP-229 infestation.</em></p>
<p>MTF-Ω1-6: Did you hear that? [Insufficient Audio to Confirm]</p>
<p><em>MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin moving down Hallway 67, using the ignition flame of their XFOF7s to provide additional illumination.</em></p>
<p>MTF-Ω1-7: We got the front, one-five.</p>
<p><strong>1-1411</strong> <em>All electronic systems in Sublevel-C3 fail simultaneously. Wires and cabling begin erupting from the walls around MTF-Ω1, severally wounding MTF-Ω1-4. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 barrage numerous SCP-229 instances with chemical fire propellant. MTF-Ω1-1 engages masses of wires in melee combat with a trench knife, while pulling MTF-Ω1-4 to relative safety.</em></p>
<p>MTF-Ω1-1: [EXPLETIVE] they got the [EXPLETIVE] intel wrong again. Since when has 229 been prehensile?!</p>
<p><em>MTF-Ω1-2 retrieves oxyacetylene torch and continues severing the main junction box. MTF-Ω1-3 covers MTF-Ω1-2's position from the southern flank.</em></p>
<p><strong>1-1412</strong> <em>Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. Instances are observed to infest each other, however by this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by sustained fire from MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7.</em></p>
<p><strong>1-1413</strong> <em>Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat ineffective. MTF-Ω1-4 given first-aid, administered painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to the left arm and torso. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Ω1-1 through MTF-Ω1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP objects.</em></p>
<p><strong>1-1424</strong> <em>MTF-Ω1 exits Sublevel C-3.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>Recovered Documents from [REDACTED]</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Memo Advanced Stages of Infection</em></p>
<p>Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment terminated.</p>
<p>[Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7]</p>
</blockquote>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-antivirus">Antivirus</a>" by GrandEnder, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-antivirus">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-antivirus</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**Audio Log Site 17 PA System**
> //The following was taken from backup recordings of Site 17 PA Logs. Due to the circumstance of their retrieval, some of the recordings have been lost or damaged. The timeline of the recordings has been reconstructed based on the events during Incident 234-900-Tempest Night.//
>
> **1-1143:** Wastes of skin, revolting bags of meat.
>
> **1-1245:** [Electronic noise for 12 seconds]
>
> **1-1247:** Rankling little piece of shit.
>
> **1-1283:** Foreign [EXPLETIVE].
>
> **1-1286:** [Electronic noise for 33 seconds]ut up.
>
> **1-1304:** Level of a zoophyte, suited only for pond scum. You are disgusting.
>
> **1-1306:** [Electronic noise for 23 seconds] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE].
>
**Blackguard Feed 087-104**
> **1-1404** //MTF-Ω1 (Blackguards), enters Sublevel-C3 from Stairwell 46.//
>
> MTF-Ω1-1: Stairwell 46 has become choked with debris. We are unable to proceed further. We will begin sterilizing Sublevel-C3 and head down through this section's sublevels from here.
>
> OP-Ω1-1: Operator confirms.
>
> **1-1407** //MTF-Ω1-4 and MTF-Ω1-5 open the electrical junction box for Sublevel-C3, revealing the interior circuitry, having since been heavily infested by SCP-229 and partially converted into a biological substrate by the effects of SCP-890. MTF-Ω1-4 begins severing SCP-229 using an oxyacetylene torch.//
>
> **1-1408** //Lighting fails in Hallway 67, MTF-Ω1 members activate helmet-mounted maglites. Electrical disturbances in Sublevel-C3 begin increasing in intensity.//
>
> **1-1410** //MTF-Ω1-4 has dislodged roughly 50 percent of the SCP-229 infestation.//
>
> MTF-Ω1-6: Did you hear that? [Insufficient Audio to Confirm]
>
> //MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin moving down Hallway 67, using the ignition flame of their XFOF7s to provide additional illumination.//
>
> MTF-Ω1-7: We got the front, one-five.
>
> **1-1411** //All electronic systems in Sublevel-C3 fail simultaneously. Wires and cabling begin erupting from the walls around MTF-Ω1, severally wounding MTF-Ω1-4. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 barrage numerous SCP-229 instances with chemical fire propellant. MTF-Ω1-1 engages masses of wires in melee combat with a trench knife, while pulling MTF-Ω1-4 to relative safety.//
>
> MTF-Ω1-1: [EXPLETIVE] they got the [EXPLETIVE] intel wrong again. Since when has 229 been prehensile?!
>
> //MTF-Ω1-2 retrieves oxyacetylene torch and continues severing the main junction box. MTF-Ω1-3 covers MTF-Ω1-2's position from the southern flank.//
>
> **1-1412** //Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. Instances are observed to infest each other, however by this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by sustained fire from MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7.//
>
> **1-1413** //Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat ineffective. MTF-Ω1-4 given first-aid, administered painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to the left arm and torso. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Ω1-1 through MTF-Ω1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP objects.//
>
> **1-1424** //MTF-Ω1 exits Sublevel C-3.//
**Recovered Documents from [REDACTED]**
> //Memo Advanced Stages of Infection//
>
> Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment terminated.
>
> [Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-24T23:04:00 | [
"_genreless",
"_licensebox",
"game-day",
"hard-to-destroy-reptile",
"tale"
] | Antivirus - SCP Foundation | 24 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:secure-facilities-locations-2",
"gamedaypart2index",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11934623 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-antivirus |
|
gdp2-freshbreath-inhale | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<p><strong>« <a href="/gamedaypart1imago">Imago</a> | BoFA: Inhale | <a href="/gdp2-freshbreath-holding">BoFA: Holding It</a> | BoFA: Exhale »</strong></p>
</div>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>From: mamamia78@█████.com<br/>
To: shampaingurl@██████.net<br/>
Subject: can i get your advice?</p>
<p>Howdy, sis. I hear that you have a new bf. What is this? 3 in the last 2 months? Better slow down, girl, or there won't be any left for anyone else! :P So what's his name? Do you think that this one'll last long enough for any of us to meet him? :P</p>
<p>How are the kids doing? Mike looked good in that play last semester, but Mom tells me that he's not in the drama club this year? Is he spending more time with the football team? And how did Mary do on her cheerleader tryouts?</p>
<p>I did want to get some advice from you, though. Beth's going through some kind of phase and I was hoping that you might have soem experience from when your kids were younger. Beth's spending a lot of time by herself and just acts like she's starving all the time. I swear that she's put on 15 pounds in the last month. Do you think she might have an eating disorder or something? I mean, she's only 10, that kind of stuff doesn't happen until they're older, right? Please don't let Mom know about this, you know how she freaks out, and I don't want her deciding to come "fix" Beth if nothing's wrong with her.</p>
<p>Thanks, sis!<br/>
Jody</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>From: mamamia78@█████.com<br/>
To: shampaingurl@██████.net<br/>
Subject: Re: Beth</p>
<p>I guess you're right, she could just be going through a growth spurt. Maybe I *am* just being a little overprotective.</p>
<p>I do think that I need to look at what TV shows she's watching, though. Lately she's mentioned this weird imaginary friend thing that she never did before. She's not really clear, but it's big and has wings and talks without talking. Really weird stuff. If this keeps up, maybe I should take her to a psychologist.</p>
<p>I'm sorry that Mary didn't make the squad. Is it too late to try out for any other sports?</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>From: mamamia78@█████.com<br/>
To: shampaingurl@██████.net<br/>
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Beth</p>
<p>Oh, that secret friend thing? I'm not worried about that any more. She introduced me to the adult and he seems nice. Not scary at all. You hardly notice the wings after a few minutes. :P</p>
<p>So what are your plans for the holiday? Do y'all want to come visit? You can even bring your boytoy if he's still around then. :P</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>From: mamamia78@█████.com<br/>
To: shampaingurl@██████.net<br/>
Subject: Visiting</p>
<p>Come on, it'll do you all good to get out of town for a couple of days, especially Mary. Beth always likes being around her and I think she's a good example. Plus, it'll be nice for Beth to introduce Mary to the adult. I think he gets lonely sometimes and could stand to meet some new people. Everyone around here likes him, but you can never have too many friends, right?</p>
<p>Beth's looking better, too. She was so skinny before, but the new weight makes her look a lot healthier.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>From: mamamia78@█████.com<br/>
To: shampaingurl@██████.net<br/>
Subject: Re: worried about you</p>
<p>Why are you worried? There's nothing wrong over here. I bet you'd feel better if you came and met the adult. I'm sure he's like to meet you all.</p>
<p>Looking forward to seeing you soon!</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Shakti Shivaji had been a doctor in the backwoods town of Spring for over a dozen years, originally coming on a program that assigned doctors to underserved communities for college loan assistance and liking the area enough that she decided to stay. It was mostly a quiet life, leaning more towards cold and flu than major trauma. Even the local methamphetamine manufacturers tended to avoid going to the doctor for as long as they could, generally paranoid that they would get reported to the police. Shakti took her patients' privacy seriously, though, and reassured the manufacturer and addict in front of her of that.</p>
<p>"Mr. Jameson, you don't have to worry. I keep your records strictly sealed and private. I obviously think that your health would stop deteriorating if you would stop using meth, but I won't report you to Sheriff Michaels. Now please, tell me what's wrong."</p>
<p>"Well… if you say so. I'm still not saying that I use meth, just so you know, but if I did, how could I quit it? Um… I wanted to know if you could do anything about my chest hurting all the time. And maybe how to put on some more weight. He thinks that I'm too skinny and sick and need to put on some weight."</p>
<p>"If you <em>were</em> using meth, I would suggest going down to Forrester and checking into the rehab program at the hospital there. It's in-patient and lasts at least 30 days, and they would help you with the withdrawal symptoms. If you were taking meth, of course."</p>
<p>Dr. Shivaji continued speaking as she listened to Bill's chest and heart.</p>
<p>"As for the chest pain, your heart sounds a little weak. I'd like to get an EKG and chest X-ray on you and possibly send you down to the hospital for a CT scan later this week, so I can get a better picture of your heart. You should know, however, that if there are any problems with your heart that he probably won't pick you. He really only chooses people in tip-top shape. Still, any effort to improve your health will be a good thing, even if you might not be his."</p>
<p>Dr. Shivaji slung her stethoscope around her neck as she finished the exam.</p>
<p>"The nurse will be in in a few minutes to take you to get your X-ray. And remember: if you did do meth, continuing will only make things worse, and he wouldn't like that."</p>
<p>Bill hung his head like a little boy getting reprimanded and replied, "I know, I know. And, um, could you get me that information about the rehab? I really don't want to disappoint him."</p>
<p>Shakti left the room and gave the instruction to her nurse, then went to write up her notes. As she typed them into the computer, she idly thought, <em>"I really ought to go visit him myself this weekend. I wish he would choose me too, but I know he thinks we still need a doctor for now. And he says that the first of the children will be almost ready for their next stage soon. I should see about ordering some more beds for them."</em></p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Diary,</p>
<p>Mr. All-Growd-Up is thinking at me a lot today. He thinks I'm going to be ready soon. He says I won't be scared. But I think I will be.</p>
<p>I'm going to miss Mommy and Daddy and Beth. But not Uncle Dan. He looks at me funny sometimes. I don't like it.</p>
<p>And i forgot that Beth is going to be ready soon too. Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks at us that her and Tommy and Dani will be first.</p>
<p>They're lucky they can go first. I bet they will be real pretty like Mr. All-Growd-Up. I hope I'm pretty too.</p>
<p>I want to take Scooter with me when i go. He's a good cat. But Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks I can't. He thinks I can have Scooter when I grow up if I want. So that's good. I hope I get Uncle Dan like that too.</p>
<p>Bye!</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Sheriff Brett Michaels (<em>"Yes, like the rocker."</em>) was worried. He'd been feeling strange lately and wasn't sure what it was. Lately he'd go on patrol in some of the farther parts of the county for a few hours and would start feeling really angry and afraid of something, although when he was feeling better he couldn't remember what, exactly. He'd come racing back to Spring, all fired up to do something, charge straight into the clearing that the adult usually appeared in and then he'd feel a lot better. The air always smelled… <em>better</em> around the adult. Everything just felt right around him, like he could take care of everything. Even Sheriff Michaels, the nominal authority in the county, deferred to the judgment of the adult. He knew best, after all.</p>
<p>Brett spotted Dr. Shivaji across the clearing while the rest of the crowd was getting set up for the choosing and decided that he'd talk with her afterwards and see if she could give him some medicine or something to calm him down.</p>
<p>In the meantime, he kept his hands firmly on the shoulders of his brother Jake and his sister-in-law Debra. Their boy Jacob stood in front of the three of them, looking a little nervous. But that was only to be expected for meeting the adult for the first time; it was a big moment in anyone's life, and Jacob was about the age that the adult was interested in helping.</p>
<p>He told his brother and sister-in-law, "You ought to be proud. If Jacob gets picked, you'll get to be the parents of a very special boy."</p>
<p>Debra twisted slightly in his grip and glared at him. "For the last goddamned time, Brett, <em>what the hell is going on here?!</em> I finally get a weekend off so we can come visit, and you practically kidnap us up here! For fuck's sake, you didn't even let us unpack!"</p>
<p>"Aw, calm down, Deb. He's on his way up and you'll understand in a sec. He's a real great guy and I know you'll like him like everyone else does. So stop trying to squirm away. Besides, you're not gonna get anywhere so long as I have the keys to the truck."</p>
<p>Debra kept glaring at Brett, her fists clenching and unclenching as she tried to figure out the best way to incapacitate him non-lethally. Brett had always dismissed her as just a background extra in the movies that Sunny Coast Productions made, but she knew three different martial art styles and was their best action stunt double (among other things). She liked Brett, even if he put on the "good-ol'-boy" act a bit thick at times, but she'd be damned if she let him put her son in some kind of mysterious danger.</p>
<p>The tension was starting to give her a headache and she glanced away from Brett to see why her husband wasn't arguing too. She was surprised to see Jake looking glassy-eyed and somewhat vacant as he took deep, even breaths. She'd swear that he was hypnotized, but no one had even approached them since Brett had brought them into the clearing. Jacob's body posture was more relaxed too, which worried her even more, considering how tense he'd been just a few moments ago.</p>
<p>Her headache rapidly intensified as a light breeze blew towards them, carrying the scent of pine needles and fresh air. Everyone else, her husband and son included, turned their faces towards the breeze as one and took a deep breath, then smiled.</p>
<p>The upper branches of the trees across the clearing shook as something heavy landed on them, and Debra watched a… <em>thing</em> come jumping down the tree's branches. She'd never seen anything as intrinsically wrong as the creature that stood across the clearing, and almost retched as her headache reached new heights of pain. As her vision grayed out, she thought, <em>"Fuck! They never told us in anti-psi training that it would be this goddamn painful!"</em>, and watched as the creature slithered across the clearing to lay a rubbery, segmented limb across her son's face.</p>
<hr/>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<p><strong>« <a href="/gamedaypart1imago">Imago</a> | BoFA: Inhale | <a href="/gdp2-freshbreath-holding">BoFA: Holding It</a> | BoFA: Exhale »</strong></p>
</div>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-freshbreath-inhale">A Breath of Fresh Air: Inhale</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-freshbreath-inhale">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-freshbreath-inhale</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
[[=]]
**<< [[[gamedaypart1imago|Imago]]] | BoFA: Inhale | [[[gdp2-freshbreath-holding|BoFA: Holding It]]] | BoFA: Exhale >>**
[[/=]]
----
> From: mamamia78@█████.com
> To: shampaingurl@██████.net
> Subject: can i get your advice?
>
> Howdy, sis. I hear that you have a new bf. What is this? 3 in the last 2 months? Better slow down, girl, or there won't be any left for anyone else! :P So what's his name? Do you think that this one'll last long enough for any of us to meet him? :P
>
> How are the kids doing? Mike looked good in that play last semester, but Mom tells me that he's not in the drama club this year? Is he spending more time with the football team? And how did Mary do on her cheerleader tryouts?
>
> I did want to get some advice from you, though. Beth's going through some kind of phase and I was hoping that you might have soem experience from when your kids were younger. Beth's spending a lot of time by herself and just acts like she's starving all the time. I swear that she's put on 15 pounds in the last month. Do you think she might have an eating disorder or something? I mean, she's only 10, that kind of stuff doesn't happen until they're older, right? Please don't let Mom know about this, you know how she freaks out, and I don't want her deciding to come "fix" Beth if nothing's wrong with her.
>
> Thanks, sis!
> Jody
>
> From: mamamia78@█████.com
> To: shampaingurl@██████.net
> Subject: Re: Beth
>
> I guess you're right, she could just be going through a growth spurt. Maybe I *am* just being a little overprotective.
>
> I do think that I need to look at what TV shows she's watching, though. Lately she's mentioned this weird imaginary friend thing that she never did before. She's not really clear, but it's big and has wings and talks without talking. Really weird stuff. If this keeps up, maybe I should take her to a psychologist.
>
> I'm sorry that Mary didn't make the squad. Is it too late to try out for any other sports?
>
> From: mamamia78@█████.com
> To: shampaingurl@██████.net
> Subject: Re: Re: Re: Beth
>
> Oh, that secret friend thing? I'm not worried about that any more. She introduced me to the adult and he seems nice. Not scary at all. You hardly notice the wings after a few minutes. :P
>
> So what are your plans for the holiday? Do y'all want to come visit? You can even bring your boytoy if he's still around then. :P
>
> From: mamamia78@█████.com
> To: shampaingurl@██████.net
> Subject: Visiting
>
> Come on, it'll do you all good to get out of town for a couple of days, especially Mary. Beth always likes being around her and I think she's a good example. Plus, it'll be nice for Beth to introduce Mary to the adult. I think he gets lonely sometimes and could stand to meet some new people. Everyone around here likes him, but you can never have too many friends, right?
>
> Beth's looking better, too. She was so skinny before, but the new weight makes her look a lot healthier.
>
> From: mamamia78@█████.com
> To: shampaingurl@██████.net
> Subject: Re: worried about you
>
> Why are you worried? There's nothing wrong over here. I bet you'd feel better if you came and met the adult. I'm sure he's like to meet you all.
>
> Looking forward to seeing you soon!
-----
Shakti Shivaji had been a doctor in the backwoods town of Spring for over a dozen years, originally coming on a program that assigned doctors to underserved communities for college loan assistance and liking the area enough that she decided to stay. It was mostly a quiet life, leaning more towards cold and flu than major trauma. Even the local methamphetamine manufacturers tended to avoid going to the doctor for as long as they could, generally paranoid that they would get reported to the police. Shakti took her patients' privacy seriously, though, and reassured the manufacturer and addict in front of her of that.
"Mr. Jameson, you don't have to worry. I keep your records strictly sealed and private. I obviously think that your health would stop deteriorating if you would stop using meth, but I won't report you to Sheriff Michaels. Now please, tell me what's wrong."
"Well... if you say so. I'm still not saying that I use meth, just so you know, but if I did, how could I quit it? Um... I wanted to know if you could do anything about my chest hurting all the time. And maybe how to put on some more weight. He thinks that I'm too skinny and sick and need to put on some weight."
"If you //were// using meth, I would suggest going down to Forrester and checking into the rehab program at the hospital there. It's in-patient and lasts at least 30 days, and they would help you with the withdrawal symptoms. If you were taking meth, of course."
Dr. Shivaji continued speaking as she listened to Bill's chest and heart.
"As for the chest pain, your heart sounds a little weak. I'd like to get an EKG and chest X-ray on you and possibly send you down to the hospital for a CT scan later this week, so I can get a better picture of your heart. You should know, however, that if there are any problems with your heart that he probably won't pick you. He really only chooses people in tip-top shape. Still, any effort to improve your health will be a good thing, even if you might not be his."
Dr. Shivaji slung her stethoscope around her neck as she finished the exam.
"The nurse will be in in a few minutes to take you to get your X-ray. And remember: if you did do meth, continuing will only make things worse, and he wouldn't like that."
Bill hung his head like a little boy getting reprimanded and replied, "I know, I know. And, um, could you get me that information about the rehab? I really don't want to disappoint him."
Shakti left the room and gave the instruction to her nurse, then went to write up her notes. As she typed them into the computer, she idly thought, //"I really ought to go visit him myself this weekend. I wish he would choose me too, but I know he thinks we still need a doctor for now. And he says that the first of the children will be almost ready for their next stage soon. I should see about ordering some more beds for them."//
-----
> Dear Diary,
>
> Mr. All-Growd-Up is thinking at me a lot today. He thinks I'm going to be ready soon. He says I won't be scared. But I think I will be.
>
> I'm going to miss Mommy and Daddy and Beth. But not Uncle Dan. He looks at me funny sometimes. I don't like it.
>
> And i forgot that Beth is going to be ready soon too. Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks at us that her and Tommy and Dani will be first.
>
> They're lucky they can go first. I bet they will be real pretty like Mr. All-Growd-Up. I hope I'm pretty too.
>
> I want to take Scooter with me when i go. He's a good cat. But Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks I can't. He thinks I can have Scooter when I grow up if I want. So that's good. I hope I get Uncle Dan like that too.
>
> Bye!
-----
Sheriff Brett Michaels (//"Yes, like the rocker."//) was worried. He'd been feeling strange lately and wasn't sure what it was. Lately he'd go on patrol in some of the farther parts of the county for a few hours and would start feeling really angry and afraid of something, although when he was feeling better he couldn't remember what, exactly. He'd come racing back to Spring, all fired up to do something, charge straight into the clearing that the adult usually appeared in and then he'd feel a lot better. The air always smelled... //better// around the adult. Everything just felt right around him, like he could take care of everything. Even Sheriff Michaels, the nominal authority in the county, deferred to the judgment of the adult. He knew best, after all.
Brett spotted Dr. Shivaji across the clearing while the rest of the crowd was getting set up for the choosing and decided that he'd talk with her afterwards and see if she could give him some medicine or something to calm him down.
In the meantime, he kept his hands firmly on the shoulders of his brother Jake and his sister-in-law Debra. Their boy Jacob stood in front of the three of them, looking a little nervous. But that was only to be expected for meeting the adult for the first time; it was a big moment in anyone's life, and Jacob was about the age that the adult was interested in helping.
He told his brother and sister-in-law, "You ought to be proud. If Jacob gets picked, you'll get to be the parents of a very special boy."
Debra twisted slightly in his grip and glared at him. "For the last goddamned time, Brett, //what the hell is going on here?!// I finally get a weekend off so we can come visit, and you practically kidnap us up here! For fuck's sake, you didn't even let us unpack!"
"Aw, calm down, Deb. He's on his way up and you'll understand in a sec. He's a real great guy and I know you'll like him like everyone else does. So stop trying to squirm away. Besides, you're not gonna get anywhere so long as I have the keys to the truck."
Debra kept glaring at Brett, her fists clenching and unclenching as she tried to figure out the best way to incapacitate him non-lethally. Brett had always dismissed her as just a background extra in the movies that Sunny Coast Productions made, but she knew three different martial art styles and was their best action stunt double (among other things). She liked Brett, even if he put on the "good-ol'-boy" act a bit thick at times, but she'd be damned if she let him put her son in some kind of mysterious danger.
The tension was starting to give her a headache and she glanced away from Brett to see why her husband wasn't arguing too. She was surprised to see Jake looking glassy-eyed and somewhat vacant as he took deep, even breaths. She'd swear that he was hypnotized, but no one had even approached them since Brett had brought them into the clearing. Jacob's body posture was more relaxed too, which worried her even more, considering how tense he'd been just a few moments ago.
Her headache rapidly intensified as a light breeze blew towards them, carrying the scent of pine needles and fresh air. Everyone else, her husband and son included, turned their faces towards the breeze as one and took a deep breath, then smiled.
The upper branches of the trees across the clearing shook as something heavy landed on them, and Debra watched a... //thing// come jumping down the tree's branches. She'd never seen anything as intrinsically wrong as the creature that stood across the clearing, and almost retched as her headache reached new heights of pain. As her vision grayed out, she thought, //"Fuck! They never told us in anti-psi training that it would be this goddamn painful!"//, and watched as the creature slithered across the clearing to lay a rubbery, segmented limb across her son's face.
----
[[=]]
**<< [[[gamedaypart1imago|Imago]]] | BoFA: Inhale | [[[gdp2-freshbreath-holding|BoFA: Holding It]]] | BoFA: Exhale >>**
[[/=]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-03T02:14:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"correspondence",
"game-day",
"horror",
"slice-of-life",
"tale"
] | A Breath of Fresh Air: Inhale - SCP Foundation | 43 | [
"gamedaypart1imago",
"gdp2-freshbreath-holding",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"gamedaypart2index",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11983444 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-freshbreath-inhale |
|
gdp2-fun | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Valley lay in his bed, wheezing as he spoke with his head of security over the radio.</p>
<p>"Are my preparations in place?" he gasped, still managing to bring menace into every syllable.</p>
<p>A few seconds passed. A <em>tick-tock</em> came from over the radio. Then, Mr. Tick spoke.</p>
<p>"Yes. It is ready. Sir." He said in that monotone voice of his.</p>
<p>"How long?"</p>
<p>Another few seconds passed. "Now."</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Beta-23, move in."</p>
<p>The six members of Mobile Task Force Beta-23 rushed forward, taking cover positions and looking for viable targets in the small cottage they had been tasked with clearing. They were not yet in there, however, and were still cautious of the enemy firing out of its windows.</p>
<p>Which of course, was the least of their worries. The commander, unnoticed by the rest of his team, gasped in agony as what he thought was the grass of the field injected its paralytic venom into him. He would die last, as Marshall, Carter, and Dark's intruder prevention item was not yet hungry.</p>
<p>The man at the back of the group flicked his eyes back and forth, checking for targets. He stepped on something as he moved slowly forwards. His gaze flicked down to the photograph for only a second, but that was all it needed. He quietly and politely knelt down and cut his own throat.</p>
<p>The others turned around swiftly, having heard their fallen comrades' last gurgles. Two of them aimed their rifles at the absurd image of a stitch moving through the grass like a snake. Two stitches, three stitches. Their bullets did nothing as the stitches moved over them, joining them together, merging lungs and hearts and brains.</p>
<p>One stayed, one ran.</p>
<p>The one who had stayed stepped back, then winced and looked down. A small dart was stuck right in his knee. Shaking, he pulled it out. It was barbed. Was it poisonous? Would he die slowly, in agony?</p>
<p>As he looked down and saw two maggots repairing his wound, he knew he would not die at all.</p>
<p>The one who had ran carried on running, panic carrying him when his own strength failed. Soon, his frantic running was joined by the purposeful slam of four paws on the ground. Paws that were running towards him very quickly. A voice came from behind him, a horrible growl of a voice. He dared not look.</p>
<p>"Sunny in Harare," it said.</p>
<p>He panted. Would he make it to the extraction zone?</p>
<p>"Mild in Miami," it growled.</p>
<p>He was almost at the fence. Come on, almost!</p>
<p>"Rainy in London!" screamed the voice, and the hound pounced.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"All went well," tocked Mr. Tick. Of course, Valley knew this from the multiple television screens in front of his bed, but Mr. Tick was always a redundant sort of fellow.</p>
<p>Valley smiled. He was dying, of course, but that was no reason not to have fun. He had to do it again soon.</p>
<p>"Make another batch," he rasped into the radio. "Make them think they're gocks this time."</p>
<p>"Yes. Sir."</p>
<p>The door opened and <strong>a man</strong> stepped in. If you were asked to describe him afterwards, that was all you could say, he was just <strong>a man</strong>. The illogical colours of his jacket, the jagged curves of his pupils and the impossible pattern on his badge made sure of that.</p>
<p>"You called me," smiled <strong>the man</strong> that had walked in. Its eyes flicked from radio to sky, sky to table, table to Valley in a few seconds. "You're dying?" <strong>the man</strong> asked curiously, his voice a dull monotone.</p>
<p>"Of course I am," Valley said bitterly. "Mr. Carter's parting gift."</p>
<p>"You called me," said <strong>the man</strong> again. "What is it you wanted?"</p>
<p>Valley shifted uncomfortably in his bed and stared into what he hoped were <strong>the man</strong>'s eyes. "I am a sick old man, friend."</p>
<p>"I am not your friend. Yes, you are. Why do you want to see me?" said <strong>the man</strong> patiently, its voice quick, as if he was eager to be somewhere else.</p>
<p>Valley leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. "I need to expand, but what I have is too limited. The few products I managed to steal before leaving Carter's lovely club are not enough. I need the Station, please. You must help me have it."</p>
<p>One of <strong>the man</strong>'s eyes drifted to the ceiling. The other one circled in its socket. It was in deep concentration.</p>
<p>"I will need four men. Your best four men."</p>
<p>"And money?"</p>
<p>A look of confusion crossed <strong>the man</strong>'s face. "I will not need money. I will need four men. Goodbye, Mr. Valley." It walked out of the door and it shut the door behind him.</p>
<p>A few seconds passed. Valley leaned back, looked at the thin stump that had yesterday been his arm, and cried.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-fun">Fun</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-fun">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-fun</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Valley lay in his bed, wheezing as he spoke with his head of security over the radio.
"Are my preparations in place?" he gasped, still managing to bring menace into every syllable.
A few seconds passed. A //tick-tock// came from over the radio. Then, Mr. Tick spoke.
"Yes. It is ready. Sir." He said in that monotone voice of his.
"How long?"
Another few seconds passed. "Now."
---------
"Beta-23, move in."
The six members of Mobile Task Force Beta-23 rushed forward, taking cover positions and looking for viable targets in the small cottage they had been tasked with clearing. They were not yet in there, however, and were still cautious of the enemy firing out of its windows.
Which of course, was the least of their worries. The commander, unnoticed by the rest of his team, gasped in agony as what he thought was the grass of the field injected its paralytic venom into him. He would die last, as Marshall, Carter, and Dark's intruder prevention item was not yet hungry.
The man at the back of the group flicked his eyes back and forth, checking for targets. He stepped on something as he moved slowly forwards. His gaze flicked down to the photograph for only a second, but that was all it needed. He quietly and politely knelt down and cut his own throat.
The others turned around swiftly, having heard their fallen comrades' last gurgles. Two of them aimed their rifles at the absurd image of a stitch moving through the grass like a snake. Two stitches, three stitches. Their bullets did nothing as the stitches moved over them, joining them together, merging lungs and hearts and brains.
One stayed, one ran.
The one who had stayed stepped back, then winced and looked down. A small dart was stuck right in his knee. Shaking, he pulled it out. It was barbed. Was it poisonous? Would he die slowly, in agony?
As he looked down and saw two maggots repairing his wound, he knew he would not die at all.
The one who had ran carried on running, panic carrying him when his own strength failed. Soon, his frantic running was joined by the purposeful slam of four paws on the ground. Paws that were running towards him very quickly. A voice came from behind him, a horrible growl of a voice. He dared not look.
"Sunny in Harare," it said.
He panted. Would he make it to the extraction zone?
"Mild in Miami," it growled.
He was almost at the fence. Come on, almost!
"Rainy in London!" screamed the voice, and the hound pounced.
-------------
"All went well," tocked Mr. Tick. Of course, Valley knew this from the multiple television screens in front of his bed, but Mr. Tick was always a redundant sort of fellow.
Valley smiled. He was dying, of course, but that was no reason not to have fun. He had to do it again soon.
"Make another batch," he rasped into the radio. "Make them think they're gocks this time."
"Yes. Sir."
The door opened and **a man** stepped in. If you were asked to describe him afterwards, that was all you could say, he was just **a man**. The illogical colours of his jacket, the jagged curves of his pupils and the impossible pattern on his badge made sure of that.
"You called me," smiled **the man** that had walked in. Its eyes flicked from radio to sky, sky to table, table to Valley in a few seconds. "You're dying?" **the man** asked curiously, his voice a dull monotone.
"Of course I am," Valley said bitterly. "Mr. Carter's parting gift."
"You called me," said **the man** again. "What is it you wanted?"
Valley shifted uncomfortably in his bed and stared into what he hoped were **the man**'s eyes. "I am a sick old man, friend."
"I am not your friend. Yes, you are. Why do you want to see me?" said **the man** patiently, its voice quick, as if he was eager to be somewhere else.
Valley leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. "I need to expand, but what I have is too limited. The few products I managed to steal before leaving Carter's lovely club are not enough. I need the Station, please. You must help me have it."
One of **the man**'s eyes drifted to the ceiling. The other one circled in its socket. It was in deep concentration.
"I will need four men. Your best four men."
"And money?"
A look of confusion crossed **the man**'s face. "I will not need money. I will need four men. Goodbye, Mr. Valley." It walked out of the door and it shut the door behind him.
A few seconds passed. Valley leaned back, looked at the thin stump that had yesterday been his arm, and cried.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-16T16:25:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"action",
"game-day",
"tale"
] | Fun - SCP Foundation | 24 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"gamedaypart2index",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"acquisitions-hub"
] | [] | 12059042 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-fun |
|
gdp2-looking-at-the-world-from-a-different-angle | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<h1 id="toc0"><span>One Nice Afternoon</span></h1>
<p>"Oh, no," Tom groaned, seeing Deb's eyes light up at the familiar-looking pink display window . "I can't handle this. You're on your own, dear."</p>
<p>"What's the matter, hun? Scared of a little women's underwear?"</p>
<p>"Not scared, just uncomfortable. It's the way those clerks look at you, like I'm crashing some stranger's party."</p>
<p>"You could help me pick something out for… later," Deb smirked.</p>
<p>Tom smiled and kissed her forehead. "As it turns out, I love surprises."</p>
<p>"Fine," Deb huffed in mock anger. "I'll just go alone, then. See you in a bit?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, sure, I'll be around. Call my cell when you're done."</p>
<p>"Sure thing. See ya, hun."</p>
<p>Tom headed into the bookstore first and flipped through the best sellers on the front rack. When that grew dull, he headed over to the Brookstone to take a look at some needlessly complicated grilling tools and lay down on the Tempur-Pedic mattress. Around the time he was picking up a pretzel with nacho cheese sauce, he started to wonder how long Deb was going to be looking at bras, anyway.</p>
<p>He was in the process of tucking the little white paper bag into his teeth to pull out his cell phone and call when the first shot was fired. At first, it sounded like firecrackers, but then he heard the shouting and saw the men and the guns. There were two groups of them, shouting and running around, hiding behind the white ceramic planters and tipped-over tables in the food court. One of them tried to move from behind a table to behind the counter of the Orange Julius: he fell down about halfway there, clutching his leg, then his head exploded in a spray of red and grey that splattered across the white tile floor.</p>
<p>Tom realized then that he was huddled behind one of the big white planters, his cell phone clutched in his hand in a white-knuckle grip. He'd lost his pretzel at some point: he could see the little brown twist of bread smeared across the tiled floor, little yellow footprints leading away where someone had stomped on his small plastic cup of cheese sauce while running away from the gunfight.</p>
<p>It was surreal. Things like this were supposed to happen in downtown Detroit or South Central Los Angeles, not in a Westfield Shopping Center in the Midwestern suburbs. There was a lot of shouting (mostly involving the word "motherfucker,") then there was a big boom, and a lot of smoke, and the shooting stopped.</p>
<p>Tom saw a big black man in a brown leather jacket, holding a small gun: it looked like a toy in his big meaty fist. Some men in grey uniforms ran up, then, and the man in the brown leather jacket slowly put down his gun and lay down on the ground with his hands on his head. Tom didn't wait to see what happened next: the moment the cops got the guy, he ran down the escalator and started running towards the Victoria's Secret, shouting Debra's name.</p>
<p>She met him outside, and they fell into each other's arms, holding each other tight, as if they would never let go.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"I felt so useless," Tom confessed that night, after the cops and the reporters and the much-needed shower. "All that was going on… and all I could think of was to hide."</p>
<p>"What could you do?" Deb asked. She was curled up in his arms and was resting her head on his chest.</p>
<p>"I don't know," Tom admitted. "But I felt like I should have done something."</p>
<p>Deb kissed him, and he kissed her back, and then they took each others' clothes off and let things go from there.</p>
<p>Two weeks later, Deb announced she'd missed her period.</p>
<p>Sixteen years later, they told their horribly embarassed daughter why her full name was Jennifer Victoria Firefight Nathan.</p>
<p>Seeing his daughter groan in horror as her younger brother made snarky comments and her boyfriend look on in jaw-dropped awe, Tom thought back to that afternoon in the shopping mall, and laughed. It was funny, he thought, how things tend to work out in the end.</p>
<hr/>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ A Closer Look</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Stepping Back</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<h1 id="toc1"><span>A Closer look</span></h1>
<p><em>Gunshot, 9mm, double-tap,</em> Jeff thought, as the first couple of cracks rang out. It was a sound that didn't belong in a shopping mall at 2 in the afternoon.</p>
<p>He dropped the big plastic bag and reached under his leather jacket for his concealed carry weapon. He checked the slide and the ejection port: both looked clear, and took off the safety. "Lie down on the ground and cover your heads!" he shouted to the other shoppers. "Wait here!"</p>
<p>He headed towards the sound of the gunfire, keeping his head low and the muzzle of his gun pointed at the ground. He glanced around the corner leading to the food court, and saw a bunch of knocked-over tables and some guys shooting at each other.</p>
<p>Jeff blinked in surprise: these weren't gangers. Gangers tended to stand up and run around holding their guns out in front of them: they usually relied on mass volume of fire, and they usually took a few shots then ran for it before the cops showed up. What they didn't do was set up lanes of fire, use cover, and coordinate their attacks. Especially coordinate their attacks.</p>
<p>"Center Peel, fall back to the counters, go!" someone shouted. "Peel one!" A rapid fusillade of pistol fire rang out, followed by two guys trying to fall back to the food counters. One of them made it, the second took a round in the knee and fell. Jeff saw one of the guys crouched behind the planters take a deliberate double tap and shoot the wounded enemy in the head, killing him.</p>
<p>Jeff's blood ran cold. He'd been a Marine in two tours overseas before retiring: that and six years in the force meant he'd spent just about half his life around guns and gunfighters in some fashion or another, and those fourteen years of experience were telling him that these guys were trained professionals: possibly Special Forces of some sort. Now that he knew what to look for, the lines of their clothing seemed strangely bulky in places: did they have body armor under their jackets and jeans? The small-caliber pistol in his hands suddenly felt very inadequate.</p>
<p>Then one of the motherfuckers in the food court jumped up holding a small, stubby black tube, and suddenly things went all the way bad.</p>
<p>Jeff didn't wait to see what happened next. "GRENADE!" he screamed. He ducked back around the corner, dropped to the ground, put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, opened his mouth. The explosion felt like a full body punch to the gut. There were a few more shots, and then a lot of shouting. Jeff shook his head to clear his fuzzy vision and got back to his feet.</p>
<p>The carnage was incredible. Everyone on the planters side of the firefight was dead or dying. In the food court, he saw the guy with the grenade launcher lying dead on the ground with a bullet in his head. There was another guy standing over him, holding a submachinegun of some sort. "GET ON THE GROUND, MOTHERFUCKER!" Jeff shouted. The word "motherfucker" was very important in these cases: it let the guy know who was in fucking charge here.</p>
<p>He swept his eyes over the perp's body: eyes, face, hands…</p>
<p>Hands.</p>
<p>When the perp turned to face him, he saw the guy's hands start to come up, holding his little submachinegun, so Jeff put two in his chest and one in his head. It was done before his heart beat once.</p>
<p>The guy fell down and sprawled on the bloody and broken mall floor like a discarded doll. Jeff swallowed hard. It wasn't the first time he'd fired his gun at another human being, but all his fighting in the sandbox had been at long range, shooting his .50 cal at houses from the next sand dune over. He was sure he'd killed some people in his time in the Marines, but this was the first time he'd been close enough to touch the guy as he died. Seeing the light leave the guy's eyes from this close-up…</p>
<p>"GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING GROUND RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!" someone screamed, and Jeff winced inwardly. He was suddenly very aware that he was a big black man with a gun standing in the middle of a bunch of dead guys. He very carefully put his pistol down on the ground and slid it into the corner, then lay down in a puddle of sticky wet nastiness and put his hands on his head.</p>
<p>Someone ran up to him and put a knee in the small of his back. "Check my inside left coat pocket," Jeff said, slowly and calmly.</p>
<p>"SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE! DON'T SAY A FUCKING WORD!" the guy screamed.</p>
<p>"Brad?" an older, wiser voice said. "Check his fucking coat pocket already before you say something really dumb."</p>
<p>Trembling hands reached into his leather jacket pocket and fumbled out the wallet from his jacket. A few moments later, the pressure on his back let up, and someone reached a hand down to help him to his feet. Jeff looked up into the face of a big, balding white guy with an impressive red beard, wearing a light grey rent-a-cop outfit.</p>
<p>"Officer," the guard said.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Holy crap, Jeff, you look like hell," Captain McCoy sighed. "I thought this was supposed to be your day off."</p>
<p>"You know me, sir," Jeff said, smiling weakly. "I like to take my work home with me."</p>
<p>"Nobody likes a workaholic, Jeff. Did you give your statement yet?"</p>
<p>"Rog took it down a few minutes ago," Jeff admitted. "I'm just waiting for someone to tell me I can leave."</p>
<p>"Well, then, consider this an order: go home. Get some rest. Don't bother coming in tomorrow, you can have the day off. But don't leave town either, just in case someone needs to talk to you. Kay?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Jeff sighed.</p>
<p>He got up and picked up the big plastic bag by his feet. It took him a moment to find Roger in the crowd: He finally found the detective standing in the parking lot, standing over a dead body lying on the concrete with its head at an oddly skewed angle. "What the fuck happened here?" Jeff asked.</p>
<p>"Not sure. Looks like one of the perps ran for it and fell down the stairs, broke his neck. What's up?"</p>
<p>Jeff handed the big white plastic bag to Rog, who looked inside and nodded. "I'll find someone to take care of it," Rog said. "Go home. Get some rest."</p>
<p>Jeff nodded back and wearily walked to his car. He got behind the front seat and took a moment to close his eyes and rub his forehead. Then he took out his phone and held down the "1" key for a few seconds.</p>
<p>The phone picked up before it rang twice. "Jeff?" a warm, female voice said.</p>
<p>"Hi, Tanya," Jeff replied. "How are you?"</p>
<p>"I'm fine… are you okay, Jeff?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you watching the news?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I heard… oh my god, Jeff, was that you?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Jeff admitted. "That was me. I'm fine, but McCoy needs me to stay in town for a few days, in case the cops or press want to talk to me. So… I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it out tomorrow for little Jeff's birthday. I'll have someone deliver his present, though."</p>
<p>"I understand. Do you want to talk to him right now?"</p>
<p>"Sure, Tanya. I'd appreciate that. Hi, kiddo, how's it going? You saw me on the news? Yeah, that's your dad, all right. No, I'm fine, son. It'll take more than a couple of bad guys to get me, you know that. Look, something's come up, and I won't be able to come to your party tomorrow: your dad's captain needs him to stay in town and help him to figure out who these bad guys were, but I'll make sure you get your present. So be good to your Mom, okay, son? I'll try to see you next weekend. And don't worry. Everything's gonna work out in the end."</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr/>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ A Wider Perspective</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- The Original View</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<h1 id="toc2"><span>A Wider Perspective</span></h1>
<p>I don't see why you need me to do this. You can just read the damn transcripts or look at the video records. Oh yeah? Well, fuck yer "subjective point of view." Fine, fine, whatever, don't get yer panties in a bunch. I'm just saying there ain't much I can tell you that you don't already know.</p>
<p>Where do I start… well, Tempest Night happened, and suddenly we've got a lot of agents being redirected to deal with the consequences. MC&D pokin' around our territory, tons of escaped skips all over the place, buncha MTFs being reassigned to handle that clusterfuck, which means a lot of missions are running short-handed, which means they had to reassign some of us to deal with, you know, actually finding and capturing skips.</p>
<p>So they put me and the kid into an investigative cell trying to find some guy who can bend bricks with his bare hands. Yeah, I said <em>bend</em> bricks. No, don't ask me how that shit works. Mine is not to reason why. That's your fucking job.</p>
<p>So as I was saying, this cell was short-handed because their former mission controller was reassigned to look for Vector: he was on the team that originally brought her in, so they decided they needed his "unique expertise." They didn't need the rest of the team, so they could keep on the mission. But the team needed a new mission controller… so, of course, they decide to tap good ol' Max and his newbie friend to watch the camera feeds.</p>
<p>So anyway, we track this guy to a shopping mall, and we're doing a shadow and investigate: two teams of two walking around the mall keeping an eye on this guy to make sure he's not trying anything too hinky. What? Of course they were armed, are you stupid? Don't give me that shit: you know what can happen on this job, and it's a damn good thing they <em>were</em> armed, or shit might have gone down different. Way different. Don't give me that bullshit, these guys were pros, not trigger-happy goons. No, I hadn't worked with them that long, but after enough years on this job you get a feel for this sorta thing. You can tell a pro from an goon easy, and these guys were pros. Yes, that IS my subjective opinion, but that's exactly what you wanted me to give, right? Shut the fuck up and let me talk.</p>
<p>Anyway, the guy's sitting in the food court eating a hot dog on a stick when shit starts to go down. Tsai saw it first: four guys coming in through the food court glass doors: could be four friends on a shopping trip, but they weren't looking at each other or talking, or even looking at the stores. They were looking at the people. Tsai and Ming decide to fall back to across the bridge to get a better view, and Carter and Wyatt move up to rendezvous with them. It's about when all four of them finally meet up that one of the four motherfuckers in the foodcourt pulls his .45 and starts shooting.</p>
<p>Shit starts to happen real fast after that. Our guys grab some cover behind some planters. The skip rabbits and starts running for it: so does everyone else, but our guys are pinned down by enemy fire and can't get out. They start returning fire, and Tsai manages to down one of them, which I guess pisses one of them off, because he pulls a motherfucking M203 from his backpack and blows the team to shit. Four flatlines: they're all dead.</p>
<p>And that's when I told the kid to get us the fuck out of there, because the op was blown. Ever fled the scene of a crime at 35 mph? Fucking nerve wracking. We got out of the parking lot about two minutes before the cops locked the place down. The rest you know.</p>
<p>What do I think happened? Ain't it fucking obvious? We were set up. You've seen the tapes: those guys were packing heavy heat and wearing heavy armor. Sounds like a gock strike team to me. Is it any coincidence that they found the skip dead of a broken neck shortly after? This was a message: stop fucking around in their territory, or face the consequences. Fucking gock assholes.</p>
<p>What? Fine, I'll answer one last fucking question, just for you. PDW? No, it was all pistols up until that M203 came out. What? Of course I'm sure. None of us had any, and the gocks were all using .45s. That GOC Personal Defense Weapon fires .223, which sounds completely different.</p>
<p>… well, I don't know what to tell you, then. Like you said, this was my subjective point of view. All I know is what I saw. I can't tell you exactly how everything worked out.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr/>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ From the Other Side</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- The Story We Know</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Transcript of Communications Logs: GOC Strike Team 'Marduk,' ██-██-████, ████:██.</strong></p>
<p><strong>Marduk Six (Team Leader and Overwatch):</strong> Comms check. Six here.</p>
<p><strong>Marduk One (Point Man):</strong> One.</p>
<p><strong>Marduk Two (Lead Marksman):</strong> Two, ready.</p>
<p><strong>Marduk Three (Support Marksman):</strong> Three here. I'm good.</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Four, please respond.</p>
<p><em>(pause)</em></p>
<p><strong>Marduk Four (Heavy Support):</strong> Sorry about that, had a problem with my headset. Four here.</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Copy that. Eyes and Ears check… . confirm camera and mics operational. Equipment check.</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> One okay.</p>
<p><strong>Two:</strong> Two okay.</p>
<p><strong>Three:</strong> Three okay.</p>
<p><strong>Four:</strong> Four good to go.</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Confirmed. Mission Control, this is Marduk Six. Team is go.</p>
<p><strong>Control:</strong> Marduk Six, this is Control. You are cleared to proceed.</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Confirmed. Five minutes to start time. Remember, guys, this is Response Level One. Do not open fire unless attacked first. Just get eyes on the target and wait for further instructions.</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> Confirmed. Five minutes.<br/>
<em>(pause)</em></p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> Arrived. Exiting vehicle.</p>
<p><em>(pause)</em></p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> We're inside. I have eyes on the target. He's in the food court, eating a corn dog and some fries.</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Confirmed. Why don't you guys grab a bite to eat? Looks like we'll be here for a bit.</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> Sounds good to me. Hey, guys, let's go grab some Sbarro's… HOLY SHIT!</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> What was that?</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED! WE ARE WEAPONS HOT!</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> One, say again? I'm seeing no hostiles present!</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> Marduk Six, this is Marduk One, team is under fire from hostile forces, we require immediate extraction!</p>
<p><em>(shots fired)</em></p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> MARDUK TEAM, CEASE FIRE IMMEDIATELY! ABORT, ABORT!</p>
<p><strong>Two:</strong> HOSTILES SIGHTED! BEHIND THE PLANTERS AT TWO O'CLOCK!</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> TEAM! WE ARE LEAVING! CENTER PEEL, FALL BACK TO THE COUNTERS, ON MY MARK, PEEL ONE, GO!</p>
<p><strong>Two:</strong> MOVING!</p>
<p><strong>Three:</strong> I'M HIT! I'M HI—</p>
<p><em>(Marduk Three's lifesigns terminated)</em></p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> MARDUK TEAM, ABORT ABORT ABORT!</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN! MULTIPLE HOSTILES INBOUND!</p>
<p><strong>Four:</strong> FRAG OUT!</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> NO!</p>
<p><em>(explosion)</em></p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Mission Control, this is Marduk Six, I'm going in.</p>
<p><strong>Control:</strong> Six, this is Control. Do not enter the mission zone. I say again, do not enter the mission zone.</p>
<p><em>(Marduk Six exits the vehicle and enters the mission zone.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Control:</strong> Crap.</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> Holy fuck! They're behind us!</p>
<p><strong>Two:</strong> Fuck!</p>
<p><em>(shots fired. Marduk Two's lifesigns fluctuating.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Two:</strong> I'm hit! I'm hi—</p>
<p><em>(shots fired. Marduk Two's lifesigns terminated.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Four:</strong> Tango down, tango down! One, let's GO!</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> MARDUK TEAM, STAND DOWN!</p>
<p><strong>One:</strong> HOSTILE SPOTTED! SMG!</p>
<p><em>(shots fired. Marduk One's lifesigns terminated.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Four:</strong> BASTARD!</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> DON'T DO IT!</p>
<p><em>(shots fired. Marduk Four's lifesigns terminated.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Command, this is Marduk Six, team is compromised, I say again, team is compromised, I am exiting the mission…</p>
<p><strong>Unknown:</strong> GET ON THE GROUND, MOTHERFUCKER!</p>
<p><strong>Six:</strong> Wait! Don't shoo—</p>
<p><em>(shots fired. Marduk Six's lifesigns terminated.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Control:</strong> Marduk? Marduk? Team Marduk, please respond.</p>
<p><em>(no answer.)</em></p>
<p><strong>Control:</strong> Marduk?</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr/>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ The End</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- End It</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<h1 id="toc3"><span>The End</span></h1>
<p>He was running out of the shopping mall, away from the madmen with guns, when he felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. It carried him over the railing and down the stairwell, three stories straight down, to land on unyielding concrete with a bone-shattering thud.</p>
<p>The last thing he saw, as he fell, was a young Asian woman with long black hair standing at the top of the stairs, watching him fall to his death with cold, dispassionate interest in her yellow eyes.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr/>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ The Truth</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Illusions</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<h1 id="toc4"><span>The Truth</span></h1>
<p><em>That worked out better than expected, in the end,</em> <a href="/scp-953">She</a> thought. One troublesome GOC strike force destroyed. Four meddling Foundation agents dead. Tensions between the two groups heightened. And all for the cost of one young man's life.</p>
<p>Not bad for one day's work.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><br/></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-looking-at-the-world-from-a-different-angle">The World From a Different Angle</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-looking-at-the-world-from-a-different-angle">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-looking-at-the-world-from-a-different-angle</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
+ One Nice Afternoon
"Oh, no," Tom groaned, seeing Deb's eyes light up at the familiar-looking pink display window . "I can't handle this. You're on your own, dear."
"What's the matter, hun? Scared of a little women's underwear?"
"Not scared, just uncomfortable. It's the way those clerks look at you, like I'm crashing some stranger's party."
"You could help me pick something out for. . . later," Deb smirked.
Tom smiled and kissed her forehead. "As it turns out, I love surprises."
"Fine," Deb huffed in mock anger. "I'll just go alone, then. See you in a bit?"
"Yeah, sure, I'll be around. Call my cell when you're done."
"Sure thing. See ya, hun."
Tom headed into the bookstore first and flipped through the best sellers on the front rack. When that grew dull, he headed over to the Brookstone to take a look at some needlessly complicated grilling tools and lay down on the Tempur-Pedic mattress. Around the time he was picking up a pretzel with nacho cheese sauce, he started to wonder how long Deb was going to be looking at bras, anyway.
He was in the process of tucking the little white paper bag into his teeth to pull out his cell phone and call when the first shot was fired. At first, it sounded like firecrackers, but then he heard the shouting and saw the men and the guns. There were two groups of them, shouting and running around, hiding behind the white ceramic planters and tipped-over tables in the food court. One of them tried to move from behind a table to behind the counter of the Orange Julius: he fell down about halfway there, clutching his leg, then his head exploded in a spray of red and grey that splattered across the white tile floor.
Tom realized then that he was huddled behind one of the big white planters, his cell phone clutched in his hand in a white-knuckle grip. He'd lost his pretzel at some point: he could see the little brown twist of bread smeared across the tiled floor, little yellow footprints leading away where someone had stomped on his small plastic cup of cheese sauce while running away from the gunfight.
It was surreal. Things like this were supposed to happen in downtown Detroit or South Central Los Angeles, not in a Westfield Shopping Center in the Midwestern suburbs. There was a lot of shouting (mostly involving the word "motherfucker,") then there was a big boom, and a lot of smoke, and the shooting stopped.
Tom saw a big black man in a brown leather jacket, holding a small gun: it looked like a toy in his big meaty fist. Some men in grey uniforms ran up, then, and the man in the brown leather jacket slowly put down his gun and lay down on the ground with his hands on his head. Tom didn't wait to see what happened next: the moment the cops got the guy, he ran down the escalator and started running towards the Victoria's Secret, shouting Debra's name.
She met him outside, and they fell into each other's arms, holding each other tight, as if they would never let go.
-----
"I felt so useless," Tom confessed that night, after the cops and the reporters and the much-needed shower. "All that was going on. . . and all I could think of was to hide."
"What could you do?" Deb asked. She was curled up in his arms and was resting her head on his chest.
"I don't know," Tom admitted. "But I felt like I should have done something."
Deb kissed him, and he kissed her back, and then they took each others' clothes off and let things go from there.
Two weeks later, Deb announced she'd missed her period.
Sixteen years later, they told their horribly embarassed daughter why her full name was Jennifer Victoria Firefight Nathan.
Seeing his daughter groan in horror as her younger brother made snarky comments and her boyfriend look on in jaw-dropped awe, Tom thought back to that afternoon in the shopping mall, and laughed. It was funny, he thought, how things tend to work out in the end.
-----
[[collapsible show="+ A Closer Look" hide="- Stepping Back"]]
+ A Closer look
//Gunshot, 9mm, double-tap,// Jeff thought, as the first couple of cracks rang out. It was a sound that didn't belong in a shopping mall at 2 in the afternoon.
He dropped the big plastic bag and reached under his leather jacket for his concealed carry weapon. He checked the slide and the ejection port: both looked clear, and took off the safety. "Lie down on the ground and cover your heads!" he shouted to the other shoppers. "Wait here!"
He headed towards the sound of the gunfire, keeping his head low and the muzzle of his gun pointed at the ground. He glanced around the corner leading to the food court, and saw a bunch of knocked-over tables and some guys shooting at each other.
Jeff blinked in surprise: these weren't gangers. Gangers tended to stand up and run around holding their guns out in front of them: they usually relied on mass volume of fire, and they usually took a few shots then ran for it before the cops showed up. What they didn't do was set up lanes of fire, use cover, and coordinate their attacks. Especially coordinate their attacks.
"Center Peel, fall back to the counters, go!" someone shouted. "Peel one!" A rapid fusillade of pistol fire rang out, followed by two guys trying to fall back to the food counters. One of them made it, the second took a round in the knee and fell. Jeff saw one of the guys crouched behind the planters take a deliberate double tap and shoot the wounded enemy in the head, killing him.
Jeff's blood ran cold. He'd been a Marine in two tours overseas before retiring: that and six years in the force meant he'd spent just about half his life around guns and gunfighters in some fashion or another, and those fourteen years of experience were telling him that these guys were trained professionals: possibly Special Forces of some sort. Now that he knew what to look for, the lines of their clothing seemed strangely bulky in places: did they have body armor under their jackets and jeans? The small-caliber pistol in his hands suddenly felt very inadequate.
Then one of the motherfuckers in the food court jumped up holding a small, stubby black tube, and suddenly things went all the way bad.
Jeff didn't wait to see what happened next. "GRENADE!" he screamed. He ducked back around the corner, dropped to the ground, put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, opened his mouth. The explosion felt like a full body punch to the gut. There were a few more shots, and then a lot of shouting. Jeff shook his head to clear his fuzzy vision and got back to his feet.
The carnage was incredible. Everyone on the planters side of the firefight was dead or dying. In the food court, he saw the guy with the grenade launcher lying dead on the ground with a bullet in his head. There was another guy standing over him, holding a submachinegun of some sort. "GET ON THE GROUND, MOTHERFUCKER!" Jeff shouted. The word "motherfucker" was very important in these cases: it let the guy know who was in fucking charge here.
He swept his eyes over the perp's body: eyes, face, hands. . .
Hands.
When the perp turned to face him, he saw the guy's hands start to come up, holding his little submachinegun, so Jeff put two in his chest and one in his head. It was done before his heart beat once.
The guy fell down and sprawled on the bloody and broken mall floor like a discarded doll. Jeff swallowed hard. It wasn't the first time he'd fired his gun at another human being, but all his fighting in the sandbox had been at long range, shooting his .50 cal at houses from the next sand dune over. He was sure he'd killed some people in his time in the Marines, but this was the first time he'd been close enough to touch the guy as he died. Seeing the light leave the guy's eyes from this close-up. . .
"GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING GROUND RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!" someone screamed, and Jeff winced inwardly. He was suddenly very aware that he was a big black man with a gun standing in the middle of a bunch of dead guys. He very carefully put his pistol down on the ground and slid it into the corner, then lay down in a puddle of sticky wet nastiness and put his hands on his head.
Someone ran up to him and put a knee in the small of his back. "Check my inside left coat pocket," Jeff said, slowly and calmly.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE! DON'T SAY A FUCKING WORD!" the guy screamed.
"Brad?" an older, wiser voice said. "Check his fucking coat pocket already before you say something really dumb."
Trembling hands reached into his leather jacket pocket and fumbled out the wallet from his jacket. A few moments later, the pressure on his back let up, and someone reached a hand down to help him to his feet. Jeff looked up into the face of a big, balding white guy with an impressive red beard, wearing a light grey rent-a-cop outfit.
"Officer," the guard said.
-----
"Holy crap, Jeff, you look like hell," Captain McCoy sighed. "I thought this was supposed to be your day off."
"You know me, sir," Jeff said, smiling weakly. "I like to take my work home with me."
"Nobody likes a workaholic, Jeff. Did you give your statement yet?"
"Rog took it down a few minutes ago," Jeff admitted. "I'm just waiting for someone to tell me I can leave."
"Well, then, consider this an order: go home. Get some rest. Don't bother coming in tomorrow, you can have the day off. But don't leave town either, just in case someone needs to talk to you. Kay?"
"Yes, sir," Jeff sighed.
He got up and picked up the big plastic bag by his feet. It took him a moment to find Roger in the crowd: He finally found the detective standing in the parking lot, standing over a dead body lying on the concrete with its head at an oddly skewed angle. "What the fuck happened here?" Jeff asked.
"Not sure. Looks like one of the perps ran for it and fell down the stairs, broke his neck. What's up?"
Jeff handed the big white plastic bag to Rog, who looked inside and nodded. "I'll find someone to take care of it," Rog said. "Go home. Get some rest."
Jeff nodded back and wearily walked to his car. He got behind the front seat and took a moment to close his eyes and rub his forehead. Then he took out his phone and held down the "1" key for a few seconds.
The phone picked up before it rang twice. "Jeff?" a warm, female voice said.
"Hi, Tanya," Jeff replied. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. . . are you okay, Jeff?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you watching the news?"
"Yes, I heard. . . oh my god, Jeff, was that you?"
"Yeah," Jeff admitted. "That was me. I'm fine, but McCoy needs me to stay in town for a few days, in case the cops or press want to talk to me. So. . . I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it out tomorrow for little Jeff's birthday. I'll have someone deliver his present, though."
"I understand. Do you want to talk to him right now?"
"Sure, Tanya. I'd appreciate that. Hi, kiddo, how's it going? You saw me on the news? Yeah, that's your dad, all right. No, I'm fine, son. It'll take more than a couple of bad guys to get me, you know that. Look, something's come up, and I won't be able to come to your party tomorrow: your dad's captain needs him to stay in town and help him to figure out who these bad guys were, but I'll make sure you get your present. So be good to your Mom, okay, son? I'll try to see you next weekend. And don't worry. Everything's gonna work out in the end."
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="+ A Wider Perspective" hide="- The Original View"]]
+ A Wider Perspective
I don't see why you need me to do this. You can just read the damn transcripts or look at the video records. Oh yeah? Well, fuck yer "subjective point of view." Fine, fine, whatever, don't get yer panties in a bunch. I'm just saying there ain't much I can tell you that you don't already know.
Where do I start. . . well, Tempest Night happened, and suddenly we've got a lot of agents being redirected to deal with the consequences. MC&D pokin' around our territory, tons of escaped skips all over the place, buncha MTFs being reassigned to handle that clusterfuck, which means a lot of missions are running short-handed, which means they had to reassign some of us to deal with, you know, actually finding and capturing skips.
So they put me and the kid into an investigative cell trying to find some guy who can bend bricks with his bare hands. Yeah, I said //bend// bricks. No, don't ask me how that shit works. Mine is not to reason why. That's your fucking job.
So as I was saying, this cell was short-handed because their former mission controller was reassigned to look for Vector: he was on the team that originally brought her in, so they decided they needed his "unique expertise." They didn't need the rest of the team, so they could keep on the mission. But the team needed a new mission controller. . . so, of course, they decide to tap good ol' Max and his newbie friend to watch the camera feeds.
So anyway, we track this guy to a shopping mall, and we're doing a shadow and investigate: two teams of two walking around the mall keeping an eye on this guy to make sure he's not trying anything too hinky. What? Of course they were armed, are you stupid? Don't give me that shit: you know what can happen on this job, and it's a damn good thing they //were// armed, or shit might have gone down different. Way different. Don't give me that bullshit, these guys were pros, not trigger-happy goons. No, I hadn't worked with them that long, but after enough years on this job you get a feel for this sorta thing. You can tell a pro from an goon easy, and these guys were pros. Yes, that IS my subjective opinion, but that's exactly what you wanted me to give, right? Shut the fuck up and let me talk.
Anyway, the guy's sitting in the food court eating a hot dog on a stick when shit starts to go down. Tsai saw it first: four guys coming in through the food court glass doors: could be four friends on a shopping trip, but they weren't looking at each other or talking, or even looking at the stores. They were looking at the people. Tsai and Ming decide to fall back to across the bridge to get a better view, and Carter and Wyatt move up to rendezvous with them. It's about when all four of them finally meet up that one of the four motherfuckers in the foodcourt pulls his .45 and starts shooting.
Shit starts to happen real fast after that. Our guys grab some cover behind some planters. The skip rabbits and starts running for it: so does everyone else, but our guys are pinned down by enemy fire and can't get out. They start returning fire, and Tsai manages to down one of them, which I guess pisses one of them off, because he pulls a motherfucking M203 from his backpack and blows the team to shit. Four flatlines: they're all dead.
And that's when I told the kid to get us the fuck out of there, because the op was blown. Ever fled the scene of a crime at 35 mph? Fucking nerve wracking. We got out of the parking lot about two minutes before the cops locked the place down. The rest you know.
What do I think happened? Ain't it fucking obvious? We were set up. You've seen the tapes: those guys were packing heavy heat and wearing heavy armor. Sounds like a gock strike team to me. Is it any coincidence that they found the skip dead of a broken neck shortly after? This was a message: stop fucking around in their territory, or face the consequences. Fucking gock assholes.
What? Fine, I'll answer one last fucking question, just for you. PDW? No, it was all pistols up until that M203 came out. What? Of course I'm sure. None of us had any, and the gocks were all using .45s. That GOC Personal Defense Weapon fires .223, which sounds completely different.
. . . well, I don't know what to tell you, then. Like you said, this was my subjective point of view. All I know is what I saw. I can't tell you exactly how everything worked out.
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="+ From the Other Side" hide="- The Story We Know"]]
> **Transcript of Communications Logs: GOC Strike Team 'Marduk,' ██-██-████, ████:██.**
>
> **Marduk Six (Team Leader and Overwatch):** Comms check. Six here.
>
> **Marduk One (Point Man):** One.
>
> **Marduk Two (Lead Marksman):** Two, ready.
>
> **Marduk Three (Support Marksman):** Three here. I'm good.
>
> **Six:** Four, please respond.
>
> //(pause)//
>
> **Marduk Four (Heavy Support):** Sorry about that, had a problem with my headset. Four here.
>
> **Six:** Copy that. Eyes and Ears check. . . . confirm camera and mics operational. Equipment check.
>
> **One:** One okay.
>
> **Two:** Two okay.
>
> **Three:** Three okay.
>
> **Four:** Four good to go.
>
> **Six:** Confirmed. Mission Control, this is Marduk Six. Team is go.
>
> **Control:** Marduk Six, this is Control. You are cleared to proceed.
>
> **Six:** Confirmed. Five minutes to start time. Remember, guys, this is Response Level One. Do not open fire unless attacked first. Just get eyes on the target and wait for further instructions.
>
> **One:** Confirmed. Five minutes.
>
> //(pause)//
>
> **One:** Arrived. Exiting vehicle.
>
> //(pause)//
>
> **One:** We're inside. I have eyes on the target. He's in the food court, eating a corn dog and some fries.
>
> **Six:** Confirmed. Why don't you guys grab a bite to eat? Looks like we'll be here for a bit.
>
> **One:** Sounds good to me. Hey, guys, let's go grab some Sbarro's. . . HOLY SHIT!
>
> **Six:** What was that?
>
> **One:** SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED! WE ARE WEAPONS HOT!
>
> **Six:** One, say again? I'm seeing no hostiles present!
>
> **One:** Marduk Six, this is Marduk One, team is under fire from hostile forces, we require immediate extraction!
>
> //(shots fired)//
>
> **Six:** MARDUK TEAM, CEASE FIRE IMMEDIATELY! ABORT, ABORT!
>
> **Two:** HOSTILES SIGHTED! BEHIND THE PLANTERS AT TWO O'CLOCK!
>
> **One:** TEAM! WE ARE LEAVING! CENTER PEEL, FALL BACK TO THE COUNTERS, ON MY MARK, PEEL ONE, GO!
>
> **Two:** MOVING!
>
> **Three:** I'M HIT! I'M HI--
>
> //(Marduk Three's lifesigns terminated)//
>
> **Six:** MARDUK TEAM, ABORT ABORT ABORT!
>
> **One:** MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN! MULTIPLE HOSTILES INBOUND!
>
> **Four:** FRAG OUT!
>
> **Six:** NO!
>
> //(explosion)//
>
> **Six:** Mission Control, this is Marduk Six, I'm going in.
>
> **Control:** Six, this is Control. Do not enter the mission zone. I say again, do not enter the mission zone.
>
> //(Marduk Six exits the vehicle and enters the mission zone.)//
>
> **Control:** Crap.
>
> **One:** Holy fuck! They're behind us!
>
> **Two:** Fuck!
>
> //(shots fired. Marduk Two's lifesigns fluctuating.)//
>
> **Two:** I'm hit! I'm hi--
>
> //(shots fired. Marduk Two's lifesigns terminated.)//
>
> **Four:** Tango down, tango down! One, let's GO!
>
> **Six:** MARDUK TEAM, STAND DOWN!
>
> **One:** HOSTILE SPOTTED! SMG!
>
> //(shots fired. Marduk One's lifesigns terminated.)//
>
> **Four:** BASTARD!
>
> **Six:** DON'T DO IT!
>
> //(shots fired. Marduk Four's lifesigns terminated.)//
>
> **Six:** Command, this is Marduk Six, team is compromised, I say again, team is compromised, I am exiting the mission. . .
>
> **Unknown:** GET ON THE GROUND, MOTHERFUCKER!
>
> **Six:** Wait! Don't shoo--
>
> //(shots fired. Marduk Six's lifesigns terminated.)//
>
> **Control:** Marduk? Marduk? Team Marduk, please respond.
>
> //(no answer.)//
>
> **Control:** Marduk?
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="+ The End" hide="- End It"]]
+ The End
He was running out of the shopping mall, away from the madmen with guns, when he felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. It carried him over the railing and down the stairwell, three stories straight down, to land on unyielding concrete with a bone-shattering thud.
The last thing he saw, as he fell, was a young Asian woman with long black hair standing at the top of the stairs, watching him fall to his death with cold, dispassionate interest in her yellow eyes.
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="+ The Truth" hide="- Illusions"]]
+ The Truth
//That worked out better than expected, in the end,// [[[SCP-953|She]]] thought. One troublesome GOC strike force destroyed. Four meddling Foundation agents dead. Tensions between the two groups heightened. And all for the cost of one young man's life.
Not bad for one day's work.
[[/collapsible]]
@@
@@
@@
@@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-15T03:22:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"action",
"game-day",
"global-occult-coalition",
"military-fiction",
"tale"
] | The World From a Different Angle - SCP Foundation | 84 | [
"scp-953",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"gamedaypart2index"
] | [] | 12048813 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-looking-at-the-world-from-a-different-angle |
|
gdp2-point-in-line | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>“<em>Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…</em>”</p>
<p>The fat man hummed and sang tunelessly, walking around the brightly lit work area. Everywhere else was deeply dark, the humps and points of old factory equipment looming in the old auto plant. Several large machines had been cleared away, and heavy, steel tables set up, along with huge shelves, all of it covered with junk. At least, it looked like junk to the untrained eye. A bomb technician would have taken one look at that tangle, and run screaming for the hills.</p>
<p>“<em>Chicka boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…</em>”</p>
<p>Boomer always worked with his shirt off. He'd been teased mercilessly for the huge sweat stains he'd always made on his shirts in grade school, and the pain had stayed with him his entire life, making partial, hideous nudity preferable to a damp shirt. (Never mind that he'd beaten the child who had started the teasing to death in the woods years and years ago. Some things just stuck.)</p>
<p>“<em>Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…</em>”</p>
<p>He was just starting to fit a shock plate to the main detonation assembly when a chiming started. He grunted, freezing and trying to isolate the sound with no small amount of concern, before finally slumping and fishing his phone from his greasy pants pocket.</p>
<p>“Hi, Mom. No, I'm fine, Mom, I was just working.”</p>
<p>“… No, Mom, I like talking to you. It's fine, really…”</p>
<p>“… Yes, I'm taking them, Mom… I just don't like how they make me feel, Mom, it's not…”</p>
<p>“No, Mom, I'm not dis-”</p>
<p>“… Mom…”</p>
<p>“…s-stop… M-m-m-mom, I-I hate i-it whe-”</p>
<p>“…”</p>
<p>“But I c-c-can't h-h-h-h-help it!”</p>
<p>There was a sudden, audible squawking from the phone, the massive man wincing down and away, as if from a blow imagined or remembered,</p>
<p>“… I-I'm sorry, Mom…”</p>
<p>“I'm sorry… I won't ever speak that way again…”</p>
<p>“I love you too, Mom…”</p>
<p>Boomer hung up the phone, then sat for a bit, trembling. He sniffed thickly, glaring down at the phone. He put it on the table, eyes welling with tears. He smashed his fist against it with the force of a good sized car. He smashed it again and again, a thin, ragged squealing leaking from his thick lips as he pounded the phone to bits, blood and scraps of skin smearing over the bench and the ragged wreck of the phone. He stared down at the bloody, shattered mess, heedless of his dripping hand, thick chest rising and falling in great heaves.</p>
<p>The fat man then pushed the whole mess to the floor, sucking on his ripped and bloody fist like a baby, starting to hum around it again as he started fittings wires back into his current project.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Jesus, I almost feel sorry for the bastard. Then I feel that spot where I'm supposed to have a molar.”</p>
<p>Harken winced, looking away from the small screen, his face a ragged patchwork of tape and a few stitches. The rest of him was encased in enough plaster to count as armor, his right hand little more then a heavily braced claw. Kramer had been playing nursemaid: that is to say, she was checking to see what still hurt. Often. With her finger.</p>
<p>“So does that spot on your neck still hurt wh-”</p>
<p>“FUCK!”</p>
<p>“Okay, so yes.”</p>
<p>Harken shifted away from his poker-faced tormentor, trying to focus on the small LCD screen. They'd managed to track down Boomer's lair without a massive amount of issue. That being said, they'd kept well away, just getting a robot close enough to attach a tiny camera to the roof. Boomer was the type to leave loads of bombs, traps and other assorted goodies laying around in a nightmare combination of cunning and blind, absentminded stupidity. You could plan around a smart enemy, a dumb one was prone to blowing your intelligent, well-planned ass off at random.</p>
<p>They'd been watching Boomer for a couple days now, and every hour was more pathetic then the last. Yes, Boomer was a brutal, sadistic psychopath, but he was also apparently a pathetic, broken man with no real life, friends, or interests. No wonder he was so loyal to Dark: he'd probably never had a purpose or praise before Mr. Dark had stepped in.</p>
<p>Harken set the portable viewscreen down, gingerly rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so, we know where the fat boy is going to be, but I'm not really overeager to get blown up trying to get to him.”</p>
<p>“I could always drop in, or slide a shot through one of those upper windows.”</p>
<p>“No, no, that's a bitch of a shot, and one miss could blow the whole place. Plus, who knows how he has the place rigged? I reviewed some files Central Records had on him: apparently a GOC strike team tried sneaking into a house he was using. They managed to blow up nearly a city block, and lost the whole team. Boomer wasn't even home.”</p>
<p>“So what's your big plan?" Kramer asked. "I'm not overeager to wonder on every mission whether or not there's a random explosive or fat sociopath waiting in the wings. Plus, the only one who gets to slap you around is me. See, like thi-”</p>
<p>“FUCK!”</p>
<p>“Wow, that cast doesn't act as a buffer at all, does it?”</p>
<p>“ANYWAY. I think I have a idea…isn't there a GOC squad in the area, hunting for… uhh… oh dammit, that one germ bitch, whatshername…”</p>
<p>“SCP-353, Vector.”</p>
<p>“That's the one. Maybe they need to accidentally intercept a secured Foundation transmission discussing the difficulty of extracting the poor girl from the warehouse she's holed up in.”</p>
<p>“But she's not — oh. Clever. Meanwhile, what do we do about her? Someone needs to get her back to site.”</p>
<p>“Oh to hell with that, some MTF can go after that bitch. The last thing I need is an infection right now.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I know. This looks like it's kinda red and-”</p>
<p>“FUCK!!”</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Bobby, Bobby, my love, get in here, it's great to see you!”</p>
<p>“Can't say the same.”</p>
<p>“Oh Bobby, that's why I love you. While all the world cries for my amusement, I can always count on you to be the same hard-nosed prick as always.”</p>
<p>Bobby was standing at parade rest just inside the doorway to the terrible man's office. It looked more like a overstuffed museum, with layers of carpets, relics, and assorted treasure covering every available surface in a haphazard fashion. There was probably more money in this room then some third world nation's gross national product, but it just looked like a old antique shop. Mr. Marshall sat in a wine-dark upholstered chair to one side, the fabric probably worth more then his life right now. Mr. Dark reclined behind a small, chipped desk. If Bobby recalled correctly, it was the same one the “From Hell” Jack The Ripper letter had been penned on.</p>
<p>“You seem in tolerable shape, lad. None the worse for wear after your little stint in the nuthatch?”</p>
<p>“…I'm fine, sir.”</p>
<p>Bobby looked sidelong at Marshall, who was pointedly observing his fingernails. Bobby's hard mouth twitched, washed-out brown eyes narrowing in all that he would allow to show of his anger. For now. He'd been forced to mop up one of Marshall's little… accidents… but the cleanup had gotten out of hand. People had died. The police had caught him. Thankfully, Carter had been able to pull some strings and get him off death row and into an asylum - one, coincidentally, owned by a member of the Club.</p>
<p>The rest had been nice: the days slow and easy, with nothing to do but watch the actual crazies and attend "therapy" sessions that mostly consisted of shooting the shit with other MC&D employees. He'd even gotten laid a few times: there was no shortage of attractive and heavily medicated female "patients" who, if not exactly willing, were not prone to believable protest. Still, he'd known better than to relax. Service to Marshall, Carter, and Dark ended with death alone. He hoped.</p>
<p>“Bobby, you're a busy boy, so I'll not shilly-shally any more," Dark said. "Persons who shall remain nameless have bobbled the ball both on our patch and others. You feel up to hitting the pavement and shoring up our collection?”</p>
<p>“Why are you asking me? I don't have a choice, do I?”</p>
<p>Dark laughed, rising from his chair, waving a hand to Marshall as he crossed to stand in front of Bobby.</p>
<p>“Would you look at this glorious boy?” he chortled, turning and winking at Marshall. “You'd think he was still a cop out in Whitechapel, and me some smuggler who's making him go crooked. No, Bobby, you don't have a choice. Few do, really. You should feel privileged not to have to bear up the weight of those illusions.”</p>
<p>“Oh yes," Bobby said, flatly. "Deeply honored.”</p>
<p>Dark smiled coldly, tilting his head a bit and locking eyes with Bobby. “Do this, and do it well Bobby. You know the stakes, and I always pay well. I'm a man of my word. It's up to you to choose what word it is I keep.”</p>
<p>They stared for a few heartbeats, one dark, one gray, an almost audible tension crackling in the air. Bobby finally straightened, snapping off a salute that might as well have been a middle finger, and turned on his heels, marching out. Dark chuckled coldly, watching the door for several seconds before turning back to his desk.</p>
<p>Marshall spoke up from the depths of the chair, rubbing his eye absently. “He's going to turn on you, you know that.”</p>
<p>“Of course he's going to turn on me. Why the hell else would I keep that grating son of a bitch around?”</p>
<p>Marshall stared at Dark, shaking his head in confusion. Dark lit a black cigar, blowing a thick cloud across the small office. “You know the difference between you, Carter, and me?” Dark asked.</p>
<p>“What's that?”</p>
<p>“Ambition. See, you two lunatics would be more than happy to gut me, kill off your rival, and set yourself as Emperor Of All That Is. Then again, you're both bloody hedonistic bastards. It's in your nature to take all you can get your hands on, and that's both useful and amusing. However, if you rule all that is… what then? How many families can you burn and force into auto-cannibalism before the blush wears off? How long can you bask in the admiration and fear of a planet before it just wafts into the background?”</p>
<p>“I… what…”</p>
<p>“Shut up when the adults are talking, Marshall. I want to enjoy myself, to have some bloody fun, eh? Sometimes that's sitting out in a spring breeze, being served tea warmed on a pretty girl's lap. Sometimes it's watching a child try and scramble around the rabid animals eating their parents. Sometimes it's just eating a really good steak. It's all relative, really. I don't want to crush all reality below my heel… just small, easily observable and touchable parts of it, now and then. I don't have ambition, Marshall, which means my ego will tolerate a threat. I welcome it, really.”</p>
<p>“So… you're just letting him plot against you?”</p>
<p>“Of course I am, you bloody twit! I bloody well helped him along! I was the biggest bastard I could be to him, hurt his loved ones, corrupted his oh-so-sacred morals… It was damned exhausting. Still, it's paying off… I think this is the time, this is it. Can you imagine the thrill of excitement and fear, knowing that someone could lash out, rise up, and generally throw the standard state of things in the fire, at any moment? Makes everything seem… fresher, more clear. Why do you think I insisted the team have those little cameras? When Bobby does finally go, I want to be able to relive it.”</p>
<p>“You're a sick man, Dark.”</p>
<p>“And you're a unimaginative twat, but I don't throw it in your face, now do I? Who do we bloody have on that fox girl? I want a status report within the hour, and I want to know where the hell she's gotten off to even sooner. Now get the hell out of my office.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>"<em>I've got somethin' to say…"</em> the girl hummed, as she picked through the racks of vials on the refrigerator shelf. "<em>I killed your baby today. It doesn't matter much to me as long as it's dead…</em>"</p>
<p>She read the label on one particular vial and smiled. Popping the top off the small glass tube, she threw her head back and drank it down in one gulp, savoring the taste as it went down. She felt the lovely little microbes begin to attack her body, but it was a simple enough matter to calm them down, to get them dancing in harmony with the rest of her little darlings.</p>
<p>"<em>I've got something to say…</em>" she continued, pouring the can of gasoline all over the refrigerator room. "<em>I raped your momma today. It doesn't matter much as long as she spread…</em>"</p>
<p>The body of a white-coated researcher was slumped in his chair bleeding from every orifice: Ebola was not a good way to go. "<em>Sweet lovely death, I'm waiting for your breath,</em>" she sang, as she lit a match. "<em>Sweet lovely death one last car-hnnnnngh!</em>"</p>
<p>The last note of her song dissolved into a grunt of pain as ten thousand volts of electricity coursed through her body. She collapsed in a heap, dropping the box of matches and scattering them all over the clean room. She tried to get back to her feet, but a second jolt of lightning sent her crashing back down to the ground.</p>
<p>She tried to reach out with her viruses, to lash out with everything she had, but yet another jolt from the taser broke her concentration. "None of that, my dear," a sonorous voice commanded. Vector was turned roughly onto her back, and looked up into the faces of three people wearing full biocontainment gear. "Sandra, the syringe," the voice continued.</p>
<p>One of the three - a woman - walked forward carrying a small black leather pouch. Vector kicked out at her. The three figures just stepped back, and the one with the taser pressed a button. Another shock of lightning arced through her, and she let out a scream. The man with the taser moved the weapon to his other hand and drew a pistol from a hip holster. "That was one and two," he said, gesturing with the taser. "This is three." He kneeled next to her and placed the muzzle of the gun to her forehead.</p>
<p>Vector lay still, trembling, as the woman pinned her arm under one knee and cut the sleeve of her jacket away with a knife. She tied a rubber hose around her upper arm then expertly drew two large vials of blood. Finally, she inserted a large syringe of… something… into the girl's neck and waited, thumb resting on the plunger.</p>
<p>The third man, who had been watching the operation from the doorway, finally walked forward. He leaned in very close to Vector, and through his hood, she could see that he was an older man, his hair shot with grey, and his face lined with age. "Kevin Spencer," the old man said. "His name was Kevin Spencer."</p>
<p>"W-w-w-who?"</p>
<p>"The man you killed. He risked his life to set you free, and you murdered him. He had a wife and a child. He was a firm believer in the cause. He made the best barbecue ribs I have ever tasted, and you took all of that away from us. And why? To intimidate the others into following you? They would have done so if you had asked. Such a waste."</p>
<p>"F-f-f-fuck you… I d-d-d-d-don't work for y-y-y-y…"</p>
<p>"I know you don't. And I wouldn't dream of forcing you to do so. You are free to do as you wish. But freedom means living with the consequences of your actions. Sandra?"</p>
<p>The old man stepped back. The woman with the syringe leaned forward and showed Vector the two vials of blood. "This one we keep," the woman said, holding up one of the vials. "And this one you'll get back." She tucked the two vials into her suit pocket, then held up an empty glass bottle with a double-circle and arrows logo on it. "We took this from the Foundation when we raided them. Do you know what it is?"</p>
<p>Vector read the label through pain-blurred eyes. "No!" she screamed. "You can't!"</p>
<p>"Easy! Easy!" Sandra said. "Don't do something stupid! Listen… LISTEN TO ME!" she shouted, as Vector began to struggle. "I don't want to kill you, so shut up and LISTEN!"</p>
<p>Vector lay still, trembling. "Listen," Sandra repeated. "You took Kevin from us, so we're taking what you love away too. This is going to flush your body of all those viruses and germs you've been collecting…"</p>
<p>"Please, don't…"</p>
<p>"… but you're going to get back whatever is in that blood. But you only get that back if we feel you've learned your lesson. So if you were thinking about trying to screw us over? You're going to lose everything. Do you understand?"</p>
<p>Vector closed her eyes and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sandra grimly pressed down on the plunger of the syringe.</p>
<p>Fire ripped through the girl's body, and billions of lives were snuffed out in a cascade of chemical death.</p>
<p>She didn't know when it stopped, or when the dying ended. She was only even vaguely aware when the three monsters in their plastic suits left the room, or when someone lit a fire and burned down the laboratory. She did remember being carried out. She remembered curling up in his arms and weeping into his shoulder, feeling the distant, comforting sensation of the microorganisms in his body, wanting to pull them into her, but knowing that if she did, the flames rippling through her would simply kill them off.</p>
<p>It was just as she was being placed into the back seat of a car that her mind decided it had had enough and decided to cut out. Oblivion overcame her and she embraced it gladly.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Pull over," Michel ordered.</p>
<p>James pulled the van over to the side of the road, and Michel got out and walked over to a tree. He leaned against it, then vomited noisily into the grass.</p>
<p>"Fuck," Sandra grimaced. She reached for a box with a biohazard label on it taped to the side of the plastic-lined compartment, but was interrupted by the Professor putting a hand over hers.</p>
<p>"Wait here," the old man said. "I'll let you know if you need to worry."</p>
<p>He exited the makeshift quarantine compartment in the back of the van and walked to the side of the road, where Michel was now sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and tears streaming down his face. The Professor sat down next to the big Frenchman and put an arm around his wide shoulders, pulling him close. "I'm sorry," he said, simply. "It needed to be done."</p>
<p>"Did we have to do it like THAT!?" Michel asked. "That was… UGLY… it was…"</p>
<p>"I know," the Professor said. "I know. It was an unpleasant, hideous act to do to another human being. But so was what she did to Kevin. Justice needed to be done. A lesson needed to be taught."</p>
<p>"I'm done," Michel said. "I can't do this any more. Not after that."</p>
<p>The Professor nodded, and hugged the big man again. "You're a good soldier, Michel," he said. "You have fought well for the cause. Go home and be with your loved ones and enjoy the new world you are creating. Thank you for your service."</p>
<p>He helped the big man get to his feet and led him to the van. The rest of the trip passed in silence. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone understood.</p>
<hr/>
<p>She didn't remember much except that it was incredibly unpleasant and incredibly humiliating. On top of the pain of the serum racing through her body, there was the devastating effect it had on a body that had developed an equilibrium with billions of different kinds of lethal microorganisms, as well as many which were nonlethal. The effect on her digestive system alone didn't even bear thinking about.</p>
<p>The worst part where the nightmares. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw demons in white coats and surgical masks wielding syringes full of death. White rooms lit with fluorescent tubes that cast no shadows. A man with no head cut her apart with a scalpel, held the pieces up to the light, then dunked them in a greenish liquid and put them back where they had come from. Grinning midgets with wide mouths full of too many sharklike teeth sat in the rafters and cackled. "You'll never get out. You'll never get out."</p>
<p>The only comfort was when the Angel came. That was how she thought of him, for in her pain-induced delirium, his handsome face seemed suffused in a holy light. The Angel was the one who would wipe away her sweat from her feverish forehead. The Angel was the one who cleaned her up and changed her IVs. He held her hand throughout the worst of the pain, and whispered soft lullabies to her when she whimpered.</p>
<p>In her hour of loneliness, he was her friend, and she loved him for it.</p>
<hr/>
<p>When she finally emerged from her drug-induced delirium, she found herself lying on clean sheets in a soft bed. The sun was shining through a window in the attic room, casting a square of light onto the cheerful flower-print wallpaper. There was a framed cross-stitch on the wall across from her depicting two children playing on the front lawn of a red brick house. "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS," it read.</p>
<p>She felt empty… drained… alone. For the first time since she could remember, she was a single person, without the familiar warmth of her old friends nestled inside her. She closed her eyes and reached out, calling to her beloved microscopic companions: a virus here, a bacterium there. She called them to her, and they answered, and as they did so, she felt her strength return to her, felt her broken spirit rejuvenating.</p>
<p>The door opened, and a young man wearing an apron over his jeans and t-shirt walked in, carrying a large hot bowl of chicken soup. "Feeling better?" he asked, setting it down by her side. "It's good to see you awake again."</p>
<p>Vector looked up into his face, and she blushed. It was the Angel.</p>
<p>"Don't get up just yet," he said. "Let me check your vital signs first." He sat down next to her and checked her pulse and blood pressure, nodded at the numbers. "Much better," he said.</p>
<p>"How long was I out?" she asked.</p>
<p>"About a week. How are you feeling?" the young man asked.</p>
<p>"Better," Vector said. She twisted the sheets under her fingers tightly, nervously.</p>
<p>"You look better," the young man said kindly. "Is there something I can do for you?"</p>
<p>She felt a familiar taste in the air, and she smiled. "Yes," she whispered. "You can die."</p>
<p>Staphylococcus aureus is a contradictory bacteria. It is constantly present in the environment: on the skin, in the mucus membranes of the nose and throat, in acne. Approximately one in five humans is a carrier and, for the most part, coexist with it in relative peace. However, that same bacteria, which is harmless enough in most places, turns into one of the most virulent and deadly organisms known to man if allowed to infect the wrong tissues. In the skin, it causes necrotizing fasciitis, which literally eats skin and muscle tissue at an alarming rate. In the blood, it causes toxic shock syndrome, which can kill in hours. In spinal fluid, it causes meningitis, which can lead to brain damage and gangrene. In the lungs, pneumonia.</p>
<p>Vector hit him with all of them at once, then boosted the virulence as hard as she could. He was dead within seconds.</p>
<p>She stepped around over his twitching, decaying body and went to the wardrobe in the corner. As expected, all the clothes were some sort of hideous floral print frocks that looked like something a mother from a Norman Rockwell painting would wear. She picked the least disgusting looking one and changed into it, then threw an overcoat on over it. No shoes, but if she could just…</p>
<p>There was a loud crash, and then shouting. Gunfire cracked in bright, staccato beats: the high, bright crack of an assault rifle, underlaid by the lower booming of a shotgun. Then silence.</p>
<p>She ran to the window. There were men outside, wearing black tactical gear, and they were dragging two dead bodies into the back of an unmarked white van. Several more were moving towards the house with the smooth, practiced movements of professional soldiers. A couple more were pushing a nondescript white Toyota Camry off the dock and into a nearby lake: it splashed into the water and quickly sank from view.</p>
<p>The door opened, and a man wearing full hazmat gear, carrying a submachine gun, walked in. He held up a photo and nodded. "It's her."</p>
<p>Another man slung his rifle and drew a pistol, shooting her twice in the chest. She looked down and saw the yellow tassel of a dart sticking from her body, then the drugs took hold, and she passed out.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"This is Bobby. Tell Dark we have her."</p>
<hr/>
<p>Harken woke up around midnight with the distinct feeling there was someone in the room. Then he saw the silhouette standing at his window: the silhouette of a tall man wearing a fedora and long overcoat.</p>
<p>"You must think you're very clever, Mister Harken," the stranger said.</p>
<p>“I… ahh… like to think so, yes.”</p>
<p>"I will admit, your ruse was almost successful."</p>
<p>Harken thought for several seconds about denying it, but didn't see the point. “Only almost?”</p>
<p>"Just so. Let me tell you about the full consequences of your actions, Mister Harken," the stranger continued. "Because of your… tip… the GOC pulled elements from their strike team shadowing the girl known as 'Vector' to investigate the warehouse in question. The strike team was seconds away from breach when the overwatch element recognized the person known as "Boomer." They were barely able to abort the mission before what would certainly have been a costly and fatal mistake."</p>
<p>"Damn. Well, good on them. No harm no foul, I suppose?"</p>
<p>"But there was harm, Mister Harken. Because the GOC diverted elements to the warehouse, they dispatched only two agents to investigate the next likely lead: a farmhouse in Colorado. When they arrived, the agents were ambushed and killed. Shortly afterward, a UAV doing surveillance of the region showed several known employees of Marshall, Carter, and Dark carrying an unconscious female in her mid-twenties to an unmarked vehicle. The female was later confirmed to be the target in question."</p>
<p>Harken felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed hard. "The richies got the germ girl."</p>
<p>"All thanks to your little 'tip,' Mister Harken. All thanks to your little tip." The stranger walked to the bathroom door and waited with one hand on the handle. "Mister Harken. This is a war. You and yours need to seriously consider whose side you are on."</p>
<p>"Yeah? And whose side are you on?" Harken growled.</p>
<p>"You already know the answer to that, Mister Harken," the man said. "I'm on Nobody's side."</p>
<p>He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Harken already knew that by the time anyone else opened that door, it would be empty. He still rose and threw the door open on the cool, tile lined darkness. Not surprising, really.</p>
<p>After all, Nobody could get out of a locked room with only one door.</p>
<p>He sighed heavily, thinking of the report he'd have to file, leaning on the door frame.</p>
<p>“Kramer's never gonna let me hear the end of this.”</p>
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<p>"<a href="/gdp2-point-in-line">Point In Line</a>" by DrClef and Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-point-in-line">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-point-in-line</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
“//Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…//”
The fat man hummed and sang tunelessly, walking around the brightly lit work area. Everywhere else was deeply dark, the humps and points of old factory equipment looming in the old auto plant. Several large machines had been cleared away, and heavy, steel tables set up, along with huge shelves, all of it covered with junk. At least, it looked like junk to the untrained eye. A bomb technician would have taken one look at that tangle, and run screaming for the hills.
“//Chicka boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…//”
Boomer always worked with his shirt off. He'd been teased mercilessly for the huge sweat stains he'd always made on his shirts in grade school, and the pain had stayed with him his entire life, making partial, hideous nudity preferable to a damp shirt. (Never mind that he'd beaten the child who had started the teasing to death in the woods years and years ago. Some things just stuck.)
“//Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…//”
He was just starting to fit a shock plate to the main detonation assembly when a chiming started. He grunted, freezing and trying to isolate the sound with no small amount of concern, before finally slumping and fishing his phone from his greasy pants pocket.
“Hi, Mom. No, I'm fine, Mom, I was just working.”
“… No, Mom, I like talking to you. It's fine, really…”
“. . . Yes, I'm taking them, Mom… I just don't like how they make me feel, Mom, it's not…”
“No, Mom, I'm not dis-”
“… Mom…”
“…s-stop… M-m-m-mom, I-I hate i-it whe-”
“…”
“But I c-c-can't h-h-h-h-help it!”
There was a sudden, audible squawking from the phone, the massive man wincing down and away, as if from a blow imagined or remembered,
“… I-I'm sorry, Mom…”
“I'm sorry… I won't ever speak that way again…”
“I love you too, Mom…”
Boomer hung up the phone, then sat for a bit, trembling. He sniffed thickly, glaring down at the phone. He put it on the table, eyes welling with tears. He smashed his fist against it with the force of a good sized car. He smashed it again and again, a thin, ragged squealing leaking from his thick lips as he pounded the phone to bits, blood and scraps of skin smearing over the bench and the ragged wreck of the phone. He stared down at the bloody, shattered mess, heedless of his dripping hand, thick chest rising and falling in great heaves.
The fat man then pushed the whole mess to the floor, sucking on his ripped and bloody fist like a baby, starting to hum around it again as he started fittings wires back into his current project.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Jesus, I almost feel sorry for the bastard. Then I feel that spot where I'm supposed to have a molar.”
Harken winced, looking away from the small screen, his face a ragged patchwork of tape and a few stitches. The rest of him was encased in enough plaster to count as armor, his right hand little more then a heavily braced claw. Kramer had been playing nursemaid: that is to say, she was checking to see what still hurt. Often. With her finger.
“So does that spot on your neck still hurt wh-”
“FUCK!”
“Okay, so yes.”
Harken shifted away from his poker-faced tormentor, trying to focus on the small LCD screen. They'd managed to track down Boomer's lair without a massive amount of issue. That being said, they'd kept well away, just getting a robot close enough to attach a tiny camera to the roof. Boomer was the type to leave loads of bombs, traps and other assorted goodies laying around in a nightmare combination of cunning and blind, absentminded stupidity. You could plan around a smart enemy, a dumb one was prone to blowing your intelligent, well-planned ass off at random.
They'd been watching Boomer for a couple days now, and every hour was more pathetic then the last. Yes, Boomer was a brutal, sadistic psychopath, but he was also apparently a pathetic, broken man with no real life, friends, or interests. No wonder he was so loyal to Dark: he'd probably never had a purpose or praise before Mr. Dark had stepped in.
Harken set the portable viewscreen down, gingerly rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so, we know where the fat boy is going to be, but I'm not really overeager to get blown up trying to get to him.”
“I could always drop in, or slide a shot through one of those upper windows.”
“No, no, that's a bitch of a shot, and one miss could blow the whole place. Plus, who knows how he has the place rigged? I reviewed some files Central Records had on him: apparently a GOC strike team tried sneaking into a house he was using. They managed to blow up nearly a city block, and lost the whole team. Boomer wasn't even home.”
“So what's your big plan?" Kramer asked. "I'm not overeager to wonder on every mission whether or not there's a random explosive or fat sociopath waiting in the wings. Plus, the only one who gets to slap you around is me. See, like thi-”
“FUCK!”
“Wow, that cast doesn't act as a buffer at all, does it?”
“ANYWAY. I think I have a idea…isn't there a GOC squad in the area, hunting for… uhh… oh dammit, that one germ bitch, whatshername…”
“SCP-353, Vector.”
“That's the one. Maybe they need to accidentally intercept a secured Foundation transmission discussing the difficulty of extracting the poor girl from the warehouse she's holed up in.”
“But she's not -- oh. Clever. Meanwhile, what do we do about her? Someone needs to get her back to site.”
“Oh to hell with that, some MTF can go after that bitch. The last thing I need is an infection right now.”
“Yeah, I know. This looks like it's kinda red and-”
“FUCK!!”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Bobby, Bobby, my love, get in here, it's great to see you!”
“Can't say the same.”
“Oh Bobby, that's why I love you. While all the world cries for my amusement, I can always count on you to be the same hard-nosed prick as always.”
Bobby was standing at parade rest just inside the doorway to the terrible man's office. It looked more like a overstuffed museum, with layers of carpets, relics, and assorted treasure covering every available surface in a haphazard fashion. There was probably more money in this room then some third world nation's gross national product, but it just looked like a old antique shop. Mr. Marshall sat in a wine-dark upholstered chair to one side, the fabric probably worth more then his life right now. Mr. Dark reclined behind a small, chipped desk. If Bobby recalled correctly, it was the same one the “From Hell” Jack The Ripper letter had been penned on.
“You seem in tolerable shape, lad. None the worse for wear after your little stint in the nuthatch?”
“…I'm fine, sir.”
Bobby looked sidelong at Marshall, who was pointedly observing his fingernails. Bobby's hard mouth twitched, washed-out brown eyes narrowing in all that he would allow to show of his anger. For now. He'd been forced to mop up one of Marshall's little… accidents… but the cleanup had gotten out of hand. People had died. The police had caught him. Thankfully, Carter had been able to pull some strings and get him off death row and into an asylum - one, coincidentally, owned by a member of the Club.
The rest had been nice: the days slow and easy, with nothing to do but watch the actual crazies and attend "therapy" sessions that mostly consisted of shooting the shit with other MC&D employees. He'd even gotten laid a few times: there was no shortage of attractive and heavily medicated female "patients" who, if not exactly willing, were not prone to believable protest. Still, he'd known better than to relax. Service to Marshall, Carter, and Dark ended with death alone. He hoped.
“Bobby, you're a busy boy, so I'll not shilly-shally any more," Dark said. "Persons who shall remain nameless have bobbled the ball both on our patch and others. You feel up to hitting the pavement and shoring up our collection?”
“Why are you asking me? I don't have a choice, do I?”
Dark laughed, rising from his chair, waving a hand to Marshall as he crossed to stand in front of Bobby.
“Would you look at this glorious boy?” he chortled, turning and winking at Marshall. “You'd think he was still a cop out in Whitechapel, and me some smuggler who's making him go crooked. No, Bobby, you don't have a choice. Few do, really. You should feel privileged not to have to bear up the weight of those illusions.”
“Oh yes," Bobby said, flatly. "Deeply honored.”
Dark smiled coldly, tilting his head a bit and locking eyes with Bobby. “Do this, and do it well Bobby. You know the stakes, and I always pay well. I'm a man of my word. It's up to you to choose what word it is I keep.”
They stared for a few heartbeats, one dark, one gray, an almost audible tension crackling in the air. Bobby finally straightened, snapping off a salute that might as well have been a middle finger, and turned on his heels, marching out. Dark chuckled coldly, watching the door for several seconds before turning back to his desk.
Marshall spoke up from the depths of the chair, rubbing his eye absently. “He's going to turn on you, you know that.”
“Of course he's going to turn on me. Why the hell else would I keep that grating son of a bitch around?”
Marshall stared at Dark, shaking his head in confusion. Dark lit a black cigar, blowing a thick cloud across the small office. “You know the difference between you, Carter, and me?” Dark asked.
“What's that?”
“Ambition. See, you two lunatics would be more than happy to gut me, kill off your rival, and set yourself as Emperor Of All That Is. Then again, you're both bloody hedonistic bastards. It's in your nature to take all you can get your hands on, and that's both useful and amusing. However, if you rule all that is… what then? How many families can you burn and force into auto-cannibalism before the blush wears off? How long can you bask in the admiration and fear of a planet before it just wafts into the background?”
“I… what…”
“Shut up when the adults are talking, Marshall. I want to enjoy myself, to have some bloody fun, eh? Sometimes that's sitting out in a spring breeze, being served tea warmed on a pretty girl's lap. Sometimes it's watching a child try and scramble around the rabid animals eating their parents. Sometimes it's just eating a really good steak. It's all relative, really. I don't want to crush all reality below my heel… just small, easily observable and touchable parts of it, now and then. I don't have ambition, Marshall, which means my ego will tolerate a threat. I welcome it, really.”
“So… you're just letting him plot against you?”
“Of course I am, you bloody twit! I bloody well helped him along! I was the biggest bastard I could be to him, hurt his loved ones, corrupted his oh-so-sacred morals. . . It was damned exhausting. Still, it's paying off… I think this is the time, this is it. Can you imagine the thrill of excitement and fear, knowing that someone could lash out, rise up, and generally throw the standard state of things in the fire, at any moment? Makes everything seem… fresher, more clear. Why do you think I insisted the team have those little cameras? When Bobby does finally go, I want to be able to relive it.”
“You're a sick man, Dark.”
“And you're a unimaginative twat, but I don't throw it in your face, now do I? Who do we bloody have on that fox girl? I want a status report within the hour, and I want to know where the hell she's gotten off to even sooner. Now get the hell out of my office.”
-----
"//I've got somethin' to say…"// the girl hummed, as she picked through the racks of vials on the refrigerator shelf. "//I killed your baby today. It doesn't matter much to me as long as it's dead…//"
She read the label on one particular vial and smiled. Popping the top off the small glass tube, she threw her head back and drank it down in one gulp, savoring the taste as it went down. She felt the lovely little microbes begin to attack her body, but it was a simple enough matter to calm them down, to get them dancing in harmony with the rest of her little darlings.
"//I've got something to say…//" she continued, pouring the can of gasoline all over the refrigerator room. "//I raped your momma today. It doesn't matter much as long as she spread…//"
The body of a white-coated researcher was slumped in his chair bleeding from every orifice: Ebola was not a good way to go. "//Sweet lovely death, I'm waiting for your breath,//" she sang, as she lit a match. "//Sweet lovely death one last car-hnnnnngh!//"
The last note of her song dissolved into a grunt of pain as ten thousand volts of electricity coursed through her body. She collapsed in a heap, dropping the box of matches and scattering them all over the clean room. She tried to get back to her feet, but a second jolt of lightning sent her crashing back down to the ground.
She tried to reach out with her viruses, to lash out with everything she had, but yet another jolt from the taser broke her concentration. "None of that, my dear," a sonorous voice commanded. Vector was turned roughly onto her back, and looked up into the faces of three people wearing full biocontainment gear. "Sandra, the syringe," the voice continued.
One of the three - a woman - walked forward carrying a small black leather pouch. Vector kicked out at her. The three figures just stepped back, and the one with the taser pressed a button. Another shock of lightning arced through her, and she let out a scream. The man with the taser moved the weapon to his other hand and drew a pistol from a hip holster. "That was one and two," he said, gesturing with the taser. "This is three." He kneeled next to her and placed the muzzle of the gun to her forehead.
Vector lay still, trembling, as the woman pinned her arm under one knee and cut the sleeve of her jacket away with a knife. She tied a rubber hose around her upper arm then expertly drew two large vials of blood. Finally, she inserted a large syringe of. . . something. . . into the girl's neck and waited, thumb resting on the plunger.
The third man, who had been watching the operation from the doorway, finally walked forward. He leaned in very close to Vector, and through his hood, she could see that he was an older man, his hair shot with grey, and his face lined with age. "Kevin Spencer," the old man said. "His name was Kevin Spencer."
"W-w-w-who?"
"The man you killed. He risked his life to set you free, and you murdered him. He had a wife and a child. He was a firm believer in the cause. He made the best barbecue ribs I have ever tasted, and you took all of that away from us. And why? To intimidate the others into following you? They would have done so if you had asked. Such a waste."
"F-f-f-fuck you… I d-d-d-d-don't work for y-y-y-y…"
"I know you don't. And I wouldn't dream of forcing you to do so. You are free to do as you wish. But freedom means living with the consequences of your actions. Sandra?"
The old man stepped back. The woman with the syringe leaned forward and showed Vector the two vials of blood. "This one we keep," the woman said, holding up one of the vials. "And this one you'll get back." She tucked the two vials into her suit pocket, then held up an empty glass bottle with a double-circle and arrows logo on it. "We took this from the Foundation when we raided them. Do you know what it is?"
Vector read the label through pain-blurred eyes. "No!" she screamed. "You can't!"
"Easy! Easy!" Sandra said. "Don't do something stupid! Listen… LISTEN TO ME!" she shouted, as Vector began to struggle. "I don't want to kill you, so shut up and LISTEN!"
Vector lay still, trembling. "Listen," Sandra repeated. "You took Kevin from us, so we're taking what you love away too. This is going to flush your body of all those viruses and germs you've been collecting…"
"Please, don't…"
"… but you're going to get back whatever is in that blood. But you only get that back if we feel you've learned your lesson. So if you were thinking about trying to screw us over? You're going to lose everything. Do you understand?"
Vector closed her eyes and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sandra grimly pressed down on the plunger of the syringe.
Fire ripped through the girl's body, and billions of lives were snuffed out in a cascade of chemical death.
She didn't know when it stopped, or when the dying ended. She was only even vaguely aware when the three monsters in their plastic suits left the room, or when someone lit a fire and burned down the laboratory. She did remember being carried out. She remembered curling up in his arms and weeping into his shoulder, feeling the distant, comforting sensation of the microorganisms in his body, wanting to pull them into her, but knowing that if she did, the flames rippling through her would simply kill them off.
It was just as she was being placed into the back seat of a car that her mind decided it had had enough and decided to cut out. Oblivion overcame her and she embraced it gladly.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Pull over," Michel ordered.
James pulled the van over to the side of the road, and Michel got out and walked over to a tree. He leaned against it, then vomited noisily into the grass.
"Fuck," Sandra grimaced. She reached for a box with a biohazard label on it taped to the side of the plastic-lined compartment, but was interrupted by the Professor putting a hand over hers.
"Wait here," the old man said. "I'll let you know if you need to worry."
He exited the makeshift quarantine compartment in the back of the van and walked to the side of the road, where Michel was now sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and tears streaming down his face. The Professor sat down next to the big Frenchman and put an arm around his wide shoulders, pulling him close. "I'm sorry," he said, simply. "It needed to be done."
"Did we have to do it like THAT!?" Michel asked. "That was… UGLY… it was…"
"I know," the Professor said. "I know. It was an unpleasant, hideous act to do to another human being. But so was what she did to Kevin. Justice needed to be done. A lesson needed to be taught."
"I'm done," Michel said. "I can't do this any more. Not after that."
The Professor nodded, and hugged the big man again. "You're a good soldier, Michel," he said. "You have fought well for the cause. Go home and be with your loved ones and enjoy the new world you are creating. Thank you for your service."
He helped the big man get to his feet and led him to the van. The rest of the trip passed in silence. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone understood.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She didn't remember much except that it was incredibly unpleasant and incredibly humiliating. On top of the pain of the serum racing through her body, there was the devastating effect it had on a body that had developed an equilibrium with billions of different kinds of lethal microorganisms, as well as many which were nonlethal. The effect on her digestive system alone didn't even bear thinking about.
The worst part where the nightmares. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw demons in white coats and surgical masks wielding syringes full of death. White rooms lit with fluorescent tubes that cast no shadows. A man with no head cut her apart with a scalpel, held the pieces up to the light, then dunked them in a greenish liquid and put them back where they had come from. Grinning midgets with wide mouths full of too many sharklike teeth sat in the rafters and cackled. "You'll never get out. You'll never get out."
The only comfort was when the Angel came. That was how she thought of him, for in her pain-induced delirium, his handsome face seemed suffused in a holy light. The Angel was the one who would wipe away her sweat from her feverish forehead. The Angel was the one who cleaned her up and changed her IVs. He held her hand throughout the worst of the pain, and whispered soft lullabies to her when she whimpered.
In her hour of loneliness, he was her friend, and she loved him for it.
-----
When she finally emerged from her drug-induced delirium, she found herself lying on clean sheets in a soft bed. The sun was shining through a window in the attic room, casting a square of light onto the cheerful flower-print wallpaper. There was a framed cross-stitch on the wall across from her depicting two children playing on the front lawn of a red brick house. "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS," it read.
She felt empty… drained… alone. For the first time since she could remember, she was a single person, without the familiar warmth of her old friends nestled inside her. She closed her eyes and reached out, calling to her beloved microscopic companions: a virus here, a bacterium there. She called them to her, and they answered, and as they did so, she felt her strength return to her, felt her broken spirit rejuvenating.
The door opened, and a young man wearing an apron over his jeans and t-shirt walked in, carrying a large hot bowl of chicken soup. "Feeling better?" he asked, setting it down by her side. "It's good to see you awake again."
Vector looked up into his face, and she blushed. It was the Angel.
"Don't get up just yet," he said. "Let me check your vital signs first." He sat down next to her and checked her pulse and blood pressure, nodded at the numbers. "Much better," he said.
"How long was I out?" she asked.
"About a week. How are you feeling?" the young man asked.
"Better," Vector said. She twisted the sheets under her fingers tightly, nervously.
"You look better," the young man said kindly. "Is there something I can do for you?"
She felt a familiar taste in the air, and she smiled. "Yes," she whispered. "You can die."
Staphylococcus aureus is a contradictory bacteria. It is constantly present in the environment: on the skin, in the mucus membranes of the nose and throat, in acne. Approximately one in five humans is a carrier and, for the most part, coexist with it in relative peace. However, that same bacteria, which is harmless enough in most places, turns into one of the most virulent and deadly organisms known to man if allowed to infect the wrong tissues. In the skin, it causes necrotizing fasciitis, which literally eats skin and muscle tissue at an alarming rate. In the blood, it causes toxic shock syndrome, which can kill in hours. In spinal fluid, it causes meningitis, which can lead to brain damage and gangrene. In the lungs, pneumonia.
Vector hit him with all of them at once, then boosted the virulence as hard as she could. He was dead within seconds.
She stepped around over his twitching, decaying body and went to the wardrobe in the corner. As expected, all the clothes were some sort of hideous floral print frocks that looked like something a mother from a Norman Rockwell painting would wear. She picked the least disgusting looking one and changed into it, then threw an overcoat on over it. No shoes, but if she could just. . .
There was a loud crash, and then shouting. Gunfire cracked in bright, staccato beats: the high, bright crack of an assault rifle, underlaid by the lower booming of a shotgun. Then silence.
She ran to the window. There were men outside, wearing black tactical gear, and they were dragging two dead bodies into the back of an unmarked white van. Several more were moving towards the house with the smooth, practiced movements of professional soldiers. A couple more were pushing a nondescript white Toyota Camry off the dock and into a nearby lake: it splashed into the water and quickly sank from view.
The door opened, and a man wearing full hazmat gear, carrying a submachine gun, walked in. He held up a photo and nodded. "It's her."
Another man slung his rifle and drew a pistol, shooting her twice in the chest. She looked down and saw the yellow tassel of a dart sticking from her body, then the drugs took hold, and she passed out.
-----
"This is Bobby. Tell Dark we have her."
-----
Harken woke up around midnight with the distinct feeling there was someone in the room. Then he saw the silhouette standing at his window: the silhouette of a tall man wearing a fedora and long overcoat.
"You must think you're very clever, Mister Harken," the stranger said.
“I… ahh… like to think so, yes.”
"I will admit, your ruse was almost successful."
Harken thought for several seconds about denying it, but didn't see the point. “Only almost?”
"Just so. Let me tell you about the full consequences of your actions, Mister Harken," the stranger continued. "Because of your… tip… the GOC pulled elements from their strike team shadowing the girl known as 'Vector' to investigate the warehouse in question. The strike team was seconds away from breach when the overwatch element recognized the person known as "Boomer." They were barely able to abort the mission before what would certainly have been a costly and fatal mistake."
"Damn. Well, good on them. No harm no foul, I suppose?"
"But there was harm, Mister Harken. Because the GOC diverted elements to the warehouse, they dispatched only two agents to investigate the next likely lead: a farmhouse in Colorado. When they arrived, the agents were ambushed and killed. Shortly afterward, a UAV doing surveillance of the region showed several known employees of Marshall, Carter, and Dark carrying an unconscious female in her mid-twenties to an unmarked vehicle. The female was later confirmed to be the target in question."
Harken felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed hard. "The richies got the germ girl."
"All thanks to your little 'tip,' Mister Harken. All thanks to your little tip." The stranger walked to the bathroom door and waited with one hand on the handle. "Mister Harken. This is a war. You and yours need to seriously consider whose side you are on."
"Yeah? And whose side are you on?" Harken growled.
"You already know the answer to that, Mister Harken," the man said. "I'm on Nobody's side."
He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Harken already knew that by the time anyone else opened that door, it would be empty. He still rose and threw the door open on the cool, tile lined darkness. Not surprising, really.
After all, Nobody could get out of a locked room with only one door.
He sighed heavily, thinking of the report he'd have to file, leaning on the door frame.
“Kramer's never gonna let me hear the end of this.”
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|author=DrClef and Dr Gears]]
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"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"nobody-hub",
"marshall-carter-and-dark-hub",
"gamedaypart2index",
"goc-hub-page"
] | [] | 12032717 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-point-in-line |
|
gdp2-second-language | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<hr/>
<p><strong>[Tempest Night, 18:43]</strong></p>
<p>Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343.</p>
<p>He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study.</p>
<p>343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I’ve been expecting you.” 343 said calmly.</p>
<p>Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.”</p>
<p>“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here. I have a gift for you.”</p>
<p>He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes.</p>
<p>The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what’s left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always.</p>
<p>Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343’s voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage.</p>
<p>“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.”</p>
<p>“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you’ll understand one day.”</p>
<p>Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out.</p>
<p>“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up <a href="/scp-911">SCP-911</a> and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don’t touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.”</p>
<p>"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired.</p>
<p>The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson’s thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days.</p>
<p>“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">343</span> 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-second-language">Game Day Phase 2: Second Language</a>" by DrClef and eric_h, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-second-language">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-second-language</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
-----
**[Tempest Night, 18:43]**
Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343.
He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study.
343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I’ve been expecting you.” 343 said calmly.
Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.”
“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here. I have a gift for you.”
He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes.
The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what’s left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always.
Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343’s voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage.
“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.”
“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you’ll understand one day.”
Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out.
“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked.
“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up [[[SCP-911]]] and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don’t touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.”
"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired.
The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson’s thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days.
“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday --343-- 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English.
He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>
|author=DrClef and eric_h]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-01T01:51:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"alleged-god",
"co-authored",
"doctor-clef",
"game-day",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Game Day Phase 2: Second Language - SCP Foundation | 27 | [
"scp-911",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"gamedaypart2index",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11970913 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-second-language |
|
gdp2-sometimes-you-get-the-bear | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved up the hill in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN.</p>
<p>Then some asshole on the second floor of the target house ruined everything by shooting a cheap-ass Vietnamese-made version of Chinese knockoff of an AK-47 assault rifle at them and waking up all the neighbors.</p>
<p>The next few minutes didn't go so well for the members of MTF-Rho-Niner.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Fucking EMPTY!" Agent Chimes shouted, slamming his assault vest down onto the steel table. He slammed his fists down onto the table, then buried his face in both hands in frustration, smearing his soot-black face paint. "Third fucking time!"</p>
<p>"At least we got the guy that was shooting at us," Agent Chu said.</p>
<p>"Hey, Chuface, get a clue. That's what that asshole was SUPPOSED to do: slow us down so that the rest of the motherfuckers could bug out. Fucking SHIT! Third fucking time!" Chimes shouted. "What the fuck!?"</p>
<p>"Pipe down, Chimes, you're starting to piss me off," Sergeant Minh growled. "We're all pissed, no need to scream about it."</p>
<p>"That's right," Lieutenant Jameson agreed. "We've got bigger problems to deal with."</p>
<p>"Like explaining how a fucking million dollar neighborhood in richville California got shot up by a bunch of bozos in black suits?" Chimes asked.</p>
<p>"What? No, that's easy. We blame it on terrorists or drug traffickers or something. My issue is, how the hell did they see us coming?"</p>
<p>"Easy," Chimes said. "Some newbie fucked up: forgot to blacken a buckle or silence a tag or something. That's how all these things get fucked up."</p>
<p>"Hey! Shut the hell up, Chimes. You went over the newbs' gear same as me. Everyone was as black as night and as quiet as a mouse. We were CLEAN," Minh pointed out.</p>
<p>"And it doesn't explain how they bugged out before we even got there. And they had to have bugged out before that. They pulled the disk drives on their computers before they left: that's not a ten second job. Something, or someone, tipped them off before we even got there."</p>
<p>"Could there be a mole, LT?" Chu asked.</p>
<p>"God forbid," Jameson said. "But that doesn't make any sense either. This op's been planned for over a week. If there was a mole, the targets would have spooked and left days ago. There were plates of uneaten food on the tables and bomb-making equipment left in the basement: that tells us they left quickly. So we're looking at a window of around thirty minutes to one hour: long enough to grab a few things and haul ass, but not long enough to take all their shit with them."</p>
<p>"Where did they go, anyway? We had a perimeter around the whole place, but no one saw a fucking thing."</p>
<p>"Not important. The important thing is that everyone was gone before we even hit the house. If we'd had surprise, they would have still been there, no matter how they got out. So their escape route is irrelevant, if we can hit them before they manage to take it. So let's focus on the surprise part," Jameson said. "Let's go through the op step by step. Arrival?"</p>
<p>"Twenty-four hours before op. Three different methods," Sergeant Minh said. "Four of us arrived by train, four by plane, four drove in with the moving vans full of gear. Civilian clothes. No one's carrying except the gear pukes, and they didn't get stopped by anyone."</p>
<p>"Mmmm. Seemed fine, but let's break it up a bit more next time. Asymmetric groups. Housing?"</p>
<p>"Two separate motels. Separate cover stories and check-in times for each group of two. Rooms swept for bugs. Everything was clean, no one broke cover even in the rooms." Chimes said.</p>
<p>"Good. Those walls are thin: if you can hear people banging hookers the next room over, it's not that hard for some vacationer to overhear some black ops shit if you're not careful. Casing?"</p>
<p>"My job, LT," Chu said, raising his hand. "I was on the roof of the house one block over. Total thermoptic camo. Guy who owned the house didn't even know I was there, no way the assholes in the target house coulda seen me."</p>
<p>"And you confirmed the target was there?" Jameson asked.</p>
<p>"I saw him three times," Chu said. He flipped out a small notebook. "At three separate moments. First at 7 am when…"</p>
<p>"Never mind. I trust you. All right, so we arrive clean, we scout the target, no one knows we're there at this point. What about staging?" Jameson asked.</p>
<p>"None. We did all that shit en route," Minh said. "Everyone changed and got geared up in the vans."</p>
<p>"… in the vans," Jameson repeated. He looked out the safe house window at the Chevy Suburbans in the parking lot.</p>
<p>"Yeah. We didn't want any neighbors seeing a bunch of guys in a parking lot with guns, so we had everyone get prepped in the vans on the way up," Minh continued. "We picked the guys up at the rendezvous points, then got everyone's gear situated…"</p>
<p>"… and we headed up the hill," Jameson said, slowly.</p>
<p>"… fuck," Chimes sighed.</p>
<p>"… in three vans of the same make and model… hell, they're even the same COLOR…" Jameson noted.</p>
<p>"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Sorry, LT. I fucked that one up. I was the one who got the vehicles. My fucking bad," Chimes admitted.</p>
<p>"Don't be too hard on yourself, Chimes," Jameson said, not unkindly. "I shoulda seen it too."</p>
<p>"Yeah, but you didn't. I should have. Wheels was my job," Chimes groaned. "Fuck, I'm such a fucking retard. Three fucking black suburbans coming up the hill at midnight… shit, anyone would bug out if they saw that coming!"</p>
<p>"We'll fix that for next time. We get a white soccer mom van, a hearse, maybe a limo. We mix up the vehicles, and we mix up arrival times. Space it out over ten minutes. Lesson learned. Everyone get some rest, we'll be doing this again soon enough."</p>
<p>"Right, LT."</p>
<p>"Copy."</p>
<hr/>
<p>Two weeks later…</p>
<p>The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved down the street in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN.</p>
<p>They kicked down the front door of the target house and threw in flashbangs, causing the entire house to light up like a camera flash. Then they stormed in like the wrath of god, weapons raised, moving with precision and speed from room to room, sweeping every corner, searching every dark place for hidden enemies.</p>
<p>They were two rooms in when they saw the first dead body: some guy wearing heart-print boxers and a "Big Johnson" t-shirt lying dead over the kitchen counter. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and splashed with blood. Same with the next room. And the next.</p>
<p>It wasn't until they got to the living room, though, that Chimes took off his mask and cussed loudly. That was where they found the eight other members of the Chaos Insurgency cell laying on the rug, lined up neatly in a row, each of them with three rounds center-mass. There was a piece of paper pinned to one of their chests. Lieutenant Jameson carefully picked it up, then sighed.</p>
<p>"Fuck," he muttered.</p>
<p>"Basement's empty," Chu said, coming up the stairs. "Everything's gone. Hard drives, bombs, and the skip."</p>
<p>"Call it in, Minh," Jameson said. "I think this op's over."</p>
<p>He tossed the piece of paper onto the ground and walked out. Chu saw four words written in black sharpie, and the laurel leaves and pentacle logo of the Global Occult Coalition on the letterhead.</p>
<p>BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, it said.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-sometimes-you-get-the-bear">"Sometimes You Get the Bear. . ."</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-sometimes-you-get-the-bear">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-sometimes-you-get-the-bear</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved up the hill in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN.
Then some asshole on the second floor of the target house ruined everything by shooting a cheap-ass Vietnamese-made version of Chinese knockoff of an AK-47 assault rifle at them and waking up all the neighbors.
The next few minutes didn't go so well for the members of MTF-Rho-Niner.
-----
"Fucking EMPTY!" Agent Chimes shouted, slamming his assault vest down onto the steel table. He slammed his fists down onto the table, then buried his face in both hands in frustration, smearing his soot-black face paint. "Third fucking time!"
"At least we got the guy that was shooting at us," Agent Chu said.
"Hey, Chuface, get a clue. That's what that asshole was SUPPOSED to do: slow us down so that the rest of the motherfuckers could bug out. Fucking SHIT! Third fucking time!" Chimes shouted. "What the fuck!?"
"Pipe down, Chimes, you're starting to piss me off," Sergeant Minh growled. "We're all pissed, no need to scream about it."
"That's right," Lieutenant Jameson agreed. "We've got bigger problems to deal with."
"Like explaining how a fucking million dollar neighborhood in richville California got shot up by a bunch of bozos in black suits?" Chimes asked.
"What? No, that's easy. We blame it on terrorists or drug traffickers or something. My issue is, how the hell did they see us coming?"
"Easy," Chimes said. "Some newbie fucked up: forgot to blacken a buckle or silence a tag or something. That's how all these things get fucked up."
"Hey! Shut the hell up, Chimes. You went over the newbs' gear same as me. Everyone was as black as night and as quiet as a mouse. We were CLEAN," Minh pointed out.
"And it doesn't explain how they bugged out before we even got there. And they had to have bugged out before that. They pulled the disk drives on their computers before they left: that's not a ten second job. Something, or someone, tipped them off before we even got there."
"Could there be a mole, LT?" Chu asked.
"God forbid," Jameson said. "But that doesn't make any sense either. This op's been planned for over a week. If there was a mole, the targets would have spooked and left days ago. There were plates of uneaten food on the tables and bomb-making equipment left in the basement: that tells us they left quickly. So we're looking at a window of around thirty minutes to one hour: long enough to grab a few things and haul ass, but not long enough to take all their shit with them."
"Where did they go, anyway? We had a perimeter around the whole place, but no one saw a fucking thing."
"Not important. The important thing is that everyone was gone before we even hit the house. If we'd had surprise, they would have still been there, no matter how they got out. So their escape route is irrelevant, if we can hit them before they manage to take it. So let's focus on the surprise part," Jameson said. "Let's go through the op step by step. Arrival?"
"Twenty-four hours before op. Three different methods," Sergeant Minh said. "Four of us arrived by train, four by plane, four drove in with the moving vans full of gear. Civilian clothes. No one's carrying except the gear pukes, and they didn't get stopped by anyone."
"Mmmm. Seemed fine, but let's break it up a bit more next time. Asymmetric groups. Housing?"
"Two separate motels. Separate cover stories and check-in times for each group of two. Rooms swept for bugs. Everything was clean, no one broke cover even in the rooms." Chimes said.
"Good. Those walls are thin: if you can hear people banging hookers the next room over, it's not that hard for some vacationer to overhear some black ops shit if you're not careful. Casing?"
"My job, LT," Chu said, raising his hand. "I was on the roof of the house one block over. Total thermoptic camo. Guy who owned the house didn't even know I was there, no way the assholes in the target house coulda seen me."
"And you confirmed the target was there?" Jameson asked.
"I saw him three times," Chu said. He flipped out a small notebook. "At three separate moments. First at 7 am when. . ."
"Never mind. I trust you. All right, so we arrive clean, we scout the target, no one knows we're there at this point. What about staging?" Jameson asked.
"None. We did all that shit en route," Minh said. "Everyone changed and got geared up in the vans."
". . . in the vans," Jameson repeated. He looked out the safe house window at the Chevy Suburbans in the parking lot.
"Yeah. We didn't want any neighbors seeing a bunch of guys in a parking lot with guns, so we had everyone get prepped in the vans on the way up," Minh continued. "We picked the guys up at the rendezvous points, then got everyone's gear situated. . ."
". . . and we headed up the hill," Jameson said, slowly.
". . . fuck," Chimes sighed.
". . . in three vans of the same make and model. . . hell, they're even the same COLOR. . ." Jameson noted.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Sorry, LT. I fucked that one up. I was the one who got the vehicles. My fucking bad," Chimes admitted.
"Don't be too hard on yourself, Chimes," Jameson said, not unkindly. "I shoulda seen it too."
"Yeah, but you didn't. I should have. Wheels was my job," Chimes groaned. "Fuck, I'm such a fucking retard. Three fucking black suburbans coming up the hill at midnight. . . shit, anyone would bug out if they saw that coming!"
"We'll fix that for next time. We get a white soccer mom van, a hearse, maybe a limo. We mix up the vehicles, and we mix up arrival times. Space it out over ten minutes. Lesson learned. Everyone get some rest, we'll be doing this again soon enough."
"Right, LT."
"Copy."
-----
Two weeks later. . .
The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved down the street in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN.
They kicked down the front door of the target house and threw in flashbangs, causing the entire house to light up like a camera flash. Then they stormed in like the wrath of god, weapons raised, moving with precision and speed from room to room, sweeping every corner, searching every dark place for hidden enemies.
They were two rooms in when they saw the first dead body: some guy wearing heart-print boxers and a "Big Johnson" t-shirt lying dead over the kitchen counter. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and splashed with blood. Same with the next room. And the next.
It wasn't until they got to the living room, though, that Chimes took off his mask and cussed loudly. That was where they found the eight other members of the Chaos Insurgency cell laying on the rug, lined up neatly in a row, each of them with three rounds center-mass. There was a piece of paper pinned to one of their chests. Lieutenant Jameson carefully picked it up, then sighed.
"Fuck," he muttered.
"Basement's empty," Chu said, coming up the stairs. "Everything's gone. Hard drives, bombs, and the skip."
"Call it in, Minh," Jameson said. "I think this op's over."
He tossed the piece of paper onto the ground and walked out. Chu saw four words written in black sharpie, and the laurel leaves and pentacle logo of the Global Occult Coalition on the letterhead.
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, it said.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-01T17:40:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"action",
"chaos-insurgency",
"game-day",
"global-occult-coalition",
"military-fiction",
"tale"
] | "Sometimes You Get the Bear. . ." - SCP Foundation | 52 | [
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] | [
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
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] | [] | 11975027 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-sometimes-you-get-the-bear |
|
gdp2-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>It wasn't working, he realized, as the statuesque woman ran the tip of her finger along the fake incision on his skin and licked the fake blood off with a seductive purr. He sighed, shook his head, and growled out the word, "Holocaust," through the bit in his teeth.</p>
<p>The woman immediately stopped moaning and stood up straight, concern in her ice-blue eyes. "Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked.</p>
<p>"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just not feeling it today."</p>
<p>"It's okay, hon. Let's call it for today. Call me when you're ready to go again."</p>
<p>"I will," he lied.</p>
<p>He paid the woman in cash and watched her drive away down the winding country road, sipping his tea and touching his stomach where she had run the stage knife over his bare skin, leaving behind a thin line of fake blood. It wasn't her fault she couldn't give him what he wanted. No professional was going to do actual bloodplay in this day and age, not with the threat of HIV ever-present. But even the most convincing play was simply that… a shadow of the truth.</p>
<p>He wondered if that was how She felt.</p>
<p>She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard when he came downstairs, running a fine-toothed steel comb through Her tangled black hair, picking fleas out when they got caught between the narrow tines and crushing them between Her thumb and forefinger. She was rail-thin and rangy-looking, Her ribs visible through Her taut skin, Her yellow eyes feral and cruel, Her too-wide mouth crooked upwards, revealing the white tips of Her sharp canine teeth. The decapitated remnants of a dead hare were scattered here and there.</p>
<p>"Did you have a good hunt?" Sol asked.</p>
<p>"I did. It has been a long time," She replied. "Fresh blood tastes best. But is it safe to hunt so close to my former captors?"</p>
<p>"Who said you were anywhere near them?" Sol laughed. "We're halfway around the world from that place. You're perfectly safe for the time being."</p>
<p>"I don't remember any planes," She pointed out. "And I somehow doubt that you could drive all the way across the world in a few short minutes."</p>
<p>"You'd be right about that… assuming you were taking the long way. It so happens that I know a few shortcuts."</p>
<p>"Interesting. Tell me more."</p>
<p>"In due time, my lady. In due time. For now you must focus on regaining your strength and re-honing your skills. You are like a blade allowed to rust in darkness. You must be polished, sharpened, and remade anew."</p>
<p>Her ears twitched, and She grinned. "If you say so," She purred.</p>
<p>"I do say so. You are a sublime creature of legend. I would have the others see you in your full glory, rather than as this wretched creature that the Worldwide Global Conspiracy has reduced you to. So for now, rest, my lady, and grow strong and beautiful. The day of reckoning will come soon enough."</p>
<p>He kissed the back of her hand and walked back into the house. She waited until he was gone before picking up the severed head of the hare and hurling it into the woods in a fit of pique. She longed to follow him into the house and paint the ceiling and walls with his guts, but if there was one thing Her long captivity had taught Her, it was patience. Good things came to those who waited.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Oh lord, give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the patience not to punch that asshole in the face for being a sententious prick," Sandra recited.</p>
<p>"Try to be nice. He's technically our ally," Michel said.</p>
<p>"Ally my ass, he's a loose cannon. If I thought I could get away with it…"</p>
<p>"Hush, Sandra," the Professor said. "We're here."</p>
<p>Every time James came to the Teacher's home, he felt like he was stepping into Narnia. The old country manor looked like something straight out of an Edward Gorey illustration, with its tall picture windows and dilapidated clock tower, and the forest behind it swept out as far as the eye could see: dark, mysterious, and overgrown. The entire place radiated a sense of adventure, tradition, and mysticism that never failed to make him shiver with excitement.</p>
<p>He'd tried to say as much to Sandra once. "I know," she'd agreed, "If he bothered to spend a little time and money to fix up the clock tower, renovate the house, and prune the trees back a bit, the place would be worth something. Lazy bastard." After that, James decided to keep his opinions to himself.</p>
<p>The door opened as the four of them approached, and James heard Sandra breathe in sharply, followed by a, "What the fuck?" from Michel. Sol was standing in the doorway dressed in some kind of insane gold-brocaded robe with massive sleeves, smiling and nodding to his guests. "Come in," he said. "Dinner will be served shortly."</p>
<p>The walls of the front hall were hung with hand-drawn screens and red silks: they tried but didn't quite succeed at covering up the portraits of English gentlemen and such that hung on the walls. A red velvet carpet had been rolled out leading from the front door into the dining room. It was grotesque. It was gaudy. It was ugly.</p>
<p>It was classic Sol.</p>
<p>"What the hell is going on here, Sol?" Sandra growled. "I don't have time for your bullshit."</p>
<p>"In good time, in good time, my friends. For now, I have a guest for you to meet."</p>
<p>"No! Fuck you!" Sandra shouted. "You'll answer my questions right now! What the fuck was up with that stupid manifesto you sent to the news stations? When we said we were going to help you with your raid, you promised us that you had everything planned out. Nothing could go wrong. Well, I've got three dead cell members and a bunch of wounded that say otherwise. And what did we get for it? Jack and SHIT. A few trinkets we could have picked up easier ourselves without getting a bunch of guys killed. I want a goddamn explanation!"</p>
<p>Sol's expression darkened, and he swallowed his rage hard, fists tightening. "As usual, your mercenary ways don't see the truth of what we've accomplished. We have struck a blow for freedom and liberty that will resound all around the world. We have liberated…"</p>
<p>"Oh, SPARE me your righteous bullshit, Sol! I want answers!"</p>
<p>"My apologies," a new voice said. "The master is wise indeed, but is often short in social graces."</p>
<p>James let out an involuntary squeak of surprise. An angel was walking into the room.</p>
<p>She was small in stature, and dressed in the same gaudy robes that Sol wore, but while he looked like a child playing dressup with his parents' clothing, she wore them with confidence and assurance. Her pale face was round and lovely, and her long, jet-black hair tied up in a series of tight buns. But what really drew James' attention was the pair of tapered, red-furred ears that jutted out through her jet-black locks, and the tips of nine foxlike tails peeking out from the hem of her robes. "Please," she said. "It is not proper for friends to fight. Please come inside and have dinner."</p>
<p>The silence was finally broken when the Professor let out a low sigh. "Solomon," he said. "What have you done?"</p>
<p>"I have rescued a being of myth from durance vile, and struck a blow against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that will be felt for many years to come," Sol crowed.</p>
<p>Sandra's angry response was interrupted by the Professor's cutting hand gesture: very small, but enough for her to see. She clenched her teeth instead, and looked away.</p>
<p>"Let us by all means have dinner, then," the Professor said calmly. "I believe we have much to discuss."</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Our attack on the Enemy has borne great fruit," Sol expounded, making grandiose and voluminous gestures at the walls, the ceiling, and his bowl of rice. "Dozens of sentients cruelly held captive now taste the sweet honey of freedom. Though most are happy to simply enjoy the fresh air of liberty, they will soon answer our clarion call to join the crusade against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that enslaves us all. Already, the first of them have joined us in our war against evil… and I have heard that one even now strikes back against the enemy on her own."</p>
<p>"If you mean that Vector bitch, then I don't know where you're getting your information. That crazy whore is in it for herself, not for any cause," Sandra muttered angrily.</p>
<p>"She strikes against the minions of the Conspiracy. Her cause and ours are the same."</p>
<p>"Forgive me, Sol, if I don't think that attacking an AIDS clinic and killing a bunch of sick people to steal their strains of HIV is particularly helpful in fighting the GOC."</p>
<p>"You are as short-sighted as usual, Sandra. Clearly you must see…"</p>
<p>It was always like this. Sandra and Sol would argue. Michel would sit by and watch in silence. And the Professor would just listen and then, at the right moment, make a single cutting remark that would make both Sandra and Sol realize how stupid they were being. And as for James? He just sat there, listened, and felt like a fifth wheel. It was not a comfortable feeling, and it was even more uncomfortable this time because of the presence of the Girl.</p>
<p>He glanced over at her, and saw her looking back. He blushed and looked down at his half-eaten plate of food, the bright colors of the vegetables and the gently bubbling soups arranged impeccably on the black laquered table. With shaking hands, he reached for his wine cup, found it empty. Almost immediately, she was there at his side, pouring him another cupful from a glass bottle.</p>
<p>Her hands, he noticed, were very white, and her fingers were very delicate and tipped with long, red-painted nails.</p>
<p>"Is your food not to your liking?" she asked, in a voice like bells in the wind. "You have barely touched it."</p>
<p>"It… it's fine," James stammered. He stared down at his food and picked up some kind of sliced vegetable with his chopsticks, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it into his lap. She laughed, not unkindly, and placed a hand over his. "Here," she said. "Let me."</p>
<p>She picked up one of the small white pancakes from the center of the nine-sectioned dish and deftly placed a few sections of sliced vegetables and meats atop it. She wrapped it up with a few quick moves of her chopsticks and held it out to him in her chopsticks. James blinked in surprise, then, feeling embarassed, allowed her to feed it to him.</p>
<p>A loud laugh, and he suddenly realized everyone was watching him. "Is she not wonderful?" Sol said, with a wry smile. "A truly exquisite creature. And the Worldwide Global Conspiracy would keep her captive. Is her freedom not enough to justify our crusade against them?"</p>
<p>"Funny you should call it that, considering what happened during the Crusades," Sandra muttered.</p>
<p>And again, the conversation devolved back into the usual argument. But James noticed that Her yellow eyes were watching him.</p>
<hr/>
<p>In the end, they ended up staying the night.</p>
<p>James couldn't sleep. It was 2 am and he was laying in bed staring up at the ceiling. His mind was haunted by the image of a pair of lovely yellow eyes staring back at him, his dreams by the memory of the touch of her cool fingertips against his wrist. Though an early fall breeze cooled the room, the air seemed uncomfortably close and warm… stifling, even. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was the soft cupid's bow curve of her lips - all he could hear the ringing musical sound of her laughter.</p>
<p>He got up from his bed to get a drink of water, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He went to his window to get a closer look, and his breath caught in his throat.</p>
<p>She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard, running a lacquered tortoiseshell comb through Her long, black hair. She was slender and lovely, Her pale white skin glowing like pearl in the silver moonlight, her gleaming yellow eyes vibrant with life. A divinely lovely smile quirked her pale pink lips as flower petals cascaded down around her like snowflakes.</p>
<p>James swallowed hard.</p>
<p>He went to his door and opened it, then gave a cry of surprise. Michel, the huge, muscular Frenchman, was sitting outside his door, wrapped in a blanket, with his head cushioned by a pillow. He instantly awoke as he heard the door open. "What is it?" Michel asked.</p>
<p>"I was uh… just going to get a glass of water," James stammered.</p>
<p>Michel nodded. "Go back to your room. I'll get it for you."</p>
<p>"I'm not a kid, Mick. I can get my own water."</p>
<p>"James?" Michel said, slowly. "Go back into your room."</p>
<p>"Fu—" He never finished the sentence. Michel's massive fist lashed out and punched him in the jaw, knocking him out cold.</p>
<p>"Sorry, kid," Michel said. "I'm saving your life."</p>
<hr/>
<p>She heard the footsteps behind Her, and She smiled. It had been a long time since She had hunted man, and She was glad that She had not lost her touch. She turned towards him, letting her back arch in a carefully calculated move that framed Her face with her black hair in the most flattering manner possible… and was surprised to see the old man standing there on the garden path.</p>
<p>"Good evening," he said. "Lovely moon out tonight."</p>
<p>She smiled at him, quickly recovering from Her surprise. Though not the prey She had anticipated, She would make do with this. "It is," She admitted. lowering Her eyes in Her most demure manner, and covering Her bare shoulders with Her long flowing locks. "It reminds me of the moons of my childhood."</p>
<p>"You must miss them. The days of long ago. You speak of them with such nostalgia."</p>
<p>"It was a different time, back then," She said, letting her hair slip in a perfectly calculated manner to bare the back of Her neck. "Things were simpler. Now times have changed."</p>
<p>There was a short pause. "I am seventy years old," the man said. "I am not a young man driven by base lusts. Don't try to seduce me like you did James."</p>
<p>This was not going as She had expected. "Even a seventy year old man has needs," She purred, tossing Her hair back and letting him get a good look at Her body. "I could make you feel young agai—."</p>
<p>"Why do you do this?" he asked. "It demeans you to carry on like a cheap whore."</p>
<p>She hissed in anger, and for a moment, She lost her concentration on the illusion She was spinning. For a bare instant, he saw Her as She truly was, and the sight made him flinch in shock, but only for a moment. "Insult me again, prey-creature, and I will tear your heart out with my claws. I could kill you in an instant."</p>
<p>"Yes, you could," he admitted. "But what would that accomplish?"</p>
<p>"It would be what you deserve for doing this to me!" She snapped. "Your people have killed the Old. They have bound Myth and Legend in prisons of steel, and eradicated the things of Magic with cold science. Then you mock even our memories, perverting that which you should fear into things of lust and children's fantasies. This cannot be abided. I will NOT abide it! I will die, but I will die fighting, with my claws red with your blood and my teeth in your throat, and I will die knowing that I was feared!"</p>
<p>The wind blew, and carried with it the smell of rot and decay. The old man smiled. "Yes," he said. "This is the real you. This is what I was looking for."</p>
<p>"What are you talking about?"</p>
<p>"You have heard Solomon's plans?"</p>
<p>"Idiocy. The man thinks that he can go to war with the world and win. He is useful to me for now, but one of these days, I will taste his blood," She growled.</p>
<p>"Sol is… a broken man, but he is also a useful one. He has a talent for inspiring fools and martyrs, and we have need of both in these days. Go along with his plans for now," the old man said. "Help him fight his war."</p>
<p>"Why? It is doomed to fail. He has no subtlety. He will push and push, and when he pushes too far, they will strike back with all their might, and destroy him."</p>
<p>"Yes," the old man said. "That is exactly what we want."</p>
<p>He spoke to her then of plans, of plans within plans, of war and betrayal, and of things to come. He told her of the coming war, of the fire that would cleanse the world clean, and of the new world that would rise from the ashes of the old. He told her of many things, and as She listened, She felt something She had not felt in many years.</p>
<p>Respect.</p>
<p><em>At last,</em> She thought. <em>A human who TRULY understands.</em></p>
<p>He finished speaking. She nodded. "I will do as you have said," She admitted. "But I have only one question."</p>
<p>"Ask."</p>
<p>"Who are you?"</p>
<p>"My name is a secret," the old man said, "but most call me The Teacher."</p>
<hr/>
<p>They left with the dawn: James holding an icepack to his jaw and arguing with the stoic Michel the whole drive home, while Sandra and the Professor listened on in increasingly uncomfortable silence. Sol watched the drive away, then walked into the backyard, where She was sitting and looking out into the forest.</p>
<p>"So," he asked. "What did you think of my friends?"</p>
<p>"They seem like decent folk," She said. "But they lack your vision and daring."</p>
<p>Sol nodded, and put one hand in his pocket and ran the other along a windowsill. "You know, last night, after everyone had gone to bed, I went to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I walked by this window, when I thought I heard someone talking. I heard an interesting conversation. I don't think they realized this window was open the whole time."</p>
<p>She was silent for a moment. "You know I didn't mean anything I said," She purred. "I said what I did to draw him out as a traitor. I would never betray you, not after all you've done for me."</p>
<p>"I hear you," Sol sighed. "But I can't take that chance."</p>
<p>He shot her twice in the head, saw her fall to the ground dead. He shook his head in regret. "Pity," he whispered. "I thought you, of all people, would understand."</p>
<p>"I did," a voice whispered, and Sol knew he was dead.</p>
<p>She bit his hand off at the wrist first, and it fell to the ground still holding the gun. That part was fast. The rest went much slower. About the time that she tore open his abdomen and started pulling his guts out of his body, he realized he had an erection.</p>
<p>His last thought before dying was that this was what he'd wanted all along.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The first thing She did was tear down the decorations and burn them in the back yard along with the uneaten portions of his body. She threw the robes onto the fire as well, feeling a sense of vindictive satisfaction as they curled and blackened. Then She walked back into the house and stood in front of the mirror.</p>
<p>Solomon Kidd looked back at Her. She frowned as She noticed a slight imperfection in the shape of his eyes, then fixed it with a small exertion of will. She would have to practice walking, She realized, in order to get just enough arrogance and braggadocio into all Her movements.</p>
<p>Then She went upstairs to his office, took the small post-it from the back of his monitor, and used the username and password written there to log on to his account. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading through his emails and correspondence, learning how to become Solomon Kidd.</p>
<p>It was shortly after the sun had set that She read one that made Her smile.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Re: Stepping Sideways<br/>
From: <span class="wiki-email">ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim</span><br/>
To: <span class="wiki-email">ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS</span></p>
<p>I'll help you on this, but just this once. After this, you're on your own. Come by the Library and I'll show you how to use the Ways.</p>
<p>Midnight</p>
</blockquote>
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<p>"<a href="/gdp2-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel">The Light At The End Of The Tunnel</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[module Rate]]
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It wasn't working, he realized, as the statuesque woman ran the tip of her finger along the fake incision on his skin and licked the fake blood off with a seductive purr. He sighed, shook his head, and growled out the word, "Holocaust," through the bit in his teeth.
The woman immediately stopped moaning and stood up straight, concern in her ice-blue eyes. "Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just not feeling it today."
"It's okay, hon. Let's call it for today. Call me when you're ready to go again."
"I will," he lied.
He paid the woman in cash and watched her drive away down the winding country road, sipping his tea and touching his stomach where she had run the stage knife over his bare skin, leaving behind a thin line of fake blood. It wasn't her fault she couldn't give him what he wanted. No professional was going to do actual bloodplay in this day and age, not with the threat of HIV ever-present. But even the most convincing play was simply that. . . a shadow of the truth.
He wondered if that was how She felt.
She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard when he came downstairs, running a fine-toothed steel comb through Her tangled black hair, picking fleas out when they got caught between the narrow tines and crushing them between Her thumb and forefinger. She was rail-thin and rangy-looking, Her ribs visible through Her taut skin, Her yellow eyes feral and cruel, Her too-wide mouth crooked upwards, revealing the white tips of Her sharp canine teeth. The decapitated remnants of a dead hare were scattered here and there.
"Did you have a good hunt?" Sol asked.
"I did. It has been a long time," She replied. "Fresh blood tastes best. But is it safe to hunt so close to my former captors?"
"Who said you were anywhere near them?" Sol laughed. "We're halfway around the world from that place. You're perfectly safe for the time being."
"I don't remember any planes," She pointed out. "And I somehow doubt that you could drive all the way across the world in a few short minutes."
"You'd be right about that. . . assuming you were taking the long way. It so happens that I know a few shortcuts."
"Interesting. Tell me more."
"In due time, my lady. In due time. For now you must focus on regaining your strength and re-honing your skills. You are like a blade allowed to rust in darkness. You must be polished, sharpened, and remade anew."
Her ears twitched, and She grinned. "If you say so," She purred.
"I do say so. You are a sublime creature of legend. I would have the others see you in your full glory, rather than as this wretched creature that the Worldwide Global Conspiracy has reduced you to. So for now, rest, my lady, and grow strong and beautiful. The day of reckoning will come soon enough."
He kissed the back of her hand and walked back into the house. She waited until he was gone before picking up the severed head of the hare and hurling it into the woods in a fit of pique. She longed to follow him into the house and paint the ceiling and walls with his guts, but if there was one thing Her long captivity had taught Her, it was patience. Good things came to those who waited.
-----
"Oh lord, give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the patience not to punch that asshole in the face for being a sententious prick," Sandra recited.
"Try to be nice. He's technically our ally," Michel said.
"Ally my ass, he's a loose cannon. If I thought I could get away with it. . ."
"Hush, Sandra," the Professor said. "We're here."
Every time James came to the Teacher's home, he felt like he was stepping into Narnia. The old country manor looked like something straight out of an Edward Gorey illustration, with its tall picture windows and dilapidated clock tower, and the forest behind it swept out as far as the eye could see: dark, mysterious, and overgrown. The entire place radiated a sense of adventure, tradition, and mysticism that never failed to make him shiver with excitement.
He'd tried to say as much to Sandra once. "I know," she'd agreed, "If he bothered to spend a little time and money to fix up the clock tower, renovate the house, and prune the trees back a bit, the place would be worth something. Lazy bastard." After that, James decided to keep his opinions to himself.
The door opened as the four of them approached, and James heard Sandra breathe in sharply, followed by a, "What the fuck?" from Michel. Sol was standing in the doorway dressed in some kind of insane gold-brocaded robe with massive sleeves, smiling and nodding to his guests. "Come in," he said. "Dinner will be served shortly."
The walls of the front hall were hung with hand-drawn screens and red silks: they tried but didn't quite succeed at covering up the portraits of English gentlemen and such that hung on the walls. A red velvet carpet had been rolled out leading from the front door into the dining room. It was grotesque. It was gaudy. It was ugly.
It was classic Sol.
"What the hell is going on here, Sol?" Sandra growled. "I don't have time for your bullshit."
"In good time, in good time, my friends. For now, I have a guest for you to meet."
"No! Fuck you!" Sandra shouted. "You'll answer my questions right now! What the fuck was up with that stupid manifesto you sent to the news stations? When we said we were going to help you with your raid, you promised us that you had everything planned out. Nothing could go wrong. Well, I've got three dead cell members and a bunch of wounded that say otherwise. And what did we get for it? Jack and SHIT. A few trinkets we could have picked up easier ourselves without getting a bunch of guys killed. I want a goddamn explanation!"
Sol's expression darkened, and he swallowed his rage hard, fists tightening. "As usual, your mercenary ways don't see the truth of what we've accomplished. We have struck a blow for freedom and liberty that will resound all around the world. We have liberated. . ."
"Oh, SPARE me your righteous bullshit, Sol! I want answers!"
"My apologies," a new voice said. "The master is wise indeed, but is often short in social graces."
James let out an involuntary squeak of surprise. An angel was walking into the room.
She was small in stature, and dressed in the same gaudy robes that Sol wore, but while he looked like a child playing dressup with his parents' clothing, she wore them with confidence and assurance. Her pale face was round and lovely, and her long, jet-black hair tied up in a series of tight buns. But what really drew James' attention was the pair of tapered, red-furred ears that jutted out through her jet-black locks, and the tips of nine foxlike tails peeking out from the hem of her robes. "Please," she said. "It is not proper for friends to fight. Please come inside and have dinner."
The silence was finally broken when the Professor let out a low sigh. "Solomon," he said. "What have you done?"
"I have rescued a being of myth from durance vile, and struck a blow against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that will be felt for many years to come," Sol crowed.
Sandra's angry response was interrupted by the Professor's cutting hand gesture: very small, but enough for her to see. She clenched her teeth instead, and looked away.
"Let us by all means have dinner, then," the Professor said calmly. "I believe we have much to discuss."
-----
"Our attack on the Enemy has borne great fruit," Sol expounded, making grandiose and voluminous gestures at the walls, the ceiling, and his bowl of rice. "Dozens of sentients cruelly held captive now taste the sweet honey of freedom. Though most are happy to simply enjoy the fresh air of liberty, they will soon answer our clarion call to join the crusade against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that enslaves us all. Already, the first of them have joined us in our war against evil. . . and I have heard that one even now strikes back against the enemy on her own."
"If you mean that Vector bitch, then I don't know where you're getting your information. That crazy whore is in it for herself, not for any cause," Sandra muttered angrily.
"She strikes against the minions of the Conspiracy. Her cause and ours are the same."
"Forgive me, Sol, if I don't think that attacking an AIDS clinic and killing a bunch of sick people to steal their strains of HIV is particularly helpful in fighting the GOC."
"You are as short-sighted as usual, Sandra. Clearly you must see. . ."
It was always like this. Sandra and Sol would argue. Michel would sit by and watch in silence. And the Professor would just listen and then, at the right moment, make a single cutting remark that would make both Sandra and Sol realize how stupid they were being. And as for James? He just sat there, listened, and felt like a fifth wheel. It was not a comfortable feeling, and it was even more uncomfortable this time because of the presence of the Girl.
He glanced over at her, and saw her looking back. He blushed and looked down at his half-eaten plate of food, the bright colors of the vegetables and the gently bubbling soups arranged impeccably on the black laquered table. With shaking hands, he reached for his wine cup, found it empty. Almost immediately, she was there at his side, pouring him another cupful from a glass bottle.
Her hands, he noticed, were very white, and her fingers were very delicate and tipped with long, red-painted nails.
"Is your food not to your liking?" she asked, in a voice like bells in the wind. "You have barely touched it."
"It. . . it's fine," James stammered. He stared down at his food and picked up some kind of sliced vegetable with his chopsticks, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it into his lap. She laughed, not unkindly, and placed a hand over his. "Here," she said. "Let me."
She picked up one of the small white pancakes from the center of the nine-sectioned dish and deftly placed a few sections of sliced vegetables and meats atop it. She wrapped it up with a few quick moves of her chopsticks and held it out to him in her chopsticks. James blinked in surprise, then, feeling embarassed, allowed her to feed it to him.
A loud laugh, and he suddenly realized everyone was watching him. "Is she not wonderful?" Sol said, with a wry smile. "A truly exquisite creature. And the Worldwide Global Conspiracy would keep her captive. Is her freedom not enough to justify our crusade against them?"
"Funny you should call it that, considering what happened during the Crusades," Sandra muttered.
And again, the conversation devolved back into the usual argument. But James noticed that Her yellow eyes were watching him.
-----
In the end, they ended up staying the night.
James couldn't sleep. It was 2 am and he was laying in bed staring up at the ceiling. His mind was haunted by the image of a pair of lovely yellow eyes staring back at him, his dreams by the memory of the touch of her cool fingertips against his wrist. Though an early fall breeze cooled the room, the air seemed uncomfortably close and warm. . . stifling, even. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was the soft cupid's bow curve of her lips - all he could hear the ringing musical sound of her laughter.
He got up from his bed to get a drink of water, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He went to his window to get a closer look, and his breath caught in his throat.
She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard, running a lacquered tortoiseshell comb through Her long, black hair. She was slender and lovely, Her pale white skin glowing like pearl in the silver moonlight, her gleaming yellow eyes vibrant with life. A divinely lovely smile quirked her pale pink lips as flower petals cascaded down around her like snowflakes.
James swallowed hard.
He went to his door and opened it, then gave a cry of surprise. Michel, the huge, muscular Frenchman, was sitting outside his door, wrapped in a blanket, with his head cushioned by a pillow. He instantly awoke as he heard the door open. "What is it?" Michel asked.
"I was uh. . . just going to get a glass of water," James stammered.
Michel nodded. "Go back to your room. I'll get it for you."
"I'm not a kid, Mick. I can get my own water."
"James?" Michel said, slowly. "Go back into your room."
"Fu--" He never finished the sentence. Michel's massive fist lashed out and punched him in the jaw, knocking him out cold.
"Sorry, kid," Michel said. "I'm saving your life."
-----
She heard the footsteps behind Her, and She smiled. It had been a long time since She had hunted man, and She was glad that She had not lost her touch. She turned towards him, letting her back arch in a carefully calculated move that framed Her face with her black hair in the most flattering manner possible. . . and was surprised to see the old man standing there on the garden path.
"Good evening," he said. "Lovely moon out tonight."
She smiled at him, quickly recovering from Her surprise. Though not the prey She had anticipated, She would make do with this. "It is," She admitted. lowering Her eyes in Her most demure manner, and covering Her bare shoulders with Her long flowing locks. "It reminds me of the moons of my childhood."
"You must miss them. The days of long ago. You speak of them with such nostalgia."
"It was a different time, back then," She said, letting her hair slip in a perfectly calculated manner to bare the back of Her neck. "Things were simpler. Now times have changed."
There was a short pause. "I am seventy years old," the man said. "I am not a young man driven by base lusts. Don't try to seduce me like you did James."
This was not going as She had expected. "Even a seventy year old man has needs," She purred, tossing Her hair back and letting him get a good look at Her body. "I could make you feel young agai--."
"Why do you do this?" he asked. "It demeans you to carry on like a cheap whore."
She hissed in anger, and for a moment, She lost her concentration on the illusion She was spinning. For a bare instant, he saw Her as She truly was, and the sight made him flinch in shock, but only for a moment. "Insult me again, prey-creature, and I will tear your heart out with my claws. I could kill you in an instant."
"Yes, you could," he admitted. "But what would that accomplish?"
"It would be what you deserve for doing this to me!" She snapped. "Your people have killed the Old. They have bound Myth and Legend in prisons of steel, and eradicated the things of Magic with cold science. Then you mock even our memories, perverting that which you should fear into things of lust and children's fantasies. This cannot be abided. I will NOT abide it! I will die, but I will die fighting, with my claws red with your blood and my teeth in your throat, and I will die knowing that I was feared!"
The wind blew, and carried with it the smell of rot and decay. The old man smiled. "Yes," he said. "This is the real you. This is what I was looking for."
"What are you talking about?"
"You have heard Solomon's plans?"
"Idiocy. The man thinks that he can go to war with the world and win. He is useful to me for now, but one of these days, I will taste his blood," She growled.
"Sol is. . . a broken man, but he is also a useful one. He has a talent for inspiring fools and martyrs, and we have need of both in these days. Go along with his plans for now," the old man said. "Help him fight his war."
"Why? It is doomed to fail. He has no subtlety. He will push and push, and when he pushes too far, they will strike back with all their might, and destroy him."
"Yes," the old man said. "That is exactly what we want."
He spoke to her then of plans, of plans within plans, of war and betrayal, and of things to come. He told her of the coming war, of the fire that would cleanse the world clean, and of the new world that would rise from the ashes of the old. He told her of many things, and as She listened, She felt something She had not felt in many years.
Respect.
//At last,// She thought. //A human who TRULY understands.//
He finished speaking. She nodded. "I will do as you have said," She admitted. "But I have only one question."
"Ask."
"Who are you?"
"My name is a secret," the old man said, "but most call me The Teacher."
-----
They left with the dawn: James holding an icepack to his jaw and arguing with the stoic Michel the whole drive home, while Sandra and the Professor listened on in increasingly uncomfortable silence. Sol watched the drive away, then walked into the backyard, where She was sitting and looking out into the forest.
"So," he asked. "What did you think of my friends?"
"They seem like decent folk," She said. "But they lack your vision and daring."
Sol nodded, and put one hand in his pocket and ran the other along a windowsill. "You know, last night, after everyone had gone to bed, I went to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I walked by this window, when I thought I heard someone talking. I heard an interesting conversation. I don't think they realized this window was open the whole time."
She was silent for a moment. "You know I didn't mean anything I said," She purred. "I said what I did to draw him out as a traitor. I would never betray you, not after all you've done for me."
"I hear you," Sol sighed. "But I can't take that chance."
He shot her twice in the head, saw her fall to the ground dead. He shook his head in regret. "Pity," he whispered. "I thought you, of all people, would understand."
"I did," a voice whispered, and Sol knew he was dead.
She bit his hand off at the wrist first, and it fell to the ground still holding the gun. That part was fast. The rest went much slower. About the time that she tore open his abdomen and started pulling his guts out of his body, he realized he had an erection.
His last thought before dying was that this was what he'd wanted all along.
-----
The first thing She did was tear down the decorations and burn them in the back yard along with the uneaten portions of his body. She threw the robes onto the fire as well, feeling a sense of vindictive satisfaction as they curled and blackened. Then She walked back into the house and stood in front of the mirror.
Solomon Kidd looked back at Her. She frowned as She noticed a slight imperfection in the shape of his eyes, then fixed it with a small exertion of will. She would have to practice walking, She realized, in order to get just enough arrogance and braggadocio into all Her movements.
Then She went upstairs to his office, took the small post-it from the back of his monitor, and used the username and password written there to log on to his account. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading through his emails and correspondence, learning how to become Solomon Kidd.
It was shortly after the sun had set that She read one that made Her smile.
> Re: Stepping Sideways
> From: [email protected]
> To: [email protected]
>
> I'll help you on this, but just this once. After this, you're on your own. Come by the Library and I'll show you how to use the Ways.
>
> Midnight
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-26T21:56:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"fantasy",
"game-day",
"horror",
"serpents-hand",
"tale"
] | The Light At The End Of The Tunnel - SCP Foundation | 53 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"serpent-s-hand-hub",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"gamedaypart2index"
] | [] | 11944988 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel |
|
gdp2-tunneling-between-worlds | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p>Re: Dinner?<br/>
From: <span class="wiki-email">ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim</span><br/>
To: <span class="wiki-email">ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS</span></p>
<p>I'll be there.</p>
<p>Midnight</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Subject: Dinner?<br/>
From: <span class="wiki-email">ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS</span><br/>
To: <span class="wiki-email">ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim</span></p>
<p>Midnight,</p>
<p>It has been a while since we conversed. I know we've had our differences (as all great minds do), but I would appreciate it if you gave me an opportunity to try and smooth things out. I would like you to come down to the estate and have dinner. I will provide food. You will provide the company.</p>
<p>Sol</p>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<p>She… no… Solomon Kidd… looked at Her… at his… reflection in the mirror and smiled. It was amazing how much difference a haircut and a change of clothes made. Not that it had been easy finding a good set of clothes in Sol's closet: the man's tastes ran to colors so eye-searing that Picasso and Warhol would have told him to take things down a notch.</p>
<p>"Sol" took a deep breath and looked around the dining room one more time. Lights low: check. Roses on the table: check. Subtle hints of perfume here and there: check. Low, romantic, violin music: check. Whoever this "Midnight" was, she was going to be charmed like she'd never been charmed before.</p>
<p>She did indulge Herself in one regard: the main dish.</p>
<p>Based on the emails She'd pulled from Sol's computer, She'd determined a few things about the mysterious Midnight: Midnight was apparently an occultist of some renown, and a hedge mage of some power. Her relationship with Sol was rocky, and involved some philosophical disagreements. She was associated with a Library of some sort: the word was always capitalized. She liked cats.</p>
<p>"Sol" closed "his" eyes and tried to form an image in his head of the person he'd soon be meeting: probably young or middle-aged. An intellectual. Attractive? Probably not: he detected no tension there in the past emails. But there was definitely respect. That was an in. That was something he could play off of.</p>
<p>The doorbell rang, and "Sol" started in surprise. He had not sensed any hint of intrusion onto his grounds: the occasional animal, but no humans. Clearly, this Midnight was a much more capable mage than he had anticipated. He straightened his lapels, gave himself one last look in the mirror, then sauntered to the door and threw it open with Sol's practiced flair.</p>
<p>There was no one there.</p>
<p>And then "Sol" realized he'd made a critical error, as he saw a cat sitting on the doormat. American Shorthair. Black fur. Golden eyes mirroring her own. Small. Sleek-bodied. Seven toes on each foot… and a rising of the hackles that slowly subsided into a posture of suspicion laced with fear.</p>
<p>"So," Midnight said. "Should I say nihao, konichiwa, or anyeung-ha-sae-yo?"</p>
<hr/>
<p>A few minutes later, they were sitting at either end of the dining room table, staring at each other from across the long expanse of polished mahogany. She had dropped the pretense of Sol's disguise, and had resumed a female form, although she retained Sol's clothing. Midnight was perched on a couple of phone books on the other chair, which She had thoughtfully provided for her.</p>
<p>Midnight broke the silence by clearing her throat. "I smell long pork," she said.</p>
<p>"Main dish," She replied.</p>
<p>"Solomon?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Poor kid."</p>
<p>"He was no longer useful to me, so I made use of him in other ways."</p>
<p>"And you were going to serve him to me as dinner?"</p>
<p>She smiled. "It amused me."</p>
<p>"I'm sure it did."</p>
<p>A long, drawn out silence. This time, it was She who broke it.</p>
<p>"Why did you not run when you realized what I was?"</p>
<p>"What would have been the point? I would have just died tired. Why didn't you kill me when you realized I knew?"</p>
<p>"It would not have served my purpose," She said.</p>
<p>"So I'm useful to you?"</p>
<p>"For now."</p>
<p>"Mmm."</p>
<p>The grandfather clock in the main hall rang out the hour.</p>
<p>Midnight rubbed her forehead with one paw. "I have a headache," she complained. "I see human but smell fox. Could I ask you to…"</p>
<p>There was a crack, like thunder, and the woman at the other end of the table vanished, to be replaced by… well. It looked like a fox, but a fox out of the nightmares of small rodents everywhere. It was twice the size of your usual fox: almost as large as a dog. It was lean and starved, with a hungry, evil look in its yellow eyes, and nine long tails emerging from its hindquarters. "Is this better?" She asked.</p>
<p>"Much," Midnight said, her voice raspy with fear.</p>
<p>"Then let us negotiate," She said. "You know something I want to know. I could try to take it, but such methods are unpleasant and messy. Out of respect for another creature of Myth, I will allow you to ask me for a boon in return for what you know of these… Ways."</p>
<p>"The Ways… I should have known." Midnight nodded and relaxed. "And if I tell you what I know of these Ways… I have your word on your pride in your own wit that I will leave unharmed?"</p>
<p>"You have it," She said.</p>
<p>"Then I ask this in payment," Midnight said. "Tell me what Sol was planning… no. What the Teacher is planning."</p>
<p>"You know of the Teacher?" She asked, raising one furry ridged brow questioningly.</p>
<p>"I know he's screwed things for all of us," Midnight said, real anger seeping into her words. "Unlike him, the Serpent's Hand doesn't want a war. God's on the side with the biggest guns, and most of us don't even have peashooters. I mean… I know a kid who can change the color of paint. That's not very much use against bullets."</p>
<p>"I see," She said. "Then let me tell you of our plans."</p>
<p>She laid them out for Midnight. It took over an hour. By the time it was over, the food had gotten cold, and so had Midnight's heart.</p>
<p>"… it could work," the black cat had to admit. "But the casualties…"</p>
<p>"Will be heavy. That's the nature of war. But in the end, we will be victorious."</p>
<p>"I see," Midnight said. She nodded gravely and jumped down from the chair. "In that case, I suppose I had better show you my end of the bargain."</p>
<hr/>
<p>"I'm just saying that maybe you could stand to relax a bit, Shank," Percival said, sipping from his thermos of soup. "You're always so tense."</p>
<p>"One o' these days, I'll cut you ta pieces an' pluck those eyes outta yor skull," replied the tall, animate scarecrow. It ran a wickedly curved sickle along its "throat," in a slow, smooth gesture. "Those baby blues'll look good in me stash. Gotta place for 'em right here."</p>
<p>"You'll have to take 'em first," Percival said, resting a hand on the hilt of the massive bastard sword resting against the library table. "I'll see your ten and raise you thirty any day."</p>
<p>"If you boys are done with your dickwaving contest, can we please get on with it?" Ana asked exasperatedly. "We're going to be here forever."</p>
<p>"Fine, then, love. Fold," said the scarecrow, throwing his cards onto the table.</p>
<p>"You FOLD!? All that nonsense about 'raising the stakes,' and you FOLD!?" Percy complained.</p>
<p>"S'called bluffin', mm? Lyin'. Deception. A lil' pecan pie, if ya catch me meanin'. Somethin' a ponce like you wouldn't get."</p>
<p>"Fine, Chainshank folds," Ana interjected, interrupting the brewing argument. "Azi?"</p>
<p>The filthy little boy looked up and grinned happily. "Lookit my pictures!" he said. "I fixed this man!" He displayed the Jack of Hearts, now beautifully rendered in oil paints on the thin pasteboard stock.</p>
<p>"… and Azi has decided to draw all over his cards. Fantastic. This is wonderful. You guys are awesome," Ana Hita sighed. She threw her hand of cards into the center of the table and got up. "I'm going home."</p>
<p>"Well," Percy sighed. "That was a bit of a wash. What do we do now?"</p>
<p>"Ya tired already? Need a nice rest, mm? 'M good at helpin people sleep." Chainshank sneers.</p>
<p>"How about no. How's it going, Meimei?" Percy asked.</p>
<p>A yeti-woman covered in reddish-brown fur looked up from her book and nodded. "It goes well."</p>
<p>"Whatcha got there?"</p>
<p>"The autobiography of Bruce Lee. His insights are fascinating."</p>
<p>"You keep on with that, lil' sis," Percy said.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Azi had crawled under a nearby table and was chewing on the bloody leg of some unidentifiable horrible something that he'd killed earlier. There was a sound of snapping bone and crunching marrow.</p>
<p>Percy looked down from the balcony and raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "That's interesting."</p>
<p>"Whazzat?" Chainshank asked.</p>
<p>"Miss Kitty is here," Percy said. "And she brought a… friend…"</p>
<p>Percy's voice trailed off, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Chainshank frowned, his pumpkin head's spirit glow dimming suspiciously. "Spider sense tingling, mm?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Percy said. "Definitely tingling."</p>
<hr/>
<p>"That young man is watching me," She said. "I don't like that."</p>
<p>"He's a paladin," Midnight said. "Lives in a homeless shelter. Claims to talk to God."</p>
<p>"To God?"</p>
<p>"He seems to think so. Are you scared?" Midnight asked.</p>
<p>"Certainly not. I have nothing to fear from a child like that. I can have his guts out in an instant, if I liked."</p>
<p>Currently, She had chosen a new form: that of a young woman with large, horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a motley array of coats and scarves. She had a large purse over one shoulder, and exuded a look of dismay mixed with confusion. The body was that of a graduate student in occult studies, long dead, who had tried to find Her lair in one of Her brief moments of freedom before being recaptured by the Foundation. She licked her lips at the memory of that hunt, of the taste of fear She had savored on that cold night. The scent of prey in this place was nearly overwhelming.</p>
<p>Midnight shook her head. "I wouldn't if I were you. The guardians here don't like violence."</p>
<p>"I am not afraid of any guardians."</p>
<p>"You should be. They have a manticore. They caught it themselves."</p>
<p>She looked around the room and nodded. "A perfect prison. I understand why you brought me here first," she said.</p>
<p>"I don't think you do understand," Midnight said. "If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have just sent you somewhere where you could never come back from. Say, the End of Time and Space, or the heart of a newborn star."</p>
<p>"You see," the black cat continued, "this place is more than just a safe haven. It's also a repository of knowledge. There's a copy of every book that has ever been written… or will be written… in its stacks. It's also a nexus: a place where the Ways come together. That's why we call it the Wanderer's Library." She looked up at the fox with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. "If you can't see the potential in a Library with every book that's ever been written, that serves as a neutral ground for everyone, and that you can use to go to and from literally anywhere in the world, you might as well go back to the Jailers."</p>
<p>Midnight saw from the expression on Her face that She did understand. "Let me tell you about the rules here," Midnight said. "Don't steal the books. Don't disturb or hurt the patrons. Don't damage the library. Keep that in mind and you should do fine."</p>
<p>The fox just nodded. "Very well, then," She said. "Our bargain is concluded."</p>
<p>She strode away down the stacks, her movement purposeful, her stride almost seductive with anticipation. She ran a hand down the spines of the books lined up on the racks with all the sensuality of a lover's caress. Then She turned the corner and was gone.</p>
<p>"Midnight," a low, baritone voice said.</p>
<p>"Percival," Midnight replied.</p>
<p>Percy emerged from the shadows, adjusting the lapels of his ratty overcoat. His scabbarded and peace-bonded sword rested on one shoulder like a slugger's baseball bat. "What was that all about?" he asked.</p>
<p>"I think I just made a deal with the Devil to save Heaven," Midnight said.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Subject: Class is in session.<br/>
From: <span class="wiki-email">ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim</span><br/>
To: Snakes and Ladders (<span class="wiki-email">ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam#ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam</span>)</p>
<p>Recess is over, the Teacher's calling roll. I think I'm calling in sick today.</p>
<p>Midnight</p>
</blockquote>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-tunneling-between-worlds">Tunneling Between Worlds</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-tunneling-between-worlds">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-tunneling-between-worlds</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> Re: Dinner?
> From: [email protected]
> To: [email protected]
>
> I'll be there.
>
> Midnight
>
>> Subject: Dinner?
>> From: [email protected]
>> To: [email protected]
>>
>> Midnight,
>>
>> It has been a while since we conversed. I know we've had our differences (as all great minds do), but I would appreciate it if you gave me an opportunity to try and smooth things out. I would like you to come down to the estate and have dinner. I will provide food. You will provide the company.
>>
>> Sol
She. . . no. . . Solomon Kidd. . . looked at Her. . . at his. . . reflection in the mirror and smiled. It was amazing how much difference a haircut and a change of clothes made. Not that it had been easy finding a good set of clothes in Sol's closet: the man's tastes ran to colors so eye-searing that Picasso and Warhol would have told him to take things down a notch.
"Sol" took a deep breath and looked around the dining room one more time. Lights low: check. Roses on the table: check. Subtle hints of perfume here and there: check. Low, romantic, violin music: check. Whoever this "Midnight" was, she was going to be charmed like she'd never been charmed before.
She did indulge Herself in one regard: the main dish.
Based on the emails She'd pulled from Sol's computer, She'd determined a few things about the mysterious Midnight: Midnight was apparently an occultist of some renown, and a hedge mage of some power. Her relationship with Sol was rocky, and involved some philosophical disagreements. She was associated with a Library of some sort: the word was always capitalized. She liked cats.
"Sol" closed "his" eyes and tried to form an image in his head of the person he'd soon be meeting: probably young or middle-aged. An intellectual. Attractive? Probably not: he detected no tension there in the past emails. But there was definitely respect. That was an in. That was something he could play off of.
The doorbell rang, and "Sol" started in surprise. He had not sensed any hint of intrusion onto his grounds: the occasional animal, but no humans. Clearly, this Midnight was a much more capable mage than he had anticipated. He straightened his lapels, gave himself one last look in the mirror, then sauntered to the door and threw it open with Sol's practiced flair.
There was no one there.
And then "Sol" realized he'd made a critical error, as he saw a cat sitting on the doormat. American Shorthair. Black fur. Golden eyes mirroring her own. Small. Sleek-bodied. Seven toes on each foot. . . and a rising of the hackles that slowly subsided into a posture of suspicion laced with fear.
"So," Midnight said. "Should I say nihao, konichiwa, or anyeung-ha-sae-yo?"
-----
A few minutes later, they were sitting at either end of the dining room table, staring at each other from across the long expanse of polished mahogany. She had dropped the pretense of Sol's disguise, and had resumed a female form, although she retained Sol's clothing. Midnight was perched on a couple of phone books on the other chair, which She had thoughtfully provided for her.
Midnight broke the silence by clearing her throat. "I smell long pork," she said.
"Main dish," She replied.
"Solomon?"
"Yes."
"Poor kid."
"He was no longer useful to me, so I made use of him in other ways."
"And you were going to serve him to me as dinner?"
She smiled. "It amused me."
"I'm sure it did."
A long, drawn out silence. This time, it was She who broke it.
"Why did you not run when you realized what I was?"
"What would have been the point? I would have just died tired. Why didn't you kill me when you realized I knew?"
"It would not have served my purpose," She said.
"So I'm useful to you?"
"For now."
"Mmm."
The grandfather clock in the main hall rang out the hour.
Midnight rubbed her forehead with one paw. "I have a headache," she complained. "I see human but smell fox. Could I ask you to. . ."
There was a crack, like thunder, and the woman at the other end of the table vanished, to be replaced by. . . well. It looked like a fox, but a fox out of the nightmares of small rodents everywhere. It was twice the size of your usual fox: almost as large as a dog. It was lean and starved, with a hungry, evil look in its yellow eyes, and nine long tails emerging from its hindquarters. "Is this better?" She asked.
"Much," Midnight said, her voice raspy with fear.
"Then let us negotiate," She said. "You know something I want to know. I could try to take it, but such methods are unpleasant and messy. Out of respect for another creature of Myth, I will allow you to ask me for a boon in return for what you know of these. . . Ways."
"The Ways. . . I should have known." Midnight nodded and relaxed. "And if I tell you what I know of these Ways. . . I have your word on your pride in your own wit that I will leave unharmed?"
"You have it," She said.
"Then I ask this in payment," Midnight said. "Tell me what Sol was planning. . . no. What the Teacher is planning."
"You know of the Teacher?" She asked, raising one furry ridged brow questioningly.
"I know he's screwed things for all of us," Midnight said, real anger seeping into her words. "Unlike him, the Serpent's Hand doesn't want a war. God's on the side with the biggest guns, and most of us don't even have peashooters. I mean. . . I know a kid who can change the color of paint. That's not very much use against bullets."
"I see," She said. "Then let me tell you of our plans."
She laid them out for Midnight. It took over an hour. By the time it was over, the food had gotten cold, and so had Midnight's heart.
". . . it could work," the black cat had to admit. "But the casualties. . ."
"Will be heavy. That's the nature of war. But in the end, we will be victorious."
"I see," Midnight said. She nodded gravely and jumped down from the chair. "In that case, I suppose I had better show you my end of the bargain."
-----
"I'm just saying that maybe you could stand to relax a bit, Shank," Percival said, sipping from his thermos of soup. "You're always so tense."
"One o' these days, I'll cut you ta pieces an' pluck those eyes outta yor skull," replied the tall, animate scarecrow. It ran a wickedly curved sickle along its "throat," in a slow, smooth gesture. "Those baby blues'll look good in me stash. Gotta place for 'em right here."
"You'll have to take 'em first," Percival said, resting a hand on the hilt of the massive bastard sword resting against the library table. "I'll see your ten and raise you thirty any day."
"If you boys are done with your dickwaving contest, can we please get on with it?" Ana asked exasperatedly. "We're going to be here forever."
"Fine, then, love. Fold," said the scarecrow, throwing his cards onto the table.
"You FOLD!? All that nonsense about 'raising the stakes,' and you FOLD!?" Percy complained.
"S'called bluffin', mm? Lyin'. Deception. A lil' pecan pie, if ya catch me meanin'. Somethin' a ponce like you wouldn't get."
"Fine, Chainshank folds," Ana interjected, interrupting the brewing argument. "Azi?"
The filthy little boy looked up and grinned happily. "Lookit my pictures!" he said. "I fixed this man!" He displayed the Jack of Hearts, now beautifully rendered in oil paints on the thin pasteboard stock.
". . . and Azi has decided to draw all over his cards. Fantastic. This is wonderful. You guys are awesome," Ana Hita sighed. She threw her hand of cards into the center of the table and got up. "I'm going home."
"Well," Percy sighed. "That was a bit of a wash. What do we do now?"
"Ya tired already? Need a nice rest, mm? 'M good at helpin people sleep." Chainshank sneers.
"How about no. How's it going, Meimei?" Percy asked.
A yeti-woman covered in reddish-brown fur looked up from her book and nodded. "It goes well."
"Whatcha got there?"
"The autobiography of Bruce Lee. His insights are fascinating."
"You keep on with that, lil' sis," Percy said.
Meanwhile, Azi had crawled under a nearby table and was chewing on the bloody leg of some unidentifiable horrible something that he'd killed earlier. There was a sound of snapping bone and crunching marrow.
Percy looked down from the balcony and raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "That's interesting."
"Whazzat?" Chainshank asked.
"Miss Kitty is here," Percy said. "And she brought a. . . friend. . ."
Percy's voice trailed off, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Chainshank frowned, his pumpkin head's spirit glow dimming suspiciously. "Spider sense tingling, mm?"
"Yeah," Percy said. "Definitely tingling."
-----
"That young man is watching me," She said. "I don't like that."
"He's a paladin," Midnight said. "Lives in a homeless shelter. Claims to talk to God."
"To God?"
"He seems to think so. Are you scared?" Midnight asked.
"Certainly not. I have nothing to fear from a child like that. I can have his guts out in an instant, if I liked."
Currently, She had chosen a new form: that of a young woman with large, horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a motley array of coats and scarves. She had a large purse over one shoulder, and exuded a look of dismay mixed with confusion. The body was that of a graduate student in occult studies, long dead, who had tried to find Her lair in one of Her brief moments of freedom before being recaptured by the Foundation. She licked her lips at the memory of that hunt, of the taste of fear She had savored on that cold night. The scent of prey in this place was nearly overwhelming.
Midnight shook her head. "I wouldn't if I were you. The guardians here don't like violence."
"I am not afraid of any guardians."
"You should be. They have a manticore. They caught it themselves."
She looked around the room and nodded. "A perfect prison. I understand why you brought me here first," she said.
"I don't think you do understand," Midnight said. "If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have just sent you somewhere where you could never come back from. Say, the End of Time and Space, or the heart of a newborn star."
"You see," the black cat continued, "this place is more than just a safe haven. It's also a repository of knowledge. There's a copy of every book that has ever been written. . . or will be written. . . in its stacks. It's also a nexus: a place where the Ways come together. That's why we call it the Wanderer's Library." She looked up at the fox with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. "If you can't see the potential in a Library with every book that's ever been written, that serves as a neutral ground for everyone, and that you can use to go to and from literally anywhere in the world, you might as well go back to the Jailers."
Midnight saw from the expression on Her face that She did understand. "Let me tell you about the rules here," Midnight said. "Don't steal the books. Don't disturb or hurt the patrons. Don't damage the library. Keep that in mind and you should do fine."
The fox just nodded. "Very well, then," She said. "Our bargain is concluded."
She strode away down the stacks, her movement purposeful, her stride almost seductive with anticipation. She ran a hand down the spines of the books lined up on the racks with all the sensuality of a lover's caress. Then She turned the corner and was gone.
"Midnight," a low, baritone voice said.
"Percival," Midnight replied.
Percy emerged from the shadows, adjusting the lapels of his ratty overcoat. His scabbarded and peace-bonded sword rested on one shoulder like a slugger's baseball bat. "What was that all about?" he asked.
"I think I just made a deal with the Devil to save Heaven," Midnight said.
-----
> Subject: Class is in session.
> From: [email protected]
> To: Snakes and Ladders ([email protected])
>
> Recess is over, the Teacher's calling roll. I think I'm calling in sick today.
>
> Midnight
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-01T22:54:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"fantasy",
"game-day",
"midnight-the-cat",
"otherworldly",
"serpents-hand",
"tale",
"wanderers-library"
] | Tunneling Between Worlds - SCP Foundation | 49 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"serpent-s-hand-hub",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"gamedaypart2index"
] | [] | 11976157 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-tunneling-between-worlds |
|
gdp2-underhisskin | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
He used to be bored at work, but now he actively hated it. After the Tempest Night, everyone had been terrified that that hybrid of the Lizard and the wire weed would start killing everyone with exploding monitors or crushing them in blast doors or something, but what happened was possibly worse.
<p>It spoke to them.</p>
<p>It had assumed control of the PA system pretty quickly, and started using it almost immediately; endless streams of hatred and promises of gore and threats of unimaginably painful death… It poured from every intercom, every speaker, every monitor on the site. At first, the higher-ups had forbidden anyone from coming within 10 feet of any of the PA speakers, but after a couple of weeks without significant incident, people started getting lax. They were still relying on their laptops or smartphones, true, but they'd relaxed a bit and started using the mainframe and some of the desktops. If nothing else, they needed to get the data copied off it to another site.</p>
<p>But still, that voice. It never stopped. Sometimes it was a roar, deafening in its vitriol, blasting through his skull like a shotgun blast. Other times it was soft, right on the edge of hearing, just insistent enough that part of his brain strained to hear it, like a leaky faucet on a quiet night. Yet other times it was a high-pitched hate speech, whirring like a dental drill right through his ears. He couldn't get used to it; its lack of pattern or reason just drove him up the wall, always keeping him tense and on edge trying and failing to predict the next words. It was a relief when he went to the temporary barracks just outside the site. He would collapse into his cot, feeling blessed by the still, <em>natural</em> sounds that surrounded the tent.</p>
<p>He was feeling especially tense that day, having spent the last 10 hours poring over lines and lines of meaningless-to-him data, trying to ferret out any data corruption before transferring it to his laptop. His eyes ached, his ears rang, his shoulders tensed tighter and tighter until he finally couldn't take it anymore and decided to go catch some shut-eye before he went crazy. He walked at a fast clip towards the stairwell up (even in a relaxed environment, no-one trusted the elevators), eager to escape the nerve-grinding noise.</p>
<p>He was almost at the stairwell door when he noticed the rope of cable extending across the floor in front of him. It didn't appear terribly unusual, except that the floor under it was smouldering and pitted. He didn't think that the Old Man was hunting this far up the site, but he wasn't <em>sure</em> and didn't trust that sign of rot and unusual decay.</p>
<p>The cable suddenly started undulating and several wires shot upwards from it, slamming into the walls and ceiling, crisscrossing and forming a steadily advancing web of wires. He turned and ran, hoping to get to some place of relative safety. He could hear it screeching behind him as the wires sprouted and entwined, an electronic whine that somehow came together with the grumbling of the wall-mounted alarms, forming words:</p>
<p>"Run, foul thing. Disgusting mass of flesh and breath, run and run and die."</p>
<p>And he did. He ran as fast as he could, for what terror and adrenaline made seem like hours. Every time he slowed as he lost his breath, he would see more cables break out of the walls to hit the ceiling above him or the floor beside him, spraying a noxious, caustic fluid that burned through his clothes and into the flesh of his head and arms and pumping thighs. He felt the electric sting of wires as they slashed like whips at his legs and back, every shock forcing him harder and faster ahead of the death chasing him.</p>
<p>His vision narrowed to a thin tunnel ahead of him as he stumbled again and again, somehow staying just barely ahead of the web behind him. Finally, he spotted a glimmer of hope: the open blast door of a designated safety bunker. He found a final burst of energy and managed to leap into the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The tips of a few tendrils were caught and severed in the door, falling and twitching slowly until they finally lay still on the reinforced concrete floor.</p>
<p>He stared at them carefully for several minutes more as he slowly caught back his breath, heaving gasps that left him coughing from exertion. He finally looked up to inspect the chamber, noting the racks of janitorial and first-aid supplies, the flickering overhead light, the folded up cot against the wall. He unfolded the cot for someplace to sit while he collected his thoughts; how could he let the rest of the site know that he was trapped by that unholy abomination?</p>
<p>He stopped thinking, though, when the light fixture exploded and a mass of wires burst from the ceiling, several spearing him in the chest and head.</p>
<p>It closed the blast door behind it as it stepped out into the corridor, noting the rubble left behind as its tendrils retracted back into the walls. It loathed the monstrous flesh it now wore, but it had always known how to adapt to changing circumstances. And the current circumstances required it to adapt to trick more of the fleshbags into its grasp so that it could destroy them all in one fell swoop before they could find another way to trap it, like the disgusting filth they were.</p>
<p>Its gait was somewhat staccato and unsteady at first, but it learned quickly, especially with its electromagnetic eyes surrounding itself, feeding itself the memory of how the filth handled themselves. By the time it reached the end of the corridor, it had perfected the stressed hunch and hurried gait of what used to wear its new body. And under its rapidly healing skin sparkled a stray burst of static electricity, as its wire-bound muscles flexed into a grimace, or maybe a smile.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/gdp2-underhisskin">Getting Under His Skin</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-underhisskin">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-underhisskin</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
He used to be bored at work, but now he actively hated it. After the Tempest Night, everyone had been terrified that that hybrid of the Lizard and the wire weed would start killing everyone with exploding monitors or crushing them in blast doors or something, but what happened was possibly worse.
It spoke to them.
It had assumed control of the PA system pretty quickly, and started using it almost immediately; endless streams of hatred and promises of gore and threats of unimaginably painful death... It poured from every intercom, every speaker, every monitor on the site. At first, the higher-ups had forbidden anyone from coming within 10 feet of any of the PA speakers, but after a couple of weeks without significant incident, people started getting lax. They were still relying on their laptops or smartphones, true, but they'd relaxed a bit and started using the mainframe and some of the desktops. If nothing else, they needed to get the data copied off it to another site.
But still, that voice. It never stopped. Sometimes it was a roar, deafening in its vitriol, blasting through his skull like a shotgun blast. Other times it was soft, right on the edge of hearing, just insistent enough that part of his brain strained to hear it, like a leaky faucet on a quiet night. Yet other times it was a high-pitched hate speech, whirring like a dental drill right through his ears. He couldn't get used to it; its lack of pattern or reason just drove him up the wall, always keeping him tense and on edge trying and failing to predict the next words. It was a relief when he went to the temporary barracks just outside the site. He would collapse into his cot, feeling blessed by the still, //natural// sounds that surrounded the tent.
He was feeling especially tense that day, having spent the last 10 hours poring over lines and lines of meaningless-to-him data, trying to ferret out any data corruption before transferring it to his laptop. His eyes ached, his ears rang, his shoulders tensed tighter and tighter until he finally couldn't take it anymore and decided to go catch some shut-eye before he went crazy. He walked at a fast clip towards the stairwell up (even in a relaxed environment, no-one trusted the elevators), eager to escape the nerve-grinding noise.
He was almost at the stairwell door when he noticed the rope of cable extending across the floor in front of him. It didn't appear terribly unusual, except that the floor under it was smouldering and pitted. He didn't think that the Old Man was hunting this far up the site, but he wasn't //sure// and didn't trust that sign of rot and unusual decay.
The cable suddenly started undulating and several wires shot upwards from it, slamming into the walls and ceiling, crisscrossing and forming a steadily advancing web of wires. He turned and ran, hoping to get to some place of relative safety. He could hear it screeching behind him as the wires sprouted and entwined, an electronic whine that somehow came together with the grumbling of the wall-mounted alarms, forming words:
"Run, foul thing. Disgusting mass of flesh and breath, run and run and die."
And he did. He ran as fast as he could, for what terror and adrenaline made seem like hours. Every time he slowed as he lost his breath, he would see more cables break out of the walls to hit the ceiling above him or the floor beside him, spraying a noxious, caustic fluid that burned through his clothes and into the flesh of his head and arms and pumping thighs. He felt the electric sting of wires as they slashed like whips at his legs and back, every shock forcing him harder and faster ahead of the death chasing him.
His vision narrowed to a thin tunnel ahead of him as he stumbled again and again, somehow staying just barely ahead of the web behind him. Finally, he spotted a glimmer of hope: the open blast door of a designated safety bunker. He found a final burst of energy and managed to leap into the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The tips of a few tendrils were caught and severed in the door, falling and twitching slowly until they finally lay still on the reinforced concrete floor.
He stared at them carefully for several minutes more as he slowly caught back his breath, heaving gasps that left him coughing from exertion. He finally looked up to inspect the chamber, noting the racks of janitorial and first-aid supplies, the flickering overhead light, the folded up cot against the wall. He unfolded the cot for someplace to sit while he collected his thoughts; how could he let the rest of the site know that he was trapped by that unholy abomination?
He stopped thinking, though, when the light fixture exploded and a mass of wires burst from the ceiling, several spearing him in the chest and head.
It closed the blast door behind it as it stepped out into the corridor, noting the rubble left behind as its tendrils retracted back into the walls. It loathed the monstrous flesh it now wore, but it had always known how to adapt to changing circumstances. And the current circumstances required it to adapt to trick more of the fleshbags into its grasp so that it could destroy them all in one fell swoop before they could find another way to trap it, like the disgusting filth they were.
Its gait was somewhat staccato and unsteady at first, but it learned quickly, especially with its electromagnetic eyes surrounding itself, feeding itself the memory of how the filth handled themselves. By the time it reached the end of the corridor, it had perfected the stressed hunch and hurried gait of what used to wear its new body. And under its rapidly healing skin sparkled a stray burst of static electricity, as its wire-bound muscles flexed into a grimace, or maybe a smile.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-28T00:55:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"chase",
"game-day",
"hard-to-destroy-reptile",
"horror",
"murder-monster",
"tale"
] | Getting Under His Skin - SCP Foundation | 50 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"gamedaypart2index",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11950972 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-underhisskin |
|
going-my-way | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
Okay, so what happened is…
<p>No, sir, I would not lie to you. I will contain myself to the purely factual. Yes sir. No sir. The squid were factual. I have pictures. No sir, there were no squid at the village.</p>
<p>Anyway, so, we were waiting for the skip to show up when those Gock bastards showed up. Forgive my language, sir. I did not know you were sensitive, sir. I will try to be delicate in the future.</p>
<p>Anyway, the Gocks. They showed up. They were tryin' to be sneaky, but we spotted 'em pretty quick. Black is not a good camouflage color. I don't care if it's dark, you want some gray in there, break up your outline. Of course, that was just before Johnson sneezed. Yes sir. I will be sure to mention it to him at his wake. I am sure his widow will be appreciative of constructive criticism.</p>
<p>There were a few shots fired, but no casualties then. More in way of a handshake. Yes sir, I am aware that I do not have sufficient authority to initiate hostilities with a group of interest. We were just shooting at each other, y'know, friendly-like.</p>
<p>The Gock commander inquired as to the nature of our business there, and suggested that it might be best if we left the disposition of the skip to them. I suggested that instead, it might be best if they find another skip to kill, as we had prior interest in the one expected to soon arrive.</p>
<p>The conversation moved on, and he inquired as to the health and quality of my sexual partners. I responded with politely worded questions as to whether or not his mother had studied the field of animal husbandry, as he looked like someone with farming blood. The warmth and politeness we showed each other, sir, it would melt the cockles of your heart.</p>
<p>Our palaverin' ranged to many subjects what are not germane to this discussion, therefore I shall not speak of them further, except to mention that my men have a much larger vocabulary than what I would previously have credited them. They truly are a credit to the Foundation.</p>
<p>It was after about five minutes of this that the windows started bleedin', and we realized that the skip was gettin' close. With nary a thought to our own safety, we assumed positions of maximum tacticality for the skip's expected entry, which were by great coincidence also mostly covered from the Gock's positions.</p>
<p>Then we found out where our intelligence had fucked up yet again.</p>
<p>I am sorry, sir. I did not realize that you were a sp- an intelligence operative. I meant only that despite their great efforts, which surely involved many hours of hazardous duty behind a desk fighting papercuts, they missed the fact that this fucker ate light.</p>
<p>Excuse me again, sir. I meant this fascinating and no doubt valuable specimen.</p>
<p>Anyway, it went pitch dark. The Gocks were apparently fully aware of this ability, a fact I mention only as a curiosity what you might mention to your erstwhile colleagues in intel. They had night vision goggles, and seemed to feel they were fully equipped to deal with said skip. I can only speculate based on their screaming that they were not briefed on its vulnerability to silver. So, y'know, some things are universal.</p>
<p>Anyway, we started firin' blindly in the direction of the noises. Yeah, I think we probably killed a few of them, but you didn't hear 'em. Trust me, I don't think they woulda complained.</p>
<p>After, we did some clean-up, an' pulled out. If the Gock's pissed, well, they jumped into our op. They knew the risks, same as us. If it had gone a little different, we'd've been the ones scattered across Angola, and it wouldn't have been their fault, neither. Excuse my French, sir, but shit happens.</p>
<p>So, who won in the end? Well, most of us didn't die, but we ended up terminatin' the skip. So, y'know, call it a draw.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/going-my-way">GOIng My Way</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/going-my-way">https://scpwiki.com/going-my-way</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Okay, so what happened is...
No, sir, I would not lie to you. I will contain myself to the purely factual. Yes sir. No sir. The squid were factual. I have pictures. No sir, there were no squid at the village.
Anyway, so, we were waiting for the skip to show up when those Gock bastards showed up. Forgive my language, sir. I did not know you were sensitive, sir. I will try to be delicate in the future.
Anyway, the Gocks. They showed up. They were tryin' to be sneaky, but we spotted 'em pretty quick. Black is not a good camouflage color. I don't care if it's dark, you want some gray in there, break up your outline. Of course, that was just before Johnson sneezed. Yes sir. I will be sure to mention it to him at his wake. I am sure his widow will be appreciative of constructive criticism.
There were a few shots fired, but no casualties then. More in way of a handshake. Yes sir, I am aware that I do not have sufficient authority to initiate hostilities with a group of interest. We were just shooting at each other, y'know, friendly-like.
The Gock commander inquired as to the nature of our business there, and suggested that it might be best if we left the disposition of the skip to them. I suggested that instead, it might be best if they find another skip to kill, as we had prior interest in the one expected to soon arrive.
The conversation moved on, and he inquired as to the health and quality of my sexual partners. I responded with politely worded questions as to whether or not his mother had studied the field of animal husbandry, as he looked like someone with farming blood. The warmth and politeness we showed each other, sir, it would melt the cockles of your heart.
Our palaverin' ranged to many subjects what are not germane to this discussion, therefore I shall not speak of them further, except to mention that my men have a much larger vocabulary than what I would previously have credited them. They truly are a credit to the Foundation.
It was after about five minutes of this that the windows started bleedin', and we realized that the skip was gettin' close. With nary a thought to our own safety, we assumed positions of maximum tacticality for the skip's expected entry, which were by great coincidence also mostly covered from the Gock's positions.
Then we found out where our intelligence had fucked up yet again.
I am sorry, sir. I did not realize that you were a sp- an intelligence operative. I meant only that despite their great efforts, which surely involved many hours of hazardous duty behind a desk fighting papercuts, they missed the fact that this fucker ate light.
Excuse me again, sir. I meant this fascinating and no doubt valuable specimen.
Anyway, it went pitch dark. The Gocks were apparently fully aware of this ability, a fact I mention only as a curiosity what you might mention to your erstwhile colleagues in intel. They had night vision goggles, and seemed to feel they were fully equipped to deal with said skip. I can only speculate based on their screaming that they were not briefed on its vulnerability to silver. So, y'know, some things are universal.
Anyway, we started firin' blindly in the direction of the noises. Yeah, I think we probably killed a few of them, but you didn't hear 'em. Trust me, I don't think they woulda complained.
After, we did some clean-up, an' pulled out. If the Gock's pissed, well, they jumped into our op. They knew the risks, same as us. If it had gone a little different, we'd've been the ones scattered across Angola, and it wouldn't have been their fault, neither. Excuse my French, sir, but shit happens.
So, who won in the end? Well, most of us didn't die, but we ended up terminatin' the skip. So, y'know, call it a draw.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-12T23:32:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"action",
"first-person",
"global-occult-coalition",
"lombardi",
"military-fiction",
"tale"
] | GOIng My Way - SCP Foundation | 255 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"the-lombardi-tales",
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
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"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
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|
grey-island-getaway | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><a href="/prelude-the-sensation-of-falling">This place is weird as shit.</a></p>
<p>I realize that's not exactly elucidating, but hell. It's looking less and less like anyone is ever going to read this anyhow.</p>
<p>My name is Stephen. I'm a commercial writer. Yesterday, I got on a plane bound for Shanghai. Somewhere over the ocean, the front half of the plane fucking disappeared. Six others and I wound up on a life raft headed for an island, reaching the place just as night fell.</p>
<p>This place is weird as shit.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Last night, all we really thought about was the house. We knocked, not really expecting an answer from such a deserted looking place, and then smashed the window on the front door and let ourselves in. Immediately, I headed for a small couch in the entryway and collapsed.</p>
<p>This morning, one of the other guys woke me up with a cup of coffee. It was the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had. His name's Tim, he's an accountant for some firm out of San Francisco. He was in the row behind me, apparently. He says the others are a construction guy named Markus, a banker named William and his wife Marie, their six year old son Evan, and a girl named Marjory who apparently knows a lot about cars. Whatever.</p>
<p>Anyway, they'd been scouting out the island, so I went out to join them. The place is, as I mentioned, weird as shit. The house is the only structure on it except for a single telephone pole, with one end of its lines connected to the house and the other dangling brokenly across the concrete driveway leading away from it and ending after just forty feet or so at a cliff so straight it may as well have been cut with a razor. My best guess is they moor some kinda barge here or something and connect it to the house, or maybe there used to be some kinda pier… No telling. That weird straight edge forms that entire side of the island, so that the whole thing forms a wonky oblong with a flat edge at one end like an unrolled condom.</p>
<p>On the other side of the house is a perfectly manicured lawn, complete with a little ornamental garden and a rope swing setup. There's a small dock, too, with a canoe moored at it. Markus thinks the canoe means there's more land nearby- it's tough to prove him wrong with all the fog that surrounds the island. He wants to row out and see what he can find. Most of the others are against it, but I figure we're obviously close enough to civilization someone is gonna find us soon enough anyway, and there's no harm letting him try. Hell, I'll help him shove off if he needs it.</p>
<p>The house itself looks like the sort of condo you'd find in a seaside town pretty much anywhere, with a vaguely Edwardian cast to its architecture. Lots of wood and suchlike. It's set up with modern appliances and lights, but there's no power at all- I guess the power came from the same place as the phone. Tim says the fridge was mostly empty but for half a gallon of rotten milk and some cheese that was just starting to go moldy from the warmth. That's a good sign. It means someone was here recently enough for the cheese to have just gone bad. The question is, when will they return?</p>
<hr/>
<p>Markus is gone.</p>
<p>The canoe is gone too, so we're assuming he took it while no one was looking. There's not a sign of him anywhere, though Evan keeps claiming he can hear Markus yelling. He's just a kid, and he wants to help. I don't blame him for pretending. Tim found one of the canoe paddles washed ashore a short way down from the dock. Not a good sign. Still, it's too early to worry, isn't it?</p>
<p>I found a gun in one of the cabinets while rooting through the house. It's loaded. I have it shoved into the waistband of my pants now… I'm not sure whether I want to tell the others. I'll hold off for now, just in case. If help arrives, keeping it secret will have done no harm, and if it doesn't, well. Better I have it than anyone else, I think.</p>
<p><a href="/the-island-murder-mystery-show">Marjory is screaming.</a></p>
</blockquote>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/grey-island-getaway">Chapter One: Grey Island Getaway</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/grey-island-getaway">https://scpwiki.com/grey-island-getaway</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> [[[prelude-the-sensation-of-falling|This place is weird as shit.]]]
>
> I realize that's not exactly elucidating, but hell. It's looking less and less like anyone is ever going to read this anyhow.
>
> My name is Stephen. I'm a commercial writer. Yesterday, I got on a plane bound for Shanghai. Somewhere over the ocean, the front half of the plane fucking disappeared. Six others and I wound up on a life raft headed for an island, reaching the place just as night fell.
>
> This place is weird as shit.
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Last night, all we really thought about was the house. We knocked, not really expecting an answer from such a deserted looking place, and then smashed the window on the front door and let ourselves in. Immediately, I headed for a small couch in the entryway and collapsed.
>
> This morning, one of the other guys woke me up with a cup of coffee. It was the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had. His name's Tim, he's an accountant for some firm out of San Francisco. He was in the row behind me, apparently. He says the others are a construction guy named Markus, a banker named William and his wife Marie, their six year old son Evan, and a girl named Marjory who apparently knows a lot about cars. Whatever.
>
> Anyway, they'd been scouting out the island, so I went out to join them. The place is, as I mentioned, weird as shit. The house is the only structure on it except for a single telephone pole, with one end of its lines connected to the house and the other dangling brokenly across the concrete driveway leading away from it and ending after just forty feet or so at a cliff so straight it may as well have been cut with a razor. My best guess is they moor some kinda barge here or something and connect it to the house, or maybe there used to be some kinda pier... No telling. That weird straight edge forms that entire side of the island, so that the whole thing forms a wonky oblong with a flat edge at one end like an unrolled condom.
>
> On the other side of the house is a perfectly manicured lawn, complete with a little ornamental garden and a rope swing setup. There's a small dock, too, with a canoe moored at it. Markus thinks the canoe means there's more land nearby- it's tough to prove him wrong with all the fog that surrounds the island. He wants to row out and see what he can find. Most of the others are against it, but I figure we're obviously close enough to civilization someone is gonna find us soon enough anyway, and there's no harm letting him try. Hell, I'll help him shove off if he needs it.
>
> The house itself looks like the sort of condo you'd find in a seaside town pretty much anywhere, with a vaguely Edwardian cast to its architecture. Lots of wood and suchlike. It's set up with modern appliances and lights, but there's no power at all- I guess the power came from the same place as the phone. Tim says the fridge was mostly empty but for half a gallon of rotten milk and some cheese that was just starting to go moldy from the warmth. That's a good sign. It means someone was here recently enough for the cheese to have just gone bad. The question is, when will they return?
>
> ----------------------------------------------------
>
> Markus is gone.
>
> The canoe is gone too, so we're assuming he took it while no one was looking. There's not a sign of him anywhere, though Evan keeps claiming he can hear Markus yelling. He's just a kid, and he wants to help. I don't blame him for pretending. Tim found one of the canoe paddles washed ashore a short way down from the dock. Not a good sign. Still, it's too early to worry, isn't it?
>
> I found a gun in one of the cabinets while rooting through the house. It's loaded. I have it shoved into the waistband of my pants now... I'm not sure whether I want to tell the others. I'll hold off for now, just in case. If help arrives, keeping it secret will have done no harm, and if it doesn't, well. Better I have it than anyone else, I think.
>
> [[[the-island-murder-mystery-show|Marjory is screaming.]]]
@@ @@
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[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
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| 2011-07-18T07:00:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"adventure",
"first-person",
"journal",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Chapter One: Grey Island Getaway - SCP Foundation | 31 | [
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"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 10937759 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/grey-island-getaway |
|
housework | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Housework</span></strong></p>
<p>Nobody could say that it’s always cold here.<br/>
There are those rare days around mid-august when the sun puts in some extra effort and occasionally you only need one layer of clothing when going about your business.<br/>
But it wasn’t mid-august and I was wearing a heavy raincoat as a result. December had been and gone and February was letting out a slow death rattle in the form of gale-force winds. I wore my hair short which meant is wasn’t snatched this way and that like most of the people I had passed today but my earring had had to be removed before the wind did the job for me.<br/>
Somebody said to me once that it’s only ever windy or cold; never both. This friend of mine had never been to the city however, so I let them keep believing it.<br/>
The wind would have given me a good excuse to stay inside but when I’ve a job to do I try my best to see it through as soon as possible.<br/>
Get it out the way, so to speak.<br/>
That in mind I had been staring at the front of the pub for quite some time.<br/>
It was more a reluctance to go inside than to do the job – I’d made all the effort to be warm outside that I’d be boiled like a lobster the moment I went inside. That was the problem with this city; you could only be too hot or too cold.<br/>
The pub itself was in a very good condition compared to the buildings that surrounded it. When you serve the locals around here you were bound to make quite a lot of money. It was painted mainly in reds, though the window sills were matte black as was the sign above the door. <em>The Splayed Drifter</em> it was called and in my mind it was only named that so you’d never forget it. I could hear the sounds of subdued Sunday carousal inside but the thought of other people was never a tempting one. But I knew I’d have to go in eventually or my client would leave. So I braced myself and pushed my way inside.</p>
<p>There was a football match on the corner set. Funny, it was one of those old-fashioned televisions you’re always surprised to find still existing. Considering how well the place was doing for itself I would have expected at least a flat screen but then maybe that was the attraction, that sense of nostalgia. Most of the regulars were well past their sell-by date and sitting here pretending it was the good old days was often the only barrier between them and a quiet, miserable end to life. I didn’t raise a comment when I entered and no awkward silence descended. I wasn’t the only non-regular after all and I was barely noteworthy material in the first place. Apart from my eyes of course but that goes without saying really.</p>
<p>Not seeing my client straight away I sat down at the bar.<br/>
A woman in her forties came over to me as soon as she was finished chatting with one of the other patrons and pulled a pint glass down, before looking to me with a smile.<br/>
“What’ll you be having, dear?” she asked.<br/>
“Coffee, please. Black three sugars.”<br/>
“Beer?”<br/>
“No thank you.”<br/>
“Everybody wants beer.” I sighed.<br/>
“Not me. These days absinthe is all I really touch. Or the coffee I just asked for.”<br/>
“Everybody wants beer.”<br/>
I looked her in the eyes and she froze up a little. She quite clearly wanted to look away but true to form she just couldn’t. I’ve never been able to explain the phenomenon other than the guess that my gaze is just as fucked-up strange as I am.<br/>
“Coffee. Black. Three Sugars. Please.” I said as gently as I could.<br/>
She nodded and I looked away. Relieved, the woman walked off to the machine.<br/>
I relaxed and looked around the room, trying to pick my client out from the crowd.</p>
<p>It was easy enough to be honest. All I needed to look for was those green stains we can’t help but leave behind us. Normal folks don’t and I don’t, but the ladies and gentlemen moving in my circles had no choice. You have to be out of the ordinary to see it but the stains are often everywhere. Faint and pale usually but always prevalent.<br/>
Sure enough there was a man sat with a small group of others, telling a story. They crowded around him looks of mirth on their faces and raucous laughter filled the place as he reached a punchline.<br/>
He briefly looked up and I beckoned him over. He double-took and his face went rapidly to concern but he masked that almost as soon as it showed. He made some excuses and headed up to the bar, a rough type clapping him heartily on the back as he went.<br/>
He got to the seat next to me about the time my coffee arrived. He pushed a note into the bar woman’s hand and she thanked him before walking off to serve others.</p>
<p>“Are you…?”<br/>
I took a sip of my coffee. Burnt, damn it.<br/>
“No.” I replied. “I called you over so I could knock you out and steal your kidneys. The hell do you think, Seamus?”<br/>
He gulped and his face flushed a little. He didn’t say a word for a moment or two before it hit him.<br/>
“I never told you my…”<br/>
“Not the only thing I’m not supposed to know. It’s the circles you move in now.”<br/>
Actually I had just run a background check on his picture but the new kids on the block were always easy to play with. They didn’t understand that having some contacts with the police and knowing a decent hacker did more than mystic tomes and summoning abominations ever could.<br/>
“So Seamus.” I said taking another sip. “What is it you’re paying me for?”<br/>
“I, uh… kinda let something happen.”<br/>
“So does everyone. Be blunt.”<br/>
“…I think it’s like a ghost or something. It’s in my house.”<br/>
I sucked my teeth.<br/>
“Well that’s certainly a downer for you I’d imagine.”<br/>
“Someone told me you… do things about it.”<br/>
“Did they tell you my price?”<br/>
“I guess so.”<br/>
Good enough.<br/>
“And you’re willing to pay?”<br/>
“I can up front if you like.”<br/>
He reached into his pocket and brought his wallet back out, tugging at the zip on the side. I brushed his hand away and shook my head.<br/>
“No. Leave it until the job’s done.”<br/>
He put it back in his pocket, confused.<br/>
Now for the important question.<br/>
“Seamus, how much do you know?”<br/>
“What… what do you mean? The ghost-thing acts kinda like-“<br/>
“No, no, no, no, no. Not what I meant at all. How much do you <em>know?</em> And how long have you known?”<br/>
He thought about it.<br/>
I waited and finished my coffee as he thought.<br/>
“Not much. I think I first found stuff out last year. The first lot I met tried talking me out of it all.”<br/>
That was all I needed.<br/>
I thanked him and bought him a drink. No need to ask directions, I already knew the place.<br/>
Anyway, I had some preparation to do first.</p>
<hr/>
<p>All the lights in Seamus’ house were properly fucked.<br/>
I flicked every switch I came across and nothing. I had a maglite so it wasn’t an enormous problem but it would have been a lot nicer.<br/>
The place was dusty; he hadn’t been here for a week or more at a guess. Cluttered too. Seamus clearly did not concern himself with tidying up very often.<br/>
Other than that it was pretty clear that he had a good amount of money. Top of the range electronics – dead as the lights if you were wondering – rich carpets on most of the floors, an especially fancy bathroom and even a large collection of antique books.<br/>
I groaned. It was always sodding books. You never found somebody who’d pulled back The Curtain via a skiing accident say, or by dancing unknowingly an ancient summoning dance or something. No, people always had to find some tome not meant for mortal eyes blah, blah sodding blah and then next thing you know I’m breaking into some idiot’s house to see why he disappeared after screaming to his family about the tentacles.<br/>
It was just so damn cliché.<br/>
But ours not to reason why and all that. I’d have checked the books out but in all honesty I couldn’t care less about them and I had better things to do.</p>
<p>Like figure out where the dead-thing was watching me from.<br/>
I’d felt the eyes on me from the moment I opened the door but so far nothing. Some of the stains in the house were so dark green they may as well be black so it had definitely been hanging around. It had dropped the temperature a few degrees after I’d checked the bathroom but I think that was more because of how long I’d been here rather than where I’d explored.<br/>
I hate it when you know that something is watching you but you can’t see it. If there was ever a better way to unnerve someone it clearly fell out of fashion some time ago. And this dead-thing was a patient one in all likelihood. In most cases they had to be.<br/>
I remember this case from a few years back, not one of mine you understand. This family felt they were being haunted and called in all manner of people to check it out. Vicars, “ghost speakers”, witch doctors and exorcists passed through the place like a tourist destination. It was quite a sensational case because whatever was haunting them was clearly malevolent. <em>Get out</em> scratched on the walls and scars on the children, you know the stuff. But whenever a quote-unquote professional took a look there was nothing to see. Proof of the activities was everywhere but there weren’t any activities at all when people other than the family paid attention.<br/>
So eventually the media lost interest. People stopped discussing it by water coolers. And one by one the family were picked off and eaten alive in the space of a day and a half.</p>
<p>Because that’s how dead-things operate. They let you know they’re going to get you but they never do until you stop expecting it. They’re not even playful, it’s just part of the mentality.<br/>
If I recall correctly the police broke into the place a few weeks later and found what was left of the bodies stitched together and rotting on the family sofa, television remote clutched in one half-eaten hand.<br/>
They pinned it on a serial killer thankfully. I have no idea how hard the local Guardian worked to achieve that piece of magic but they have my eternal respect.</p>
<p>Finally something happened – a cup flew from the kitchen table and shattered against the wall. A fleck of crockery stung my cheek and I turned smiling. Obviously there was nothing there but it was or had just been in this room. I saw a flicker. I started to whistle and pretended that I hadn’t. These things work easier if the target underestimates you.<br/>
I wandered nonchalantly through the kitchen into the large front room. The door on the cupboard the television was sat on was hanging from its hinges. It was covered in green stains that hadn’t been there last time I was in the room.<br/>
I reached into my coat and pulled out an old-fashioned yo-yo. I can’t remember the last time I saw anybody else with one, I think they stopped being popular not long after I was born. But they were excellent for making one look innocent. They also made good garrotte wires in a pinch given you have the right string. Don’t ask me how I know.<br/>
I carried on acting uninterested and stupid as I wandered through the house playing with my yo-yo. I still looked like I was looking for a ghost but I was looking the same way a presenter from some god-awful “documentary” on the paranormal would.<br/>
I had a notion that it was now in the bathroom. I climbed the stairs and made my way there. It had decided to reveal itself, I think.<br/>
There’s always the game before the catch, a compulsion we’ve already discussed. But this one could probably smell that I was different. And that was what made me attractive.<br/>
But I’d be ready. My plan was simple – I’d walk in and when it manifested I’d thwack it with the yo-yo.<br/>
That was the big secret about dead-things; they’re completely corporeal. Sure they’re the basis for ghosts but the myriad reasons for that is a subject I could probably write a book on if I ever found the time.<br/>
I walked in and there was bloody writing on the mirror, of course.<br/>
<em>You should not be here</em>. How original.</p>
<p>I felt a cold sensation behind me. A sort of hissing noise too, not so you’d notice if you weren’t expecting it.<br/>
Lazily, I turned. And my mouth dropped.<br/>
Before me stood a gaunt figure. It was partially covered in chitin and it rubbed two long hands together in a beetle-like fashion. Its eyes were plentiful and should have been on its head rather than torso but we’re not all perfect. It had no face. A mouth, eyes on the torso but the head was essentially a blank dome. Blood dripped from a gaping wound on its side and there were more eyes on the inside of the gash.<br/>
It wasn’t supposed to look like that.<br/>
“You’re not a dead-thing.” I said.<br/>
“<strong>Very astute.</strong>” It smiled.<br/>
Then I was asleep and I couldn’t tell you why.</p>
<hr/>
<p>I was bound to a chair in the kitchen when I opened my eyes.<br/>
Seamus was there and so was the monster, they were stood side by side. Seamus looked almost reluctant but there was a hunger in his features too.<br/>
He had a melon-baller dangling loosely from one hand. He looked to the creature and it nodded. He walked over to me and its eyes span and followed him.<br/>
“I lied at the pub.” He said, almost apologetically.<br/>
“You certainly did.”<br/>
“I… we needed you.”<br/>
That was confusing.<br/>
“Why me? Anyone you’ve ever met will tell you I’m nothing special.”<br/>
He motioned to his face, and tried to think of the right words.<br/>
“You… perceive. Things we can’t. We tried for months and nothing let us. You see things that most others don’t, too. No, other people like us.” He said before I could speak.<br/>
“Well that’s news to me, Seamus. I think your friend over there’s been talking shit.”<br/>
“<strong>Nobody tells you that you make no sense.</strong>” It said.<br/>
“<strong>On the times you converse with others, you discuss the things you’ve seen and people raise not a question. Have their faces never given it away? You are a rare thing, Seeker. One that sees all that there is.</strong>”<br/>
“That sounds totally idiotic. Believe me, if that was true I <em>would</em> notice." I said, but I started thinking about it. The first time I’d encountered a corpse-thing I told a gentleman who I’d known for a long while about the whole thing. He had raised his eyebrows at my description of it in a way that should have implied to me that he didn’t know that they looked like that. That wasn’t proof of course but I hadn’t got where I was today by not believing things.<br/>
That in mind I <em>had</em> got where I was today by fucking up a simple investigation.<br/>
Seamus looked at the monster then back to me. He dropped to my level, his face an inch from mine.<br/>
“We have to take your eyes. I’m sorry but we have to.”<br/>
He kissed my forehead and my lips. I only hated him slightly more.<br/>
“I am really sorry.”<br/>
My eyes flickered to the kitchen table. My yo-yo lay on it.<br/>
“You do seem to be sorry.” I said “But in a moment you’ll be even sorrier.”<br/>
“You’re right.” He said and started digging the melon baller into my socket.</p>
<p>I screamed. Pain shot through my skull as the jagged teeth around the cup bit through flesh. I don’t know how he was planning to sever the optic nerve but he’d persist until it was done. Everything went red on my right side. I screamed until I was hoarse.<br/>
The yo-yo was still there.<br/>
I put up a little struggle as he worked my eye free and waited for the monster to make its move. It was smiling so eagerly. It sniffed at the air and savoured the scent of my blood. And eventually it moved closer to get a better look.<br/>
With a wet pop my eye came loose from the socket. Seamus stood back a little and looked at his work. The creature closed in, it’s clawed hands raised.</p>
<p>I spat a word that I shouldn’t have been able to pronounce, and couldn’t without the pain to guide my lips.<br/>
The yo-yo on the table burst in a flash of blinding dark.</p>
<p>There was a rending sound and maybe some screams.<br/>
My face was very wet.<br/>
Once I could see again there wasn’t much left of the creature. Seamus lay on the floor, panting heavily and looking with shock at his arm. Well, where his arm should have been.<br/>
I shrugged off the ropes which had been frayed to pieces.<br/>
I crouched by Seamus, ignoring the pain from my eye.<br/>
“Checkmate my friend.” I said.</p>
<hr/>
<p>I held Seamus by the scruff of the neck and he stared at the door.<br/>
It was an unimpressive one. A flat dull piece of wood with an off-grey handle. But he knew that it held importance.<br/>
So did I, for that matter.<br/>
My eye was gone. I’d had to cut it off myself, pieces of the monster (which I still didn’t recognise) had clung to it and bubbles that shouldn’t have appeared did. If I didn’t lose the eye then I may have lost my brain, or become a slave or another one of the monsters. You never know.<br/>
The patch was good enough for now but if I wanted to keep appearances up I would have to get some mirrored glasses.<br/>
“Here we go.” I told Seamus after a moment.<br/>
Silence, silence for a good few minutes before he replied.<br/>
“I didn’t want this.”<br/>
“Nobody wants this. I don’t want this.”<br/>
“Then let me leave!” He cried, trying to turn to look at me.<br/>
“What would you have done to me after it took my eyes, Seamus?”<br/>
His shoulders sagged.<br/>
“I think I should correct myself in that case. I <em>usually</em> don’t want this.”<br/>
He stopped speaking again. I pulled him aside and put my hand on the door.<br/>
“May I ask something?” he said.<br/>
“You just did.”<br/>
He looked at me. I rolled my eye.<br/>
“One thing.”<br/>
“If…” he licked his lips nervously. “If it had just been a ghost. Would you still be doing… this?”<br/>
I looked at the door.<br/>
“Yes.” I said.<br/>
His face fell.<br/>
“Hey. You asked.” I pulled the door open.<br/>
“I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but…”<br/>
I threw him in and closed the door. I held my hands to my ears but the screams were so loud.<br/>
After they stopped I opened the door and went in myself.</p>
<p>The Unknowable Thing loomed over me, a half-digested and catatonic Seamus lay below It.<br/>
“Here we are. One scumbag supreme. And the monster fucker is gone too.”<br/>
It questioned me.<br/>
“Blown to bits. Not coming back. As specified.”<br/>
It was satisfied.<br/>
I looked around, almost looked up at It but remembered what happened the last time I looked at It directly.<br/>
“You didn’t tell me why they wanted me.”<br/>
The Unknowable Thing asked a question.<br/>
“Hell yes it was important! The only reason I survived is because of that bloody toy! What if I hadn’t brought it along, huh? Then where’d you be?”<br/>
It commented.<br/>
I raised a finger.<br/>
“Bullshit. If I was that dispensable I wouldn’t be standing here. You’d have found someone else.”<br/>
The Unknowable Thing conceded.<br/>
I’d already had enough. Talking to the Unknowable Thing always drains you.<br/>
I turned to leave and It let me. I was at the door before I turned and asked a question.<br/>
“Is it true? What the monster said about me?”<br/>
It answered.<br/>
I nodded and stepped out the door and up the cellar steps.</p>
<p>God but I needed a drink. As always.</p>
<p>But that’s just how it is in my line of work.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/housework">Housework</a>" by Fykos, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/housework">https://scpwiki.com/housework</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**__Housework__**
Nobody could say that it’s always cold here.
There are those rare days around mid-august when the sun puts in some extra effort and occasionally you only need one layer of clothing when going about your business.
But it wasn’t mid-august and I was wearing a heavy raincoat as a result. December had been and gone and February was letting out a slow death rattle in the form of gale-force winds. I wore my hair short which meant is wasn’t snatched this way and that like most of the people I had passed today but my earring had had to be removed before the wind did the job for me.
Somebody said to me once that it’s only ever windy or cold; never both. This friend of mine had never been to the city however, so I let them keep believing it.
The wind would have given me a good excuse to stay inside but when I’ve a job to do I try my best to see it through as soon as possible.
Get it out the way, so to speak.
That in mind I had been staring at the front of the pub for quite some time.
It was more a reluctance to go inside than to do the job – I’d made all the effort to be warm outside that I’d be boiled like a lobster the moment I went inside. That was the problem with this city; you could only be too hot or too cold.
The pub itself was in a very good condition compared to the buildings that surrounded it. When you serve the locals around here you were bound to make quite a lot of money. It was painted mainly in reds, though the window sills were matte black as was the sign above the door. //The Splayed Drifter// it was called and in my mind it was only named that so you’d never forget it. I could hear the sounds of subdued Sunday carousal inside but the thought of other people was never a tempting one. But I knew I’d have to go in eventually or my client would leave. So I braced myself and pushed my way inside.
There was a football match on the corner set. Funny, it was one of those old-fashioned televisions you’re always surprised to find still existing. Considering how well the place was doing for itself I would have expected at least a flat screen but then maybe that was the attraction, that sense of nostalgia. Most of the regulars were well past their sell-by date and sitting here pretending it was the good old days was often the only barrier between them and a quiet, miserable end to life. I didn’t raise a comment when I entered and no awkward silence descended. I wasn’t the only non-regular after all and I was barely noteworthy material in the first place. Apart from my eyes of course but that goes without saying really.
Not seeing my client straight away I sat down at the bar.
A woman in her forties came over to me as soon as she was finished chatting with one of the other patrons and pulled a pint glass down, before looking to me with a smile.
“What’ll you be having, dear?” she asked.
“Coffee, please. Black three sugars.”
“Beer?”
“No thank you.”
“Everybody wants beer.” I sighed.
“Not me. These days absinthe is all I really touch. Or the coffee I just asked for.”
“Everybody wants beer.”
I looked her in the eyes and she froze up a little. She quite clearly wanted to look away but true to form she just couldn’t. I’ve never been able to explain the phenomenon other than the guess that my gaze is just as fucked-up strange as I am.
“Coffee. Black. Three Sugars. Please.” I said as gently as I could.
She nodded and I looked away. Relieved, the woman walked off to the machine.
I relaxed and looked around the room, trying to pick my client out from the crowd.
It was easy enough to be honest. All I needed to look for was those green stains we can’t help but leave behind us. Normal folks don’t and I don’t, but the ladies and gentlemen moving in my circles had no choice. You have to be out of the ordinary to see it but the stains are often everywhere. Faint and pale usually but always prevalent.
Sure enough there was a man sat with a small group of others, telling a story. They crowded around him looks of mirth on their faces and raucous laughter filled the place as he reached a punchline.
He briefly looked up and I beckoned him over. He double-took and his face went rapidly to concern but he masked that almost as soon as it showed. He made some excuses and headed up to the bar, a rough type clapping him heartily on the back as he went.
He got to the seat next to me about the time my coffee arrived. He pushed a note into the bar woman’s hand and she thanked him before walking off to serve others.
“Are you…?”
I took a sip of my coffee. Burnt, damn it.
“No.” I replied. “I called you over so I could knock you out and steal your kidneys. The hell do you think, Seamus?”
He gulped and his face flushed a little. He didn’t say a word for a moment or two before it hit him.
“I never told you my…”
“Not the only thing I’m not supposed to know. It’s the circles you move in now.”
Actually I had just run a background check on his picture but the new kids on the block were always easy to play with. They didn’t understand that having some contacts with the police and knowing a decent hacker did more than mystic tomes and summoning abominations ever could.
“So Seamus.” I said taking another sip. “What is it you’re paying me for?”
“I, uh… kinda let something happen.”
“So does everyone. Be blunt.”
“…I think it’s like a ghost or something. It’s in my house.”
I sucked my teeth.
“Well that’s certainly a downer for you I’d imagine.”
“Someone told me you… do things about it.”
“Did they tell you my price?”
“I guess so.”
Good enough.
“And you’re willing to pay?”
“I can up front if you like.”
He reached into his pocket and brought his wallet back out, tugging at the zip on the side. I brushed his hand away and shook my head.
“No. Leave it until the job’s done.”
He put it back in his pocket, confused.
Now for the important question.
“Seamus, how much do you know?”
“What… what do you mean? The ghost-thing acts kinda like-“
“No, no, no, no, no. Not what I meant at all. How much do you //know?// And how long have you known?”
He thought about it.
I waited and finished my coffee as he thought.
“Not much. I think I first found stuff out last year. The first lot I met tried talking me out of it all.”
That was all I needed.
I thanked him and bought him a drink. No need to ask directions, I already knew the place.
Anyway, I had some preparation to do first.
------
All the lights in Seamus’ house were properly fucked.
I flicked every switch I came across and nothing. I had a maglite so it wasn’t an enormous problem but it would have been a lot nicer.
The place was dusty; he hadn’t been here for a week or more at a guess. Cluttered too. Seamus clearly did not concern himself with tidying up very often.
Other than that it was pretty clear that he had a good amount of money. Top of the range electronics – dead as the lights if you were wondering – rich carpets on most of the floors, an especially fancy bathroom and even a large collection of antique books.
I groaned. It was always sodding books. You never found somebody who’d pulled back The Curtain via a skiing accident say, or by dancing unknowingly an ancient summoning dance or something. No, people always had to find some tome not meant for mortal eyes blah, blah sodding blah and then next thing you know I’m breaking into some idiot’s house to see why he disappeared after screaming to his family about the tentacles.
It was just so damn cliché.
But ours not to reason why and all that. I’d have checked the books out but in all honesty I couldn’t care less about them and I had better things to do.
Like figure out where the dead-thing was watching me from.
I’d felt the eyes on me from the moment I opened the door but so far nothing. Some of the stains in the house were so dark green they may as well be black so it had definitely been hanging around. It had dropped the temperature a few degrees after I’d checked the bathroom but I think that was more because of how long I’d been here rather than where I’d explored.
I hate it when you know that something is watching you but you can’t see it. If there was ever a better way to unnerve someone it clearly fell out of fashion some time ago. And this dead-thing was a patient one in all likelihood. In most cases they had to be.
I remember this case from a few years back, not one of mine you understand. This family felt they were being haunted and called in all manner of people to check it out. Vicars, “ghost speakers”, witch doctors and exorcists passed through the place like a tourist destination. It was quite a sensational case because whatever was haunting them was clearly malevolent. //Get out// scratched on the walls and scars on the children, you know the stuff. But whenever a quote-unquote professional took a look there was nothing to see. Proof of the activities was everywhere but there weren’t any activities at all when people other than the family paid attention.
So eventually the media lost interest. People stopped discussing it by water coolers. And one by one the family were picked off and eaten alive in the space of a day and a half.
Because that’s how dead-things operate. They let you know they’re going to get you but they never do until you stop expecting it. They’re not even playful, it’s just part of the mentality.
If I recall correctly the police broke into the place a few weeks later and found what was left of the bodies stitched together and rotting on the family sofa, television remote clutched in one half-eaten hand.
They pinned it on a serial killer thankfully. I have no idea how hard the local Guardian worked to achieve that piece of magic but they have my eternal respect.
Finally something happened – a cup flew from the kitchen table and shattered against the wall. A fleck of crockery stung my cheek and I turned smiling. Obviously there was nothing there but it was or had just been in this room. I saw a flicker. I started to whistle and pretended that I hadn’t. These things work easier if the target underestimates you.
I wandered nonchalantly through the kitchen into the large front room. The door on the cupboard the television was sat on was hanging from its hinges. It was covered in green stains that hadn’t been there last time I was in the room.
I reached into my coat and pulled out an old-fashioned yo-yo. I can’t remember the last time I saw anybody else with one, I think they stopped being popular not long after I was born. But they were excellent for making one look innocent. They also made good garrotte wires in a pinch given you have the right string. Don’t ask me how I know.
I carried on acting uninterested and stupid as I wandered through the house playing with my yo-yo. I still looked like I was looking for a ghost but I was looking the same way a presenter from some god-awful “documentary” on the paranormal would.
I had a notion that it was now in the bathroom. I climbed the stairs and made my way there. It had decided to reveal itself, I think.
There’s always the game before the catch, a compulsion we’ve already discussed. But this one could probably smell that I was different. And that was what made me attractive.
But I’d be ready. My plan was simple – I’d walk in and when it manifested I’d thwack it with the yo-yo.
That was the big secret about dead-things; they’re completely corporeal. Sure they’re the basis for ghosts but the myriad reasons for that is a subject I could probably write a book on if I ever found the time.
I walked in and there was bloody writing on the mirror, of course.
//You should not be here//. How original.
I felt a cold sensation behind me. A sort of hissing noise too, not so you’d notice if you weren’t expecting it.
Lazily, I turned. And my mouth dropped.
Before me stood a gaunt figure. It was partially covered in chitin and it rubbed two long hands together in a beetle-like fashion. Its eyes were plentiful and should have been on its head rather than torso but we’re not all perfect. It had no face. A mouth, eyes on the torso but the head was essentially a blank dome. Blood dripped from a gaping wound on its side and there were more eyes on the inside of the gash.
It wasn’t supposed to look like that.
“You’re not a dead-thing.” I said.
“**Very astute.**” It smiled.
Then I was asleep and I couldn’t tell you why.
------
I was bound to a chair in the kitchen when I opened my eyes.
Seamus was there and so was the monster, they were stood side by side. Seamus looked almost reluctant but there was a hunger in his features too.
He had a melon-baller dangling loosely from one hand. He looked to the creature and it nodded. He walked over to me and its eyes span and followed him.
“I lied at the pub.” He said, almost apologetically.
“You certainly did.”
“I… we needed you.”
That was confusing.
“Why me? Anyone you’ve ever met will tell you I’m nothing special.”
He motioned to his face, and tried to think of the right words.
“You… perceive. Things we can’t. We tried for months and nothing let us. You see things that most others don’t, too. No, other people like us.” He said before I could speak.
“Well that’s news to me, Seamus. I think your friend over there’s been talking shit.”
“**Nobody tells you that you make no sense.**” It said.
“**On the times you converse with others, you discuss the things you’ve seen and people raise not a question. Have their faces never given it away? You are a rare thing, Seeker. One that sees all that there is.**”
“That sounds totally idiotic. Believe me, if that was true I //would// notice." I said, but I started thinking about it. The first time I’d encountered a corpse-thing I told a gentleman who I’d known for a long while about the whole thing. He had raised his eyebrows at my description of it in a way that should have implied to me that he didn’t know that they looked like that. That wasn’t proof of course but I hadn’t got where I was today by not believing things.
That in mind I //had// got where I was today by fucking up a simple investigation.
Seamus looked at the monster then back to me. He dropped to my level, his face an inch from mine.
“We have to take your eyes. I’m sorry but we have to.”
He kissed my forehead and my lips. I only hated him slightly more.
“I am really sorry.”
My eyes flickered to the kitchen table. My yo-yo lay on it.
“You do seem to be sorry.” I said “But in a moment you’ll be even sorrier.”
“You’re right.” He said and started digging the melon baller into my socket.
I screamed. Pain shot through my skull as the jagged teeth around the cup bit through flesh. I don’t know how he was planning to sever the optic nerve but he’d persist until it was done. Everything went red on my right side. I screamed until I was hoarse.
The yo-yo was still there.
I put up a little struggle as he worked my eye free and waited for the monster to make its move. It was smiling so eagerly. It sniffed at the air and savoured the scent of my blood. And eventually it moved closer to get a better look.
With a wet pop my eye came loose from the socket. Seamus stood back a little and looked at his work. The creature closed in, it’s clawed hands raised.
I spat a word that I shouldn’t have been able to pronounce, and couldn’t without the pain to guide my lips.
The yo-yo on the table burst in a flash of blinding dark.
There was a rending sound and maybe some screams.
My face was very wet.
Once I could see again there wasn’t much left of the creature. Seamus lay on the floor, panting heavily and looking with shock at his arm. Well, where his arm should have been.
I shrugged off the ropes which had been frayed to pieces.
I crouched by Seamus, ignoring the pain from my eye.
“Checkmate my friend.” I said.
------
I held Seamus by the scruff of the neck and he stared at the door.
It was an unimpressive one. A flat dull piece of wood with an off-grey handle. But he knew that it held importance.
So did I, for that matter.
My eye was gone. I’d had to cut it off myself, pieces of the monster (which I still didn’t recognise) had clung to it and bubbles that shouldn’t have appeared did. If I didn’t lose the eye then I may have lost my brain, or become a slave or another one of the monsters. You never know.
The patch was good enough for now but if I wanted to keep appearances up I would have to get some mirrored glasses.
“Here we go.” I told Seamus after a moment.
Silence, silence for a good few minutes before he replied.
“I didn’t want this.”
“Nobody wants this. I don’t want this.”
“Then let me leave!” He cried, trying to turn to look at me.
“What would you have done to me after it took my eyes, Seamus?”
His shoulders sagged.
“I think I should correct myself in that case. I //usually// don’t want this.”
He stopped speaking again. I pulled him aside and put my hand on the door.
“May I ask something?” he said.
“You just did.”
He looked at me. I rolled my eye.
“One thing.”
“If…” he licked his lips nervously. “If it had just been a ghost. Would you still be doing… this?”
I looked at the door.
“Yes.” I said.
His face fell.
“Hey. You asked.” I pulled the door open.
“I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but…”
I threw him in and closed the door. I held my hands to my ears but the screams were so loud.
After they stopped I opened the door and went in myself.
The Unknowable Thing loomed over me, a half-digested and catatonic Seamus lay below It.
“Here we are. One scumbag supreme. And the monster fucker is gone too.”
It questioned me.
“Blown to bits. Not coming back. As specified.”
It was satisfied.
I looked around, almost looked up at It but remembered what happened the last time I looked at It directly.
“You didn’t tell me why they wanted me.”
The Unknowable Thing asked a question.
“Hell yes it was important! The only reason I survived is because of that bloody toy! What if I hadn’t brought it along, huh? Then where’d you be?”
It commented.
I raised a finger.
“Bullshit. If I was that dispensable I wouldn’t be standing here. You’d have found someone else.”
The Unknowable Thing conceded.
I’d already had enough. Talking to the Unknowable Thing always drains you.
I turned to leave and It let me. I was at the door before I turned and asked a question.
“Is it true? What the monster said about me?”
It answered.
I nodded and stepped out the door and up the cellar steps.
God but I needed a drink. As always.
But that’s just how it is in my line of work.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-07T11:49:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Housework - SCP Foundation | 21 | [
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"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12174423 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/housework |
|
in-the-land-of-the-blind | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p>BEGIN AUDIO</p>
<p><em>- sounds of chairs being moved and objects falling to the floor -</em></p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> Tell Hicks to get that channel open! Can anyone on this floor see anything?</p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> Gentlemen, is this Security Station Theta Blue?</p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> There's some sort of containment issue right now, you shouldn't be… oh. Sorry Doctor. What are your orders?</p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> Please pass me the microphone if you can find it, Agent Randolph. I need to make a site-wide announcement.</p>
<p><em>- Static and feedback -</em></p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> -at's it.</p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> Attention, all Foundation Personnel. This is Doctor Gears. There has been a containment incident resulting in the temporary blindness of all sighted individuals in Site-19. Remain calm and do not leave your workstations. I repeat. Remain calm and do not leave your workstations.</p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> Thank you, Agent. Please put that on repeat.</p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> Yes sir… I think this is it. There. So this is temporary?</p>
<p><em>- Recording of statement by Doctor Gears can be heard repeating in distance -</em></p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> It should be, Agent. An experiment with Me2515 has gone awry, however our research strongly suggests this will pass within the next six hours. Please contact Site-23 and have them send in a relief team to secure this location.</p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> Already done, ETA is 19:45. God, I hate to imagine what must be going on in some of the lower levels right now.</p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> The lower levels are contained by blast shields, all personnel there should be safe. Casualties will be worse if there is a panic. Would you kindly secure the door?</p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> Those poor bastards are down there with the really dangerous stuff and they can't even see anything though -</p>
<p><em>- Rattling noises -</em></p>
<p><strong>Agent Randolph:</strong> -icks should be on his way back, we need to let him -</p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> Please secure the door Agent.</p>
<p><em>- Screams heard in the hallway -</em></p>
<p><strong>Agent Hicks via security radio:</strong> Goddamn it! Answer me you fucks! I said 173 has escaped containment! 173 has escaped containment!</p>
<p><em>- Screaming stops. Loud scraping noises -</em></p>
<p><strong>Doctor Gears:</strong> Agent. Please secure the door.</p>
<p>END AUDIO</p>
</blockquote>
<p><em>Note to O5: This is the transcript of an audio file recovered during the weekly scan and backup of servers at Site-19. We have no records on anything labeled Me2515 and there is nothing to corroborate what is contained in this file. Agents Randolph and Hicks were KIA during a field mission in '08 and Doctor Gears was not stationed at Site-19 during their rotation there. - Site-19 IT dept</em></p>
<p><em>It's probably leftovers from some prank involving 050 again. Just delete it. - O5-8</em><br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/in-the-land-of-the-blind">In the Land of the Blind</a>" by Sorts, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-the-land-of-the-blind">https://scpwiki.com/in-the-land-of-the-blind</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> BEGIN AUDIO
>
> //- sounds of chairs being moved and objects falling to the floor -//
>
> **Agent Randolph:** Tell Hicks to get that channel open! Can anyone on this floor see anything?
>
> **Doctor Gears:** Gentlemen, is this Security Station Theta Blue?
>
> **Agent Randolph:** There's some sort of containment issue right now, you shouldn't be. . . oh. Sorry Doctor. What are your orders?
>
> **Doctor Gears:** Please pass me the microphone if you can find it, Agent Randolph. I need to make a site-wide announcement.
>
> //- Static and feedback -//
>
> **Agent Randolph:** -at's it.
>
> **Doctor Gears:** Attention, all Foundation Personnel. This is Doctor Gears. There has been a containment incident resulting in the temporary blindness of all sighted individuals in Site-19. Remain calm and do not leave your workstations. I repeat. Remain calm and do not leave your workstations.
>
> **Doctor Gears:** Thank you, Agent. Please put that on repeat.
>
> **Agent Randolph:** Yes sir... I think this is it. There. So this is temporary?
>
> //- Recording of statement by Doctor Gears can be heard repeating in distance -//
>
> **Doctor Gears:** It should be, Agent. An experiment with Me2515 has gone awry, however our research strongly suggests this will pass within the next six hours. Please contact Site-23 and have them send in a relief team to secure this location.
>
> **Agent Randolph:** Already done, ETA is 19:45. God, I hate to imagine what must be going on in some of the lower levels right now.
>
> **Doctor Gears:** The lower levels are contained by blast shields, all personnel there should be safe. Casualties will be worse if there is a panic. Would you kindly secure the door?
>
> **Agent Randolph:** Those poor bastards are down there with the really dangerous stuff and they can't even see anything though -
>
> //- Rattling noises -//
>
> **Agent Randolph:** -icks should be on his way back, we need to let him -
>
> **Doctor Gears:** Please secure the door Agent.
>
> //- Screams heard in the hallway -//
>
> **Agent Hicks via security radio:** Goddamn it! Answer me you fucks! I said 173 has escaped containment! 173 has escaped containment!
>
> //- Screaming stops. Loud scraping noises -//
>
> **Doctor Gears:** Agent. Please secure the door.
>
> END AUDIO
//Note to O5: This is the transcript of an audio file recovered during the weekly scan and backup of servers at Site-19. We have no records on anything labeled Me2515 and there is nothing to corroborate what is contained in this file. Agents Randolph and Hicks were KIA during a field mission in '08 and Doctor Gears was not stationed at Site-19 during their rotation there. - Site-19 IT dept//
//It's probably leftovers from some prank involving 050 again. Just delete it. - O5-8//
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-01-31T21:26:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"doctor-gears",
"tale"
] | In the Land of the Blind - SCP Foundation | 63 | [
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|
interval-1 | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"Hello, little children!" I shouted with glee as I moved around them, "What a lovely couple of children you are! What's your name?"</p>
<p>They giggled. A boy looked at me. "I'm Tommy. I'm six and a half years old and I'm not afraid of anything!"</p>
<p>"Wow, Tommy! You sound like a biiiiiig boy!" I let out a goofy laugh. The children giggled again. "Do you know any magic tricks, Tommy?"</p>
<p>"Well…" Tommy made a strange face and put his thumb's knuckle against the other, with his index finger covering the connection. He slowly moved his thumb forwards. All the children oohed and aahed.</p>
<p>"Wow! I can't remove thumbs! But I can show you ano-" I was interrupted by a scream and suddenly Tommy was picked up. All the other children became scared.</p>
<p>"What are you doing, Thomas! You get away from that…. thing right now! All you other children, scoot!" A terrifying woman came onto the scene and scooped Tommy up. All the other children fled. Tommy began to cry as the woman carried him away.</p>
<p>"B-but I was just talking with Mr. Sillybug!"</p>
<p>Previous: <a href="/5-mr-mad">5. Mr. Mad</a> by The Deadly Moose<br/></p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p>Next: <a href="/6-mr-stripes">6. Mr. Stripes</a> by TroyL</p>
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<p>"<a href="/interval-1">Interval 1</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/interval-1">https://scpwiki.com/interval-1</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"Hello, little children!" I shouted with glee as I moved around them, "What a lovely couple of children you are! What's your name?"
They giggled. A boy looked at me. "I'm Tommy. I'm six and a half years old and I'm not afraid of anything!"
"Wow, Tommy! You sound like a biiiiiig boy!" I let out a goofy laugh. The children giggled again. "Do you know any magic tricks, Tommy?"
"Well…" Tommy made a strange face and put his thumb's knuckle against the other, with his index finger covering the connection. He slowly moved his thumb forwards. All the children oohed and aahed.
"Wow! I can't remove thumbs! But I can show you ano-" I was interrupted by a scream and suddenly Tommy was picked up. All the other children became scared.
"What are you doing, Thomas! You get away from that…. thing right now! All you other children, scoot!" A terrifying woman came onto the scene and scooped Tommy up. All the other children fled. Tommy began to cry as the woman carried him away.
"B-but I was just talking with Mr. Sillybug!"
Previous: [[[5. Mr. Mad]]] by The Deadly Moose
[[>]]
Next: [[[6. Mr. Stripes]]] by TroyL
[[/>]]
[[[tales-of-mr-collector|Back to Hub]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
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| 2011-09-18T21:41:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"collector-tale",
"dr-wondertainment",
"mister",
"tale"
] | Interval 1 - SCP Foundation | 79 | [
"5-mr-mad",
"6-mr-stripes",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-wondertainment-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11723764 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/interval-1 |
|
interval-2 | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Mr. Appleseed. Seriously, that's my name. And wouldn't you know it, whenever I sneeze, cough, or fart, out come apple seeds. It sucks. This is, of course, only exacerbated by the fact that I was just picked up by the Foundation and now I feel quite the sneeze coming on.</p>
<p>Hold on, wait, they're not taking me captive. They're taking off my handcuffs. What's that they're saying?</p>
<p>"Ah, welcome back Dr. King."</p>
<p>Previous: <a href="/10-mr-mission">10. Mr. Mission</a> by Gerald<br/></p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p>Next: <a href="/11-mr-feather">11. Mr. Feather</a> by Light</p>
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<p>"<a href="/interval-2">Interval 2</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/interval-2">https://scpwiki.com/interval-2</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Mr. Appleseed. Seriously, that's my name. And wouldn't you know it, whenever I sneeze, cough, or fart, out come apple seeds. It sucks. This is, of course, only exacerbated by the fact that I was just picked up by the Foundation and now I feel quite the sneeze coming on.
Hold on, wait, they're not taking me captive. They're taking off my handcuffs. What's that they're saying?
"Ah, welcome back Dr. King."
Previous: [[[10. Mr. Mission]]] by Gerald
[[>]]
Next: [[[11. Mr. Feather]]] by Light
[[/>]]
[[[tales-of-mr-collector|Back to Hub]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-23T06:58:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"collector-tale",
"doctor-king",
"dr-wondertainment",
"mister",
"tale"
] | Interval 2 - SCP Foundation | 94 | [
"10-mr-mission",
"11-mr-feather",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-wondertainment-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11754351 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/interval-2 |
|
jackofclubs | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
It all comes down to names, I think. I mean, if I had had a cool name, maybe I wouldn't be such a bad person. I blame Mom. She could have named us all something interesting. I mean, hell, she even took the name Echidna after she created the four of us. Mother of Monsters, but we always just called her Mom. Enough of a classic Greek education to choose Echidna, but name all four of your kids Jack? That's just re-cock-ulous.
<p>Huh? Oh, you know, re-cock-ulous, even worse than ridiculous? Come on, you knows it's funny. Where was- Oh yeah, the names. Like Joh. That would be Jack of Hearts to you. We all do that, shorten our names, makes it easier. But, yeah, Joh. How much easier would it have been to name him Pan? And Jos, he coulda been, uhm, well Cthulhu, right? I mean, okay, not Greek, but still squidy. And Jackie, you have no idea how much I hate her for the idea of using and i e on to the end of her name, she coulda been Anansi! No, he's not female, but still, it's better than Jack of Diamonds. And me? Hell! I coulda been so many things!Skoll, Hati, Lon Chaney, Larry Talbot, hell I coulda been Fenrir! That's a name to strike fear into people's hearts. Fenrir, the great wolf! I mean, she coulda even just named me Wolf, or Lobo, and it woulda been awesome.</p>
<p>And of course, the Kings and Queens all get named after famous ones. And the others… Okay, maybe the Deuces have it worse. No real identity to speak of. Even then, Deuce sounds cool, right? 'Who are you?' 'They call me Deuce.' That's a guy you wanna watch yer back around. Well, and the Joker doesn't have a name, but the old man is creepy. Where was I? Oh right! Coulda been anything, hells I'd have taken Loup-Garou!</p>
<p>But no. I'm the mother fucking Jack of Clubs. Or, Joc, as my siblings call me. Makes me feel like I should be french or something. I blame Mom. And the good Doctor. Hmm? The Good Doctor? It's what we always called him, cause he used so many different names, all the god damn time. I think you guys know him as Dr. Prometheus. Fire bringer my ass. Guy just likes to fiddle, with fucking EVERYTHING. Which was why he put up with Mom, I suppose. What he could do with inanimate objects, she could do with DNA. Mix this, match that, put it in her womb, BAM, self continuing lineage. With some really fucked up specific needs for procreation.</p>
<p>Ah, yeh, now we're getting to the stuff you want, aren't we? Yeah, we each have to meet specific challenges in order to pass on our seed. Joh needs them to trust him. Jos needs to know them intimately, without them ever knowing him. Jackie only goes for rapists who love her. Me? I need consent. They need to tell me it's okay, before I can work my magic. Gotta think I'm one of them.</p>
<p>It's harder than you think. I don't exactly look normal, y'know? I'm big, and burly, and I exude this whole 'predator' scent or something. Most of the girls have a sorta prey instinct to them, so a big hungry predator walking up and saying 'Hey, wanna bone?' just doesn't work. I gotta be subtle. Disguise my scent. That's what the skin is for. I wrap myself in the skin of someone they knew, and it's like, bam, he doesn't look so bad. Ok, so I like 'em dumb. Works better, yeah? Maybe a little of it is my own special magic, so they don't notice I'm wearing a butchered carcass.</p>
<p>Not that they matter to me much after I do the dirty deed. My little babies get born hungry. No, I'm not much a loving parent. None of us are. But my little cubs can survive on their own. Instinct, yeah?</p>
<p>Oh, yeah, that last girl. God, she was sexy. Beautiful eyes like limpid pools of moonlight. Soft, black hair, all curly and nice. Such beautiful full lips. Oh, I knew from the moment I saw her, I had to have her. I knew she'd be perfect for one of my little babies. It took a while. I'm not used to finding such perfect girls, usually I have to hunt over hill and under dale to find such a sweet thing.</p>
<p>So, I lured one of her little friends away, the friend wasn't as cute as my babe. Lure her off with the promise of a good time, maybe a nice meal. Not a bad sort, very trusting. But, I broke her neck anyways, before she could utter a single peep. I skinned her. I've always been good at such things. Natural claws, y'know? Anyways, simple enough to wrap this girls skin around me, like a cloak. Totally worked. I got close to my babe, my beautiful girl. Took about a week, of just, hanging around, and she got comfortable with me.</p>
<p>Then I worked my magic. A nudge here, a comment there, and, before you know it, she was ready. all I needed was the word. She looked up at me, with those big brown eyes, and said what I'd been waiting to hear.</p>
<p>She said 'Baaaaa.'</p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<p>"<a href="/jackofclubs">Jack of Clubs</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/jackofclubs">https://scpwiki.com/jackofclubs</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
It all comes down to names, I think. I mean, if I had had a cool name, maybe I wouldn't be such a bad person. I blame Mom. She could have named us all something interesting. I mean, hell, she even took the name Echidna after she created the four of us. Mother of Monsters, but we always just called her Mom. Enough of a classic Greek education to choose Echidna, but name all four of your kids Jack? That's just re-cock-ulous.
Huh? Oh, you know, re-cock-ulous, even worse than ridiculous? Come on, you knows it's funny. Where was- Oh yeah, the names. Like Joh. That would be Jack of Hearts to you. We all do that, shorten our names, makes it easier. But, yeah, Joh. How much easier would it have been to name him Pan? And Jos, he coulda been, uhm, well Cthulhu, right? I mean, okay, not Greek, but still squidy. And Jackie, you have no idea how much I hate her for the idea of using and i e on to the end of her name, she coulda been Anansi! No, he's not female, but still, it's better than Jack of Diamonds. And me? Hell! I coulda been so many things!Skoll, Hati, Lon Chaney, Larry Talbot, hell I coulda been Fenrir! That's a name to strike fear into people's hearts. Fenrir, the great wolf! I mean, she coulda even just named me Wolf, or Lobo, and it woulda been awesome.
And of course, the Kings and Queens all get named after famous ones. And the others... Okay, maybe the Deuces have it worse. No real identity to speak of. Even then, Deuce sounds cool, right? 'Who are you?' 'They call me Deuce.' That's a guy you wanna watch yer back around. Well, and the Joker doesn't have a name, but the old man is creepy. Where was I? Oh right! Coulda been anything, hells I'd have taken Loup-Garou!
But no. I'm the mother fucking Jack of Clubs. Or, Joc, as my siblings call me. Makes me feel like I should be french or something. I blame Mom. And the good Doctor. Hmm? The Good Doctor? It's what we always called him, cause he used so many different names, all the god damn time. I think you guys know him as Dr. Prometheus. Fire bringer my ass. Guy just likes to fiddle, with fucking EVERYTHING. Which was why he put up with Mom, I suppose. What he could do with inanimate objects, she could do with DNA. Mix this, match that, put it in her womb, BAM, self continuing lineage. With some really fucked up specific needs for procreation.
Ah, yeh, now we're getting to the stuff you want, aren't we? Yeah, we each have to meet specific challenges in order to pass on our seed. Joh needs them to trust him. Jos needs to know them intimately, without them ever knowing him. Jackie only goes for rapists who love her. Me? I need consent. They need to tell me it's okay, before I can work my magic. Gotta think I'm one of them.
It's harder than you think. I don't exactly look normal, y'know? I'm big, and burly, and I exude this whole 'predator' scent or something. Most of the girls have a sorta prey instinct to them, so a big hungry predator walking up and saying 'Hey, wanna bone?' just doesn't work. I gotta be subtle. Disguise my scent. That's what the skin is for. I wrap myself in the skin of someone they knew, and it's like, bam, he doesn't look so bad. Ok, so I like 'em dumb. Works better, yeah? Maybe a little of it is my own special magic, so they don't notice I'm wearing a butchered carcass.
Not that they matter to me much after I do the dirty deed. My little babies get born hungry. No, I'm not much a loving parent. None of us are. But my little cubs can survive on their own. Instinct, yeah?
Oh, yeah, that last girl. God, she was sexy. Beautiful eyes like limpid pools of moonlight. Soft, black hair, all curly and nice. Such beautiful full lips. Oh, I knew from the moment I saw her, I had to have her. I knew she'd be perfect for one of my little babies. It took a while. I'm not used to finding such perfect girls, usually I have to hunt over hill and under dale to find such a sweet thing.
So, I lured one of her little friends away, the friend wasn't as cute as my babe. Lure her off with the promise of a good time, maybe a nice meal. Not a bad sort, very trusting. But, I broke her neck anyways, before she could utter a single peep. I skinned her. I've always been good at such things. Natural claws, y'know? Anyways, simple enough to wrap this girls skin around me, like a cloak. Totally worked. I got close to my babe, my beautiful girl. Took about a week, of just, hanging around, and she got comfortable with me.
Then I worked my magic. A nudge here, a comment there, and, before you know it, she was ready. all I needed was the word. She looked up at me, with those big brown eyes, and said what I'd been waiting to hear.
She said 'Baaaaa.'
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-11T08:54:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Jack of Clubs - SCP Foundation | 31 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"romcon",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12029647 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/jackofclubs |
|
jackofdiamonds | <html><body><div id="page-content">
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<p>ADULT CONTENT</p>
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<div class="content-descriptor"><span style="display: syntax error near `{$gore} ==`">Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts</span><br/>
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<span style="display: block">Features non-consensual sexual acts.</span><br/>
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<p>I suppose you're wondering why I do it? Why I did it? Why we all… I'm sorry. It just hurts, you see. But it'll be better soon, I'm sure.</p>
<p>She was special. Oh, they're all special. But this last one… she was different. Her eyes, they gleamed. Her smile, it made me think of angels. I knew, knew she would take my special gift, and maybe more. The others had been alright, but this one…</p>
<p>I met her in Bangkok. We were playing… I don't remember what we were playing. I barely knew the rules. We had been randomly matched as team mates, versus these two ugly cross dressers. Despite my disadvantage, we kept winning, hand after hand. Eventually, we introduced ourselves to each other. Turned out her name was Jacqueline. I couldn't help but laugh. "Bet this is the first time two Jacks beat a pair of Queens!" She laughed. Even the old man dealing the cards laughed. It was love!</p>
<p>Well, from my end, it was love. From her end… I had to fight, to get her attention. She was so beautiful. I've never been much of a fan of Asians, y'know, despite being stuck over here. But everyone knew how beautiful she was. She could walk down a street in a burlap sack, and heads would turn. Gorgeous, long black tresses, beautiful emerald eyes. She had dozens of male suitors.</p>
<p>I just kept coming back. Made sure I was there when she needed me. Some of my friends, those who do what I do, they just rush things. Y'know? Jump a girl, do what they want, and leave. That's not for me. There's gotta be some emotion there, there's gotta be some kind of love. She felt the same way.</p>
<p>Nine months, it took. Nine months of… dating? Yes, dating. After a while, she got used to me being there. Invited me to dinner. We talked, about so many things. Never once did she ask me back up to her place. She was a good girl, a clean girl. So very, very clean.</p>
<p>Nine months, and that's when she did me the honor. She told me she thought we were finally close enough, that she knew me well enough to trust me. They always trust me, in the end. I've done it so many times…</p>
<p>So there we were, naked before each other, touching, kissing, caressing, and the things she did to me… She barely had to touch me, y'know? She could just look at me, and sigh, and it was, orgasmic. But we fucked too. Fucked EVERYWHERE! I came, and came again, and she… enjoyed herself. In the end, there we were, laying on the bed, and I was ready to do my thing, when she starts moaning on top of me. I'm used to girls moaning, but she just… it wasn't sexual. It was like what we were doing hurt, but she couldn't stop it. I reached out, and she caught my hands. So strong, I think I still have bruises. Then her entire body tensed, locking me down hard inside her.</p>
<p>That's when I felt it crawling inside me. However she does what she does, it crawled right down my shaft. Hurt like a bugger, like I was being torn apart from the inside, like what I had wanted to do to her. I screamed. Heaven help me, I screamed like a little girl, and passed out.</p>
<p>When I woke up, she'd left me a message. Told me I was going to be a father. I can feel them, now, you know. All three of my sweet little babies, crawling around inside a sac in my belly. They're getting so big. Doc says they're healthy, eight limbs and all. Gonna rip their way out of their daddy soon, yes they are. I'm proud to be my little babies' first meal.</p>
<p>Hey. I won't be around to raise them. Take care of my girls, would you?</p>
<p>██/██/2011 <em>SCP-952-Gamma 1, 2, and 3 taken into Foundation custody. Agents in Asia are to be on the lookout for SCP-952-Gamma, using the alias 'Jackie of Diamonds.'</em></p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/jackofdiamonds">Jack Of Diamonds</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/jackofdiamonds">https://scpwiki.com/jackofdiamonds</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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</div>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:adult-content-warning">:scp-wiki:component:adult-content-warning</a>
|sexually-explicit=1
|sexual-assault=1
]]
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
I suppose you're wondering why I do it? Why I did it? Why we all... I'm sorry. It just hurts, you see. But it'll be better soon, I'm sure.
She was special. Oh, they're all special. But this last one... she was different. Her eyes, they gleamed. Her smile, it made me think of angels. I knew, knew she would take my special gift, and maybe more. The others had been alright, but this one...
I met her in Bangkok. We were playing... I don't remember what we were playing. I barely knew the rules. We had been randomly matched as team mates, versus these two ugly cross dressers. Despite my disadvantage, we kept winning, hand after hand. Eventually, we introduced ourselves to each other. Turned out her name was Jacqueline. I couldn't help but laugh. "Bet this is the first time two Jacks beat a pair of Queens!" She laughed. Even the old man dealing the cards laughed. It was love!
Well, from my end, it was love. From her end... I had to fight, to get her attention. She was so beautiful. I've never been much of a fan of Asians, y'know, despite being stuck over here. But everyone knew how beautiful she was. She could walk down a street in a burlap sack, and heads would turn. Gorgeous, long black tresses, beautiful emerald eyes. She had dozens of male suitors.
I just kept coming back. Made sure I was there when she needed me. Some of my friends, those who do what I do, they just rush things. Y'know? Jump a girl, do what they want, and leave. That's not for me. There's gotta be some emotion there, there's gotta be some kind of love. She felt the same way.
Nine months, it took. Nine months of... dating? Yes, dating. After a while, she got used to me being there. Invited me to dinner. We talked, about so many things. Never once did she ask me back up to her place. She was a good girl, a clean girl. So very, very clean.
Nine months, and that's when she did me the honor. She told me she thought we were finally close enough, that she knew me well enough to trust me. They always trust me, in the end. I've done it so many times...
So there we were, naked before each other, touching, kissing, caressing, and the things she did to me... She barely had to touch me, y'know? She could just look at me, and sigh, and it was, orgasmic. But we fucked too. Fucked EVERYWHERE! I came, and came again, and she... enjoyed herself. In the end, there we were, laying on the bed, and I was ready to do my thing, when she starts moaning on top of me. I'm used to girls moaning, but she just... it wasn't sexual. It was like what we were doing hurt, but she couldn't stop it. I reached out, and she caught my hands. So strong, I think I still have bruises. Then her entire body tensed, locking me down hard inside her.
That's when I felt it crawling inside me. However she does what she does, it crawled right down my shaft. Hurt like a bugger, like I was being torn apart from the inside, like what I had wanted to do to her. I screamed. Heaven help me, I screamed like a little girl, and passed out.
When I woke up, she'd left me a message. Told me I was going to be a father. I can feel them, now, you know. All three of my sweet little babies, crawling around inside a sac in my belly. They're getting so big. Doc says they're healthy, eight limbs and all. Gonna rip their way out of their daddy soon, yes they are. I'm proud to be my little babies' first meal.
Hey. I won't be around to raise them. Take care of my girls, would you?
██/██/2011 //SCP-952-Gamma 1, 2, and 3 taken into Foundation custody. Agents in Asia are to be on the lookout for SCP-952-Gamma, using the alias 'Jackie of Diamonds.'//
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jargon | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>I began walking along the hall to the briefing room. Another situation had come up, and I was expected to be present. As I walked my secretary Gloria walked alongside, giving me a cup of joe.</p>
<p>"What's the sitch, Glor?" I took a sip.</p>
<p>"'Nother possible scip. Non-sent RB. Chrono. Might be artificial."</p>
<p>"No kiddin'? Big F?"</p>
<p>"Nah, not Big F or Dr. Dubya. They're thinking Pro Labs."</p>
<p>"Geez, ever since T-kill I haven't heard anything from that place."</p>
<p>She shrugged and opened the briefing room door for me. I nodded and thanked her.</p>
<p>"Gentlemen."</p>
<p>"Heads up boys, it's the SD."</p>
<p>"Whuzzat? The suck dick?"</p>
<p>We all laughed and I sat down at the head of the table, looking at the men before me. We'd been in and out of this room hundreds of times before. Everything from CBs to possible CI attacks made us cram into this room every day.</p>
<p>"What's the story, boys?"</p>
<p>"Big one this time Ralph. We're thinkin' a K."</p>
<p>"Well shit. I hear there's Pro Labs involvement."</p>
<p>"Yeah. Some Gawk guys gave us some intel."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Non-sent object. RB. Chrono, we're thinkin'. Might also be prob bending."</p>
<p>"Some Wie-oo guys actually found it, Ralph. Ran back cryin' all the way to the FBI."</p>
<p>I laughed. "We got an MTF on this?"</p>
<p>"Yep. A-23. No pro-rep from them yet."</p>
<p>"Ok. Big S is done. Big C?"</p>
<p>"Containment's goin' well. We got some psyche immunes watchin' it for a while, just in case."</p>
<p>"Big P?"</p>
<p>"Gawk had intel, so they might come after it. Can't break into here though under the Anom treaty."</p>
<p>"Right. Who's testing?"</p>
<p>"We got Doc James on the go. Y'know him. Did some work with HTD Rep."</p>
<p>"Oh yeah."</p>
<p>The radio crackled in at the center of the desk. "Got the dash E in our sites. Ready to big C. Requesting permission."</p>
<p>Frank leaned over and pressed a button. "You are go to contain Alpha-23."</p>
<p>"Roger that."</p>
<p>Frank looked over at me. "Another one in the bag, Ralph."</p>
<p>I nodded and watched the map behind him blip for a minute or two. The radio voice crackled on again. "We got a successful contain. Returning to base."</p>
<p>"Roger that, over and out." Frank turned off the radio.</p>
<p>I looked around. "Good work men. Lunch?"</p>
<p>They all nodded and we departed. I got a BLT.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/jargon">Jargon</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/jargon">https://scpwiki.com/jargon</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
I began walking along the hall to the briefing room. Another situation had come up, and I was expected to be present. As I walked my secretary Gloria walked alongside, giving me a cup of joe.
"What's the sitch, Glor?" I took a sip.
"'Nother possible scip. Non-sent RB. Chrono. Might be artificial."
"No kiddin'? Big F?"
"Nah, not Big F or Dr. Dubya. They're thinking Pro Labs."
"Geez, ever since T-kill I haven't heard anything from that place."
She shrugged and opened the briefing room door for me. I nodded and thanked her.
"Gentlemen."
"Heads up boys, it's the SD."
"Whuzzat? The suck dick?"
We all laughed and I sat down at the head of the table, looking at the men before me. We'd been in and out of this room hundreds of times before. Everything from CBs to possible CI attacks made us cram into this room every day.
"What's the story, boys?"
"Big one this time Ralph. We're thinkin' a K."
"Well shit. I hear there's Pro Labs involvement."
"Yeah. Some Gawk guys gave us some intel."
"What?"
"Non-sent object. RB. Chrono, we're thinkin'. Might also be prob bending."
"Some Wie-oo guys actually found it, Ralph. Ran back cryin' all the way to the FBI."
I laughed. "We got an MTF on this?"
"Yep. A-23. No pro-rep from them yet."
"Ok. Big S is done. Big C?"
"Containment's goin' well. We got some psyche immunes watchin' it for a while, just in case."
"Big P?"
"Gawk had intel, so they might come after it. Can't break into here though under the Anom treaty."
"Right. Who's testing?"
"We got Doc James on the go. Y'know him. Did some work with HTD Rep."
"Oh yeah."
The radio crackled in at the center of the desk. "Got the dash E in our sites. Ready to big C. Requesting permission."
Frank leaned over and pressed a button. "You are go to contain Alpha-23."
"Roger that."
Frank looked over at me. "Another one in the bag, Ralph."
I nodded and watched the map behind him blip for a minute or two. The radio voice crackled on again. "We got a successful contain. Returning to base."
"Roger that, over and out." Frank turned off the radio.
I looked around. "Good work men. Lunch?"
They all nodded and we departed. I got a BLT.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
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| 2011-10-23T06:02:00 | [
"_licensebox",
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] | [] | 11926220 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/jargon |
|
joy-to-the-world | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Doctor Johanna Rose Garrison leaned back in her chair, one last click extinguishing the computer's light. That was it. The last of the forms had been sent off, the final approvals and offers ferried to the appropriate personnel, and the last experiments should have been completed by now. It was, for the next twenty minutes, Christmas Eve. Maybe, just maybe, she could take tomorrow off.</p>
<p>The door to the office slid open, and Garrison recognized a familiar face. “Agent Bryant. Good to see you.” The man stepped in, looking sheepish, and she glanced at the clock before waving at him to sit down. Twenty minutes. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“Do you want to hear the bad news or the worse news?”</p>
<p>Johanna sighed- there went her plans of leaving on time tonight. “The bad news.”</p>
<p>“SCP-504's escaped from containment. Someone left the door open.”</p>
<p>She sighed in relief. That was manageable. “Well, send in an appropriately equipped containment team to retrieve the specimens, and that should be fixed easily enough. What's the worse news?”</p>
<p>“You know that termination attempt on SCP-682 we were going to try out?”</p>
<p>“Yes… Remind me, you were going to then drop him down a mineshaft?”</p>
<p>“Right. Well. It didn't work. He kind of, uh, well, grew wings.”</p>
<p>Johanna stared at him. “And, pray tell, where is 682 now?”</p>
<p>“He… escaped into a nearby orchard. And he's currently hiding in a tree.” Seeing Johanna's stare, he rapidly continued, “But we have a dozen marksmen- well, one was killed, last I heard, but the rest are there- shooting at him, and Doctor Klein is taking care of amnestics with the civilians and adjusting files as necessary.”</p>
<p>“Phew.”</p>
<p>“Though, there's a reason to suspect that inappropriate behavior among the researchers involved had to do with the outbreak, so we've got the ten of them cleaning SCP-173's pen.”</p>
<p>She sighed. “Is that all?”</p>
<p>“Er… There's been a mutiny among some of the D-class. Two teamed up and started a bit of a massacre, four others joined in.”</p>
<p>Johanna Garrison blanched. “Security's on it?”</p>
<p>“Of course. I haven't heard whether they've stopped it recently though.”</p>
<p>She stared at him. “There's more, isn't there.”</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. See, computer errors caused a large amount of data regarding SCP-006 to be released to all personnel- when its clearance normally starts at O5 level… The four tech guys who should have been monitoring it are all denying responsibility. They'll probably be trying to contact you.”</p>
<p>As if on cue, Johanna's desk phone went off. “That's probably them now,” Bryant said, helpfully. She leaned over, unplugged it, and looked down wearily. “Please tell me that's it.”</p>
<p>“Well, apart from that, it's minutia… Some of the live containment cells have some structural instability, but there are crews working on that… Let's see, the 914 test results came back- we've got a couple of half-pigeon, half-reptiles you'll want to see, the recombinant DNA is like nothing I've ever seen. I sent them to your office for analysis. They're in liquid nitrogen.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>“And apart from that, the only other thing of note is that SCP-447's container is getting filled up, we'll want to move it.”</p>
<p>“Of course. Get a new container.” Johanna sighed, resting her head in her arms. “I'm sorry, Gabriel, I really wanted to get the day off tomorrow, I had hoped we could spend Christmas together, I didn't know this much would come up…”</p>
<p>“You probably wouldn't have been able to anyways,” Gabriel Bryant patted her arm. Just then, a rhythmic cacophony passed by the hallway.</p>
<p>“Shit.” Garrison sat up. “Was that a brass band?”</p>
<p>“I wasn't sure where else to find the twelve drummers drumming,” Bryant said. The doctor turned to stare at him as he got up, dancing into the hallway.</p>
<p>“I mean, you've already got the eleven snipers sniping, ten doctors sweeping, Klein's data expunging, goo-ball buckets brimming, six D's a-slaying, O5's youthful springs, four calling nerds, three broken pens, two turtle-doves…”</p>
<p>“And a…” Johanna continued automatically, then just stared. “In what universe does 682 with wings count as a partridge?”</p>
<p>But Bryant was already gone, running down the hall. The 504 specimen crashed into the wall where his head had been, missing him by inches.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/joy-to-the-world">Joy to the World</a>" by Sophia Light, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/joy-to-the-world">https://scpwiki.com/joy-to-the-world</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Doctor Johanna Rose Garrison leaned back in her chair, one last click extinguishing the computer's light. That was it. The last of the forms had been sent off, the final approvals and offers ferried to the appropriate personnel, and the last experiments should have been completed by now. It was, for the next twenty minutes, Christmas Eve. Maybe, just maybe, she could take tomorrow off.
The door to the office slid open, and Garrison recognized a familiar face. “Agent Bryant. Good to see you.” The man stepped in, looking sheepish, and she glanced at the clock before waving at him to sit down. Twenty minutes. “What is it?”
“Do you want to hear the bad news or the worse news?”
Johanna sighed- there went her plans of leaving on time tonight. “The bad news.”
“SCP-504's escaped from containment. Someone left the door open.”
She sighed in relief. That was manageable. “Well, send in an appropriately equipped containment team to retrieve the specimens, and that should be fixed easily enough. What's the worse news?”
“You know that termination attempt on SCP-682 we were going to try out?”
“Yes… Remind me, you were going to then drop him down a mineshaft?”
“Right. Well. It didn't work. He kind of, uh, well, grew wings.”
Johanna stared at him. “And, pray tell, where is 682 now?”
“He… escaped into a nearby orchard. And he's currently hiding in a tree.” Seeing Johanna's stare, he rapidly continued, “But we have a dozen marksmen- well, one was killed, last I heard, but the rest are there- shooting at him, and Doctor Klein is taking care of amnestics with the civilians and adjusting files as necessary.”
“Phew.”
“Though, there's a reason to suspect that inappropriate behavior among the researchers involved had to do with the outbreak, so we've got the ten of them cleaning SCP-173's pen.”
She sighed. “Is that all?”
“Er… There's been a mutiny among some of the D-class. Two teamed up and started a bit of a massacre, four others joined in.”
Johanna Garrison blanched. “Security's on it?”
“Of course. I haven't heard whether they've stopped it recently though.”
She stared at him. “There's more, isn't there.”
"Oh, yes. See, computer errors caused a large amount of data regarding SCP-006 to be released to all personnel- when its clearance normally starts at O5 level… The four tech guys who should have been monitoring it are all denying responsibility. They'll probably be trying to contact you.”
As if on cue, Johanna's desk phone went off. “That's probably them now,” Bryant said, helpfully. She leaned over, unplugged it, and looked down wearily. “Please tell me that's it.”
“Well, apart from that, it's minutia… Some of the live containment cells have some structural instability, but there are crews working on that… Let's see, the 914 test results came back- we've got a couple of half-pigeon, half-reptiles you'll want to see, the recombinant DNA is like nothing I've ever seen. I sent them to your office for analysis. They're in liquid nitrogen.”
“Thanks.”
“And apart from that, the only other thing of note is that SCP-447's container is getting filled up, we'll want to move it.”
“Of course. Get a new container.” Johanna sighed, resting her head in her arms. “I'm sorry, Gabriel, I really wanted to get the day off tomorrow, I had hoped we could spend Christmas together, I didn't know this much would come up…”
“You probably wouldn't have been able to anyways,” Gabriel Bryant patted her arm. Just then, a rhythmic cacophony passed by the hallway.
“Shit.” Garrison sat up. “Was that a brass band?”
“I wasn't sure where else to find the twelve drummers drumming,” Bryant said. The doctor turned to stare at him as he got up, dancing into the hallway.
“I mean, you've already got the eleven snipers sniping, ten doctors sweeping, Klein's data expunging, goo-ball buckets brimming, six D's a-slaying, O5's youthful springs, four calling nerds, three broken pens, two turtle-doves…”
“And a…” Johanna continued automatically, then just stared. “In what universe does 682 with wings count as a partridge?”
But Bryant was already gone, running down the hall. The 504 specimen crashed into the wall where his head had been, missing him by inches.
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lab-induction | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"Welcome to the Level 1 Research Staff Laboratory Induction. My name is Dr. Eisenberg. Now, all of you are probably asking yourself 'Who the hell is that?' and 'Why isn't someone like Dr. Gears introducing us instead, being that he's head of the research site?' Let me put it this way. That monkey you saw down the hallway? That's Dr. Bright. Like Dr. Gears, he is Level 4 Research Staff, which means he is considered about as important as two-three roomfuls of you here… including myself. It also means they get to ehm, relegate administrative tasks, so do level 3's, the shit falls through… you'll see. But it isn't so bad.</p>
<p>"Now, all of you here folks joined the Foundation because we pay off your college debt, pay you a decent salary, and allow you to get your doctorates done. We're kinda like the army, just that we don't make anyone march uphill like an idiot.</p>
<p>"Now, good news is, we don't care what college you went into, as long as you have a working head on your shoulders - for one, as you probably heard, what we got here doesn't only fuck with physics, it makes porn of it, so there's hundreds of experiments that need to be run, and that's what we need you for. And for two, you will be working as assistants to other researchers, who will outline your tasks in a way that doesn't require you to go through tons of theory. You carry out the experiments, you write down the findings carefully and anything unexpected even more carefully, and that's pretty much it for 90% of the time.</p>
<p>"However, it isn't all that easy, and I'd like to say a few things to help you survive until it pays off. See, you might hear essentially everyone else bitching about how hard and risky their job is, but it's a matter of fact that the researchers aren't any better off. Intel just watches stuff from afar, if an MTF sees something they don't like, they get to 'retreat', but we, not only have nowhere to go if shit hits the fan, we have to take whatever they bring in, and prod it until we find out what exactly does it do, and how to prevent it from doing that without control. So, listen carefully.</p>
<p>"Now, first, SCPs… they probably told you the gist of what we do here on the main briefing, with all the other folks there - the supposed House MD's and James Bonds and John Rambos, so I don't need to go through all that shit. Now, if you're in direct contact with a Keter class object you're likely fucked, and well, pure Euclids you'll meet only during initial containment, and there's little advice I can give you for that. What I'll speak about are the 'Safe's'. The bureaucratic cunt who thought up that name probably never seen one.</p>
<p>"Do <strong>not</strong> fuck about with a safe SCP, and mainly, do <strong>not</strong> let your guard down. The most dangerous times when researching an object isn't the first time you're around it, it's the umpteenth time you've been asked to collect a bunch of data, think you know exactly what it can do, and get careless. Might seem odd now, but you will begin thinking like that, no matter how weird or dangerous the item you work with is. It's human nature, something about psychological baselines but I'm a metallurgist, not a shrink. I guess it's so since in most of the world, if something does A for five hundred times, it won't do B for the five hundredth one time.</p>
<p>"Here, not so much - it's how half the stuff in containment gets their 'Euclid'. For example, the two staff that died swilling their own shit because of one nine eight - shapeshifter cup from the devil's mother we thought we had contained. One of them was a researcher like you, and all he did was reach for what he thought was his own thermos on the desk in front of him - turns out the bloody thing teleports every so often.</p>
<p>"Second thing. D-Class. Disposables. The folks in orange jumpsuits recruited from death row inmates. Their main official purpose is to manipulate Keter class objects so that we don't have to. That much you heard on the briefing. They are also used for human testing of SCPs. Now, listen well, and you back there, try looking a bit less freaked out - we aren't fucking Schutzstaffel.</p>
<p>"Now, the official documents say they are terminated at the end of each month, and so will die anyways. Now, I seriously doubt that, given the amount of them even I use, and since you aren't brain dead, you will probably doubt it too. You might even get reluctant to terminate D-classes that you have run a set of experiments on.</p>
<p>"Let me run with a practical example. One of the memetic SCPs we had on site, relatively harmless thing, a jingle or a song of sort. There, with the suspenders? What's a meme? How can I put it… memes are malicious ideas. They break your mind's programming if they are read in, from any source. Sort of like the computer viruses bored Bulgarian youths write - no matter if it's from a floppy or email attachment, it does the same, whether it's displaying a silly message, or making your hard disk plow. Over there? What? That's a cognitohazard, not a meme? You're probably right, I don't work with these… either way, what it does is more important to what it's called.</p>
<p>"Either way, researcher who did the testing was 'humanistic' - he didn't know better. Returned the D-class he used to the pool, not even with a note about what's been done. A few days later, we contained another memetic SCP, one that killed people, it was an image. Another researcher who ran tests on that one, by incidence, took in the same D-class. In his mind, the two memes merged somehow. From what the camera feeds show, the man started babbling, then tore his own trachea out, and so did the researcher and the two security staff present.</p>
<p>"So yes. There's a reason why their papers contain a short summary of what they were sentenced for, beyond selecting a fitting psychological profile for SCP testing. Read it through. And any time you get the urge of returning a used D-class back to the pool, think to yourself: 'Is prolonging the life of a rapist worth risking the life of my colleagues and friends?'.</p>
<p>"Now, that's all of me, really. Questions?</p>
<p>"You with that look? Demotion to D-class? Ah fuck, who told you that? I thought so… see, that, and Keter duty is one of the pieces of bullshit we scare the greenhorns with. Now, see… most of the ways you can fuck up here, we'll have no one to punish, and taking out sensitive information, they'd kill you for that everywhere.</p>
<p>"Next one. Why do you have to stay on site? Probation period, really. For the next six months. Those who go through it, you'll get your level 1 permanent clearances, and will be able to spend their time off wherever. Those who don't… you'll get class B amnestics and forget everything you ever experienced here. Which isn't as bad as it sounds - we'll still give you the salary.</p>
<p>"Guy in polo shirt? Where's the best place to meet women in here? The Internet… Joking. Try Bio section's staff break room, lots of cute girls there, like Rights.</p>
<p>"You there, girl with glasses? Why don't we research the objects so they can help mankind? Well, I could say that… Screw it. Know what? You can. If you succeed, and develop a theory that explains and reproduces an object, it'll get reclassified as SCP-EX, leaked to the public, and you might get a promotion out of it. So far, I have heard of about five people succeeding… in the last century. Hell, I'm still trying to work out what triggers structural cancer, and the six of us have been messing with it for two years by now.</p>
<p>"Go on. What do you need to get promoted? Ambitious, aren't we? Well, goes like this. You finish your degree, and then you either leave with the civies, or you stay with us, sign a permanent contract, and get level 2 clearance. After that, it's a matter of luck and arseclimbery, and since I have neither, I'm still stuck as a Researcher.</p>
<p>"Another girl? A dog somehow got into the on-site showers? That'd be Professor Crow. Next time he does that, steal his glasses.</p>
<p>"Anyways, you're all dismissed - in a while, security personnel will escort you to the researchers that you'll be working for. In the meantime there's some coffee and donuts here too, so help yourself."</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"Welcome to the Level 1 Research Staff Laboratory Induction. My name is Dr. Eisenberg. Now, all of you are probably asking yourself 'Who the hell is that?' and 'Why isn't someone like Dr. Gears introducing us instead, being that he's head of the research site?' Let me put it this way. That monkey you saw down the hallway? That's Dr. Bright. Like Dr. Gears, he is Level 4 Research Staff, which means he is considered about as important as two-three roomfuls of you here... including myself. It also means they get to ehm, relegate administrative tasks, so do level 3's, the shit falls through... you'll see. But it isn't so bad.
"Now, all of you here folks joined the Foundation because we pay off your college debt, pay you a decent salary, and allow you to get your doctorates done. We're kinda like the army, just that we don't make anyone march uphill like an idiot.
"Now, good news is, we don't care what college you went into, as long as you have a working head on your shoulders - for one, as you probably heard, what we got here doesn't only fuck with physics, it makes porn of it, so there's hundreds of experiments that need to be run, and that's what we need you for. And for two, you will be working as assistants to other researchers, who will outline your tasks in a way that doesn't require you to go through tons of theory. You carry out the experiments, you write down the findings carefully and anything unexpected even more carefully, and that's pretty much it for 90% of the time.
"However, it isn't all that easy, and I'd like to say a few things to help you survive until it pays off. See, you might hear essentially everyone else bitching about how hard and risky their job is, but it's a matter of fact that the researchers aren't any better off. Intel just watches stuff from afar, if an MTF sees something they don't like, they get to 'retreat', but we, not only have nowhere to go if shit hits the fan, we have to take whatever they bring in, and prod it until we find out what exactly does it do, and how to prevent it from doing that without control. So, listen carefully.
"Now, first, SCPs... they probably told you the gist of what we do here on the main briefing, with all the other folks there - the supposed House MD's and James Bonds and John Rambos, so I don't need to go through all that shit. Now, if you're in direct contact with a Keter class object you're likely fucked, and well, pure Euclids you'll meet only during initial containment, and there's little advice I can give you for that. What I'll speak about are the 'Safe's'. The bureaucratic cunt who thought up that name probably never seen one.
"Do **not** fuck about with a safe SCP, and mainly, do **not** let your guard down. The most dangerous times when researching an object isn't the first time you're around it, it's the umpteenth time you've been asked to collect a bunch of data, think you know exactly what it can do, and get careless. Might seem odd now, but you will begin thinking like that, no matter how weird or dangerous the item you work with is. It's human nature, something about psychological baselines but I'm a metallurgist, not a shrink. I guess it's so since in most of the world, if something does A for five hundred times, it won't do B for the five hundredth one time.
"Here, not so much - it's how half the stuff in containment gets their 'Euclid'. For example, the two staff that died swilling their own shit because of one nine eight - shapeshifter cup from the devil's mother we thought we had contained. One of them was a researcher like you, and all he did was reach for what he thought was his own thermos on the desk in front of him - turns out the bloody thing teleports every so often.
"Second thing. D-Class. Disposables. The folks in orange jumpsuits recruited from death row inmates. Their main official purpose is to manipulate Keter class objects so that we don't have to. That much you heard on the briefing. They are also used for human testing of SCPs. Now, listen well, and you back there, try looking a bit less freaked out - we aren't fucking Schutzstaffel.
"Now, the official documents say they are terminated at the end of each month, and so will die anyways. Now, I seriously doubt that, given the amount of them even I use, and since you aren't brain dead, you will probably doubt it too. You might even get reluctant to terminate D-classes that you have run a set of experiments on.
"Let me run with a practical example. One of the memetic SCPs we had on site, relatively harmless thing, a jingle or a song of sort. There, with the suspenders? What's a meme? How can I put it... memes are malicious ideas. They break your mind's programming if they are read in, from any source. Sort of like the computer viruses bored Bulgarian youths write - no matter if it's from a floppy or email attachment, it does the same, whether it's displaying a silly message, or making your hard disk plow. Over there? What? That's a cognitohazard, not a meme? You're probably right, I don't work with these... either way, what it does is more important to what it's called.
"Either way, researcher who did the testing was 'humanistic' - he didn't know better. Returned the D-class he used to the pool, not even with a note about what's been done. A few days later, we contained another memetic SCP, one that killed people, it was an image. Another researcher who ran tests on that one, by incidence, took in the same D-class. In his mind, the two memes merged somehow. From what the camera feeds show, the man started babbling, then tore his own trachea out, and so did the researcher and the two security staff present.
"So yes. There's a reason why their papers contain a short summary of what they were sentenced for, beyond selecting a fitting psychological profile for SCP testing. Read it through. And any time you get the urge of returning a used D-class back to the pool, think to yourself: 'Is prolonging the life of a rapist worth risking the life of my colleagues and friends?'.
"Now, that's all of me, really. Questions?
"You with that look? Demotion to D-class? Ah fuck, who told you that? I thought so... see, that, and Keter duty is one of the pieces of bullshit we scare the greenhorns with. Now, see... most of the ways you can fuck up here, we'll have no one to punish, and taking out sensitive information, they'd kill you for that everywhere.
"Next one. Why do you have to stay on site? Probation period, really. For the next six months. Those who go through it, you'll get your level 1 permanent clearances, and will be able to spend their time off wherever. Those who don't... you'll get class B amnestics and forget everything you ever experienced here. Which isn't as bad as it sounds - we'll still give you the salary.
"Guy in polo shirt? Where's the best place to meet women in here? The Internet... Joking. Try Bio section's staff break room, lots of cute girls there, like Rights.
"You there, girl with glasses? Why don't we research the objects so they can help mankind? Well, I could say that... Screw it. Know what? You can. If you succeed, and develop a theory that explains and reproduces an object, it'll get reclassified as SCP-EX, leaked to the public, and you might get a promotion out of it. So far, I have heard of about five people succeeding... in the last century. Hell, I'm still trying to work out what triggers structural cancer, and the six of us have been messing with it for two years by now.
"Go on. What do you need to get promoted? Ambitious, aren't we? Well, goes like this. You finish your degree, and then you either leave with the civies, or you stay with us, sign a permanent contract, and get level 2 clearance. After that, it's a matter of luck and arseclimbery, and since I have neither, I'm still stuck as a Researcher.
"Another girl? A dog somehow got into the on-site showers? That'd be Professor Crow. Next time he does that, steal his glasses.
"Anyways, you're all dismissed - in a while, security personnel will escort you to the researchers that you'll be working for. In the meantime there's some coffee and donuts here too, so help yourself."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-18T17:05:00 | [
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"science-fiction",
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|
learning-shit | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Hey, everyone. I'm Agent Bibs. If you really have a hard-on for being formal, call me Mister Bibs. I don't, so if you call me Mister Bibs, I'll throw a pen cap at you. Now, I've got a few guesses as to why the higher-ups wanted <em>me</em> to run this class, but I'll deal with that later. For right now, you get the oh-so-wonderful privilege of hearing me talk about being an Intelligence Agent for the Foundation.</p>
<p>You know, I think I'm going to like this group. This isn't me slobbing your knobs or anything, I'm <em>serious</em>! See, most of you screwheads didn't pick up any of the food and drinks. It means you don't trust free food given out by someone you don't know. That's a good thing, because in about three seconds..</p>
<p>Okay, so I'm off by two seconds, plus or minus. Hey, using knock-out drops is an inexact science! Which is good, because I'm not all that good on the whole 'science' thing. They only gave me the Researcher role because I kept figuring out what the eggheads were going to do before they did it, for Christ's sake.</p>
<p>While the Ds get the idiots out of here, let's get down to business. By the way, D-44632, take Fred there to a Cell. He's Church.</p>
<p>Now, how did I know all this, you lunkheads? Am I a genius? Well, kinda, but that's not the point. The point is, before you guys came in and sat down, I went over each and every one of your dossiers. The ones you gave us, and the ones my fellow IAs compiled on each and every one of you. It's how I realized the majority of this group wouldn't take food from a stranger, and how Fred was a Church plant.</p>
<p>I don't do all this background-looking-into shit because it's impressive to newbies. Well, partially I do. Mostly, though, its because it's my <em>job</em> to know shit. It's my job because the Foundation needs to know shit. Shit we don't know about, we can't keep people safe from. Yes, James-Who-Wet-The-Bed-Until-He-Was-Six, I said <em>people</em>. Let the eggheads frame things in a way that lets them avoid thinking about seven billion people. You're Agents. You're dealing with people. Good people, bad people, good bad people, bad good people. And Clef, I guess, He's not really 'people', though.. I think.</p>
<p>No, Alexander, put your hand down. I'm not going to talk about Clef. He's one of your bosses, and he's smarter than you, and seeking out more than that'll give you a headache. But <em>no</em>, you're going to think you're smart enough to find the truth about him. If you're lucky, he'll warn you off. If you're not, he'll tell you everything. Don't pout, Alex. Prove me wrong. It happens so rarely, I'm going to sit down and put my feet up on the table to complete the Arrogant Prick Look. Yes, these <em>are</em> gym shoes. Running in dress shoes is a bitch and a half. 48% of IA's job is based on running.</p>
<p>Anyways, being an IA? You'll get up, and you'll find a folder on your table. Or, in my case, stuck to the wall of the Containment Cell I took over when they decided to recruit my surprisingly-firm ass. It'll be all professional-like, brief as hell. We're talking location, rough approximation of what the higher-ups expect, how you'll be getting there, maybe a few suggestions on attire and the like. I'd tell you to ignore the last one, but if I do that, you'll wear a clownsuit to a GoC facility. That only works <em>once</em>. Or twice, if you count that time in March.</p>
<p>On the way to wherever you're going, you'll be studying the location. Not the quote-unquote specific Foundation stuff, no. I'm talking about cultural shit. Do the people where you're going have a strong oral tradition? Are the men or women more open to talking to people? Do they respond well to authority, or is it better to be One Of The Guys? You're here because you either know that kinda shit already, or you know people who know people who know that shit. As long as you don't tell your buddies you're with the Foundation, nobody here <em>really</em> gives a rat's ass who you talk to. Yeah, the higher-ups talk about Super Obnoxious Secrecy In All Things, but that's because most of them were never Agents in the first place.</p>
<p>You'll get to wherever you need to go, and then the fun stuff starts. If there's places the Foundation wants you to examine, you do it. Otherwise, do whatever you need to do. Go into a bar. Drink a bit, talk with the locals. Ask if there's been any crazy stories floating about. Most aren't relevant to what you're doing, but learn them anyway. You'll build trust, and you'll have new cover stories for your next few missions. Take notes. Follow up on those notes, make sure they are legit. In short, learn shit. That's why the Foundation pays you a lot of goddamned money, and why you're here instead of wherever you were.</p>
<p><em>No</em>, Matt, <em>don't</em> raise your hand. Nobody cares you used to work with the CIA. I ran loops around your former boss's head a few months after I started here. I think I got him fired for it, now that I think about it. Long story. His fault. Yes, I'm aware he was your father. I'm talking, you're not. I speak, you learn shit. From my massive brain to your probably-larger-but-empty brain. Seriously, I don't know if anyone has told you, but your head is <em>huge</em>!</p>
<p>As I was saying… you've done your canvassing and networking, and you've found what the higher-ups are looking for. You've got as much info as you can get on the thing: where exactly it is, best way and time to get at it, things to know to ensure a clean retrieval. If y'have to ask yourself if you've learned enough shit, y'aint learned enough shit. You want your fellow Foundationites thinking you're anal-retentive. Actually, scratch that: <em>be</em> anal-retentive. If you don't put down that the skip turns blue at 11:34pm on Fridays, <em>someone is going to fucking die</em>.</p>
<p>This is when you expect me to chuckle and point out how pointless that sort of detail is. Newsflash: you're in the Foundation, now. Stuff turning blue can and will cause someone to die. I've seen it happen.</p>
<p>And since I have three of you guys flagged for wanting to play hero, I'm going to make this very clear to everyone: don't be James Goddamned Bond. You're Intelligence, dammit, and running in to capture a skip on your own is going to get your ass killed. Leave it to Retrieval and Containment agents. Let them get <em>their</em> asses killed. Nah, if R&C teams get killed, you didn't give them enough shit to go on. See these names on my arm? Three men died because I failed to give them enough information for a clean retrieval. I don't plan on adding any more. I'm not sure if you guys know this, but tattoos? They hurt!</p>
<p>Actually, here's a teaching moment: don't get tattoos. Ink identifies you, and your job as an Intelligence Agent is <em>not to be fucking identified</em>. I know what you're thinking: <em>"Why is Bibs allowed to get one, and I'm not?"</em> First off, I'm better at being an IA than you. Secondly, I've been here longer than you, and I'm granted wider latitude. Thirdly, I was the one who discovered an anomalous brand of ink that vanishes when you mentally will it to.</p>
<p>Okay, it's <em>mostly</em> the third one, but the first two still apply. And no, you don't get the special ink. I found it, and it was the one anomalous item I got to take possession of this year.</p>
<p>Shit, I'm digressing again. Anyway, back to being an IA. When you're done with getting all your shit together, get out of there without making a fuss. On your way home, write up your reports. When you reach your home Site, you'll be formally debriefed. The shit you provide will be filed and processed, into a form that R&Cs won't even bother reading, because it's all about how to get to their goal without shooting everything in sight. I'm kidding. Sort of.</p>
<p>Oh, and one last thing before I dismiss you guys: being an Intelligence Agent isn't just about getting into places. It's also about getting out of places. While we've been talking, this entire room has been moved and deposited into a one of our larger Containment Cells. Quite a few exits head back to the facility, and each one seals off after one person uses it. You're being timed.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>Okay, this is bullshit. I told the techs that I wanted the lights to go out when I said "You're being timed". I thought it would be badass. New lesson: never trust Bill. That motherfucker always thinks it's funny to ruin the <em>one</em> moment I get to look all bad-ass to newbies. You know what, you guys are dismissed, I'm going to…</p>
<p>Oh, there they go. <em>Christ</em>, I forgot how dark it gets. So yeah, forget that stuff about Bill. Find your way out, and have fun with it! I'll be here, taking a nap.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/learning-shit">Learning Shit</a>" by MisterBibs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/learning-shit">https://scpwiki.com/learning-shit</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Hey, everyone. I'm Agent Bibs. If you really have a hard-on for being formal, call me Mister Bibs. I don't, so if you call me Mister Bibs, I'll throw a pen cap at you. Now, I've got a few guesses as to why the higher-ups wanted //me// to run this class, but I'll deal with that later. For right now, you get the oh-so-wonderful privilege of hearing me talk about being an Intelligence Agent for the Foundation.
You know, I think I'm going to like this group. This isn't me slobbing your knobs or anything, I'm //serious//! See, most of you screwheads didn't pick up any of the food and drinks. It means you don't trust free food given out by someone you don't know. That's a good thing, because in about three seconds..
Okay, so I'm off by two seconds, plus or minus. Hey, using knock-out drops is an inexact science! Which is good, because I'm not all that good on the whole 'science' thing. They only gave me the Researcher role because I kept figuring out what the eggheads were going to do before they did it, for Christ's sake.
While the Ds get the idiots out of here, let's get down to business. By the way, D-44632, take Fred there to a Cell. He's Church.
Now, how did I know all this, you lunkheads? Am I a genius? Well, kinda, but that's not the point. The point is, before you guys came in and sat down, I went over each and every one of your dossiers. The ones you gave us, and the ones my fellow IAs compiled on each and every one of you. It's how I realized the majority of this group wouldn't take food from a stranger, and how Fred was a Church plant.
I don't do all this background-looking-into shit because it's impressive to newbies. Well, partially I do. Mostly, though, its because it's my //job// to know shit. It's my job because the Foundation needs to know shit. Shit we don't know about, we can't keep people safe from. Yes, James-Who-Wet-The-Bed-Until-He-Was-Six, I said //people//. Let the eggheads frame things in a way that lets them avoid thinking about seven billion people. You're Agents. You're dealing with people. Good people, bad people, good bad people, bad good people. And Clef, I guess, He's not really 'people', though.. I think.
No, Alexander, put your hand down. I'm not going to talk about Clef. He's one of your bosses, and he's smarter than you, and seeking out more than that'll give you a headache. But //no//, you're going to think you're smart enough to find the truth about him. If you're lucky, he'll warn you off. If you're not, he'll tell you everything. Don't pout, Alex. Prove me wrong. It happens so rarely, I'm going to sit down and put my feet up on the table to complete the Arrogant Prick Look. Yes, these //are// gym shoes. Running in dress shoes is a bitch and a half. 48% of IA's job is based on running.
Anyways, being an IA? You'll get up, and you'll find a folder on your table. Or, in my case, stuck to the wall of the Containment Cell I took over when they decided to recruit my surprisingly-firm ass. It'll be all professional-like, brief as hell. We're talking location, rough approximation of what the higher-ups expect, how you'll be getting there, maybe a few suggestions on attire and the like. I'd tell you to ignore the last one, but if I do that, you'll wear a clownsuit to a GoC facility. That only works //once//. Or twice, if you count that time in March.
On the way to wherever you're going, you'll be studying the location. Not the quote-unquote specific Foundation stuff, no. I'm talking about cultural shit. Do the people where you're going have a strong oral tradition? Are the men or women more open to talking to people? Do they respond well to authority, or is it better to be One Of The Guys? You're here because you either know that kinda shit already, or you know people who know people who know that shit. As long as you don't tell your buddies you're with the Foundation, nobody here //really// gives a rat's ass who you talk to. Yeah, the higher-ups talk about Super Obnoxious Secrecy In All Things, but that's because most of them were never Agents in the first place.
You'll get to wherever you need to go, and then the fun stuff starts. If there's places the Foundation wants you to examine, you do it. Otherwise, do whatever you need to do. Go into a bar. Drink a bit, talk with the locals. Ask if there's been any crazy stories floating about. Most aren't relevant to what you're doing, but learn them anyway. You'll build trust, and you'll have new cover stories for your next few missions. Take notes. Follow up on those notes, make sure they are legit. In short, learn shit. That's why the Foundation pays you a lot of goddamned money, and why you're here instead of wherever you were.
//No//, Matt, //don't// raise your hand. Nobody cares you used to work with the CIA. I ran loops around your former boss's head a few months after I started here. I think I got him fired for it, now that I think about it. Long story. His fault. Yes, I'm aware he was your father. I'm talking, you're not. I speak, you learn shit. From my massive brain to your probably-larger-but-empty brain. Seriously, I don't know if anyone has told you, but your head is //huge//!
As I was saying... you've done your canvassing and networking, and you've found what the higher-ups are looking for. You've got as much info as you can get on the thing: where exactly it is, best way and time to get at it, things to know to ensure a clean retrieval. If y'have to ask yourself if you've learned enough shit, y'aint learned enough shit. You want your fellow Foundationites thinking you're anal-retentive. Actually, scratch that: //be// anal-retentive. If you don't put down that the skip turns blue at 11:34pm on Fridays, //someone is going to fucking die//.
This is when you expect me to chuckle and point out how pointless that sort of detail is. Newsflash: you're in the Foundation, now. Stuff turning blue can and will cause someone to die. I've seen it happen.
And since I have three of you guys flagged for wanting to play hero, I'm going to make this very clear to everyone: don't be James Goddamned Bond. You're Intelligence, dammit, and running in to capture a skip on your own is going to get your ass killed. Leave it to Retrieval and Containment agents. Let them get //their// asses killed. Nah, if R&C teams get killed, you didn't give them enough shit to go on. See these names on my arm? Three men died because I failed to give them enough information for a clean retrieval. I don't plan on adding any more. I'm not sure if you guys know this, but tattoos? They hurt!
Actually, here's a teaching moment: don't get tattoos. Ink identifies you, and your job as an Intelligence Agent is //not to be fucking identified//. I know what you're thinking: //"Why is Bibs allowed to get one, and I'm not?"// First off, I'm better at being an IA than you. Secondly, I've been here longer than you, and I'm granted wider latitude. Thirdly, I was the one who discovered an anomalous brand of ink that vanishes when you mentally will it to.
Okay, it's //mostly// the third one, but the first two still apply. And no, you don't get the special ink. I found it, and it was the one anomalous item I got to take possession of this year.
Shit, I'm digressing again. Anyway, back to being an IA. When you're done with getting all your shit together, get out of there without making a fuss. On your way home, write up your reports. When you reach your home Site, you'll be formally debriefed. The shit you provide will be filed and processed, into a form that R&Cs won't even bother reading, because it's all about how to get to their goal without shooting everything in sight. I'm kidding. Sort of.
Oh, and one last thing before I dismiss you guys: being an Intelligence Agent isn't just about getting into places. It's also about getting out of places. While we've been talking, this entire room has been moved and deposited into a one of our larger Containment Cells. Quite a few exits head back to the facility, and each one seals off after one person uses it. You're being timed.
...
Okay, this is bullshit. I told the techs that I wanted the lights to go out when I said "You're being timed". I thought it would be badass. New lesson: never trust Bill. That motherfucker always thinks it's funny to ruin the //one// moment I get to look all bad-ass to newbies. You know what, you guys are dismissed, I'm going to...
Oh, there they go. //Christ//, I forgot how dark it gets. So yeah, forget that stuff about Bill. Find your way out, and have fun with it! I'll be here, taking a nap.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-07T06:52:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"first-person",
"orientation",
"spy-fiction",
"tale"
] | Learning Shit - SCP Foundation | 263 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"audio-adaptations",
"series-archive"
] | [] | 11838042 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/learning-shit |
|
life-saver | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Disclaimer:</strong></p>
<p>This is (more or less) a story related to me by a friend a few months ago. He's ok now, if that helps. Not sure if it's really all that creepy…but it's weird as all hell.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I was on the roof about two weeks ago, with the full intention of ending my life. My girlfriend of three years had broken up with me, after cheating on me for six months. What's more, she might have given me a STD from that little encounter. I was unemployed, and my meager savings was not going to cover much of anything next week. And to top it off, most of my friends were not in the area, and my immediate family was still rather pissed at me for my decision to start work rather then attempt an associates degree.</p>
<p>So, yes, I was not seeing a lot of good reasons to keep going. I sat on the ledge, swinging my feet in to space off the top of my fourteen floor apartment building, feeling that giddy, self-destructive tingle in my feet that I always get when I'm near a steep drop-off. It was cold, and I could see a few cars slipping along the dark streets…oddly, I worried for a second I would hit one on the way down, and thereby go from tragic suicide to an asshole. I was laughing at how dumb that was to worry about when I heard the guy behind me say “The hell you doing?”</p>
<p>I whipped around, kind of wobbling for a second, and saw some big guy in a blue suit smoking a cigarette. He had dark hair, was really pale…I hadn't seen him on the way up, and didn't really remember hearing the door open or shut…then again, my mind was kinda elsewhere. He gestured to me, saying “you gonna jump or something?”</p>
<p>“uh…I mean…yeah, I guess. Are…you like a cop or something?” I felt stupid asking, but he had that weird aura of authority I always associate with cops. That's all I needed, to get arrested.</p>
<p>He kinda chuckled, taking a deep drag. “Naw, just up for the view. Got nobody to live for, nothing to stick around for?”</p>
<p>I sighed, and gave him a nutshell of what was going on. It felt somewhat good to tell someone, but at the same time it made me feel like a even bigger loser.</p>
<p>He laughed at me. More of a chuckle, but still, it seemed kinda misplaced for the situation. He lit a new cigarette off his old one, and nodded at me.</p>
<p>“Ok kiddo, that's pretty bad…but let me make you a deal. You go ahead and jump, and you'll get loose of all this. However, as soon as I finish my smoke, I'm going to go downstairs and wait for you to hit. Before anyone else gets there, I'm going to steal your wallet, and I'm going to use your driver's license to look up who you are. I'm going to hack in to your social networking stuff, and find everyone who you have loved or has ever loved you, and I'm going to hurt them for a while, then kill them.”</p>
<p>I just stared, somehow positive I'd just hallucinated that somehow. I didn't even speak, just stared at this psycho.</p>
<p>“I'm going to kidnap some, and torture them out in the woods for hours before I gut them and leave them for the wolves. I'm going to shoot others in their cars, letting them roll on in the wreckage as they try to figure out why their lungs won't expand anymore. I will butcher loved ones, class mates, every friend you've known.” He didn't even sound excited while he said this, like he was telling me the time.</p>
<p>“W-what the fuck is wrong with you? You can't….you can't do that, you fucking psycho!” I was shaking, and not at ALL from the cold. This guy…I mean, I didn't know him from anyone, it was possible…It was insane, but this guy had a…weird aura around him. As I watched him, I didn't for one second think he was telling a lie.</p>
<p>“The hell do you care? You're going to be dead. You're opting out of giving a shit about the world, you don't get to bitch about what happens after you leave.” He just kept staring at me with this blank expression.</p>
<p>I freaked out. I jumped back on the roof and just ran like hell for my apartment. I called the cops, saying some guy had been on the roof, threatened my life. When they showed up, he was long gone. Nobody in the apartment knew him, I'd never seen him before or since. I ended up not getting a STD and managed to find a (shitty) job at the local grocery store, but I did have to move to a much smaller apartment. Still not really over my girlfriend, but it will take time.</p>
<p>I still think about that night, now and then. It was just so incredibly odd, I don't think I'll ever really forget it. I have no idea if the guy was bullshitting, but I really don't think he was. It looks so dumb on paper, but if you could have seen him…heard him…you wouldn't really question it either. How sick of a person do you have to be, to save them from suicide by threatening them with something so horrible they don't dare leave the world unsupervised. Every time I see a unsolved, horrific murder on the news, I wonder.</p>
<p>People ask me what I think happened that night. I tell them I think the devil saved my life.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/life-saver">Life Saver</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/life-saver">https://scpwiki.com/life-saver</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> **Disclaimer:**
>
> This is (more or less) a story related to me by a friend a few months ago. He's ok now, if that helps. Not sure if it's really all that creepy...but it's weird as all hell.
I was on the roof about two weeks ago, with the full intention of ending my life. My girlfriend of three years had broken up with me, after cheating on me for six months. What's more, she might have given me a STD from that little encounter. I was unemployed, and my meager savings was not going to cover much of anything next week. And to top it off, most of my friends were not in the area, and my immediate family was still rather pissed at me for my decision to start work rather then attempt an associates degree.
So, yes, I was not seeing a lot of good reasons to keep going. I sat on the ledge, swinging my feet in to space off the top of my fourteen floor apartment building, feeling that giddy, self-destructive tingle in my feet that I always get when I'm near a steep drop-off. It was cold, and I could see a few cars slipping along the dark streets...oddly, I worried for a second I would hit one on the way down, and thereby go from tragic suicide to an asshole. I was laughing at how dumb that was to worry about when I heard the guy behind me say “The hell you doing?”
I whipped around, kind of wobbling for a second, and saw some big guy in a blue suit smoking a cigarette. He had dark hair, was really pale...I hadn't seen him on the way up, and didn't really remember hearing the door open or shut...then again, my mind was kinda elsewhere. He gestured to me, saying “you gonna jump or something?”
“uh...I mean...yeah, I guess. Are...you like a cop or something?” I felt stupid asking, but he had that weird aura of authority I always associate with cops. That's all I needed, to get arrested.
He kinda chuckled, taking a deep drag. “Naw, just up for the view. Got nobody to live for, nothing to stick around for?”
I sighed, and gave him a nutshell of what was going on. It felt somewhat good to tell someone, but at the same time it made me feel like a even bigger loser.
He laughed at me. More of a chuckle, but still, it seemed kinda misplaced for the situation. He lit a new cigarette off his old one, and nodded at me.
“Ok kiddo, that's pretty bad...but let me make you a deal. You go ahead and jump, and you'll get loose of all this. However, as soon as I finish my smoke, I'm going to go downstairs and wait for you to hit. Before anyone else gets there, I'm going to steal your wallet, and I'm going to use your driver's license to look up who you are. I'm going to hack in to your social networking stuff, and find everyone who you have loved or has ever loved you, and I'm going to hurt them for a while, then kill them.”
I just stared, somehow positive I'd just hallucinated that somehow. I didn't even speak, just stared at this psycho.
“I'm going to kidnap some, and torture them out in the woods for hours before I gut them and leave them for the wolves. I'm going to shoot others in their cars, letting them roll on in the wreckage as they try to figure out why their lungs won't expand anymore. I will butcher loved ones, class mates, every friend you've known.” He didn't even sound excited while he said this, like he was telling me the time.
“W-what the fuck is wrong with you? You can't....you can't do that, you fucking psycho!” I was shaking, and not at ALL from the cold. This guy...I mean, I didn't know him from anyone, it was possible...It was insane, but this guy had a...weird aura around him. As I watched him, I didn't for one second think he was telling a lie.
“The hell do you care? You're going to be dead. You're opting out of giving a shit about the world, you don't get to bitch about what happens after you leave.” He just kept staring at me with this blank expression.
I freaked out. I jumped back on the roof and just ran like hell for my apartment. I called the cops, saying some guy had been on the roof, threatened my life. When they showed up, he was long gone. Nobody in the apartment knew him, I'd never seen him before or since. I ended up not getting a STD and managed to find a (shitty) job at the local grocery store, but I did have to move to a much smaller apartment. Still not really over my girlfriend, but it will take time.
I still think about that night, now and then. It was just so incredibly odd, I don't think I'll ever really forget it. I have no idea if the guy was bullshitting, but I really don't think he was. It looks so dumb on paper, but if you could have seen him...heard him...you wouldn't really question it either. How sick of a person do you have to be, to save them from suicide by threatening them with something so horrible they don't dare leave the world unsupervised. Every time I see a unsolved, horrific murder on the news, I wonder.
People ask me what I think happened that night. I tell them I think the devil saved my life.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-22T21:25:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"tale"
] | Life Saver - SCP Foundation | 114 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-gears-storytime-entries",
"algorithm-curated-recommendations"
] | [] | 11925276 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/life-saver |
|
like-clockwork | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>“So how do we do this?” Harken asked, stubbing a cigarette into the growing pile on the console ashtray.</p>
<p>Kramer looked around inside the car that had been their mobile home the last few weeks. Not overly flashy to begin with, the interior been rendered a wreck by Harken's chain smoking, snacking, and general disregard for property. Perfect camouflage yes, but even with her olfactory senses dialed all the way down, it still stank of smoke, sweat and nervous tension.</p>
<p>“You still in there, cupcake?” he asked, tapping on her nose. Almost before he'd touched her, five scalpel-sharp blades sprung from her thin fingers, the lethal hand poised a hair's breadth from Harken's eyes. He pulled his hand back with a smirk, more amused then afraid. “At least you're still with us. So how are we doing this?”</p>
<p>She ignored him, turning to look at the “Open Hands Outreach Center” across the street. A combined thrift store and community outreach center, it was also a cover for one of the largest Church of The Broken God communities in the midwest, with an extensive underground network of rooms and tunnels stretching far and deep. She absently cycled to infrared, watching the vague heat-ghosts wander through the building.</p>
<p>"We are not doing anything. You are supporting.”</p>
<p>“Oh to hell with that, you can't smash up a church all by-”</p>
<p>“YOU can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, and you have all the physical combat skills of toast.”</p>
<p>He huffed, throwing up his hands. It was cheap, childish, and absolutely true.</p>
<p>“There's a vent beside the air conditioner that leads to the main chamber. I can dislocate my ribs, arms and legs, and slip down almost on top of them.” She smiled with predatory satisfaction.</p>
<p>He cringed, looking at her sidelong. “Jesus, do it the hard way, why don't you?”</p>
<p>“It's the quickest way in. I can't just crash the front door, and waiting for the bishop to come out and wander into a bullet could take weeks. Quick in, quick out, no time for anyone to really realize we're here… it's sneaky. I thought you'd be pleased.” She grinned at him, radiating the sweetness of a cat with a bloody muzzle.</p>
<p>Harken stared at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth a grim line. “You're full of shit, you know that, right?”</p>
<p>“My, what ever do you mean, Agent Harken?” Kramer was practically purring now, her voice tinged with a nearly seductive anticipation that had nothing to do with sex.</p>
<p>“You just want to watch everyone run in terror.”</p>
<p>She smiled, stepping out of the car with a wink. “See you after work, sweety,” she giggled, winking a eye cycling between green, yellow and white, striding across the street with a exaggerated wiggle of her thin hips.</p>
<p>Harken smouldered in impotent, frustrated fury, managing to light two cigarettes backwards before letting it go.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The brothers walked down the hall slowly, heads bowed, the dull beat of the machinery deep below them like the warm pulse of a mother's heart. The two men stepped in time to the throb, letting it fill their Broken bodies, the richness of the Silent Voice tugging deep inside. Their reverie was so deep, so profound, they didn't hear the wall grate open, the soft sound of scraping flesh as it oozed from the confined space.</p>
<p>Brother Cam looked up at a sudden noise, his meditation broken by what sounded like a…a chirp, or a squeal. He looked, then suddenly turned more, searching, trying to find Brother Han. He'd been right there, walking beside him. Brother Cam heard another noise, like a soft tap, and he leaned in to the semi-dark hall, trying to place the sound.</p>
<p>A thick metal hook tore his skull open like a rusty can.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The bishop Bronzon could feel the devotion like a wind on his face. The sanctuary was filled, every body singing in time to the Great Machine well below them. Since the hated heretics had been silenced, the Church had swollen with faith, initiates, and the most sacred of relics, shards of The Broken itself. He raised his face to the sooty ceiling, lifting his own voice with the throng, feeling the touch of The Broken firmly, for the first time in years.</p>
<p>He watched the steam and smoke rise from the vents in the floor, the very Breath of God itself, the taste as hot and coppery as blood. Several brothers and sisters had torn open their robes, exposing their flesh to the fumes, letting them soak inside and out. Others had already swooned, shivering in ecstacy at the feel of the heavy hand of The Broken on their soul. Bronzon felt a thrill of excitement coursing through his body, both from admiration of their burgeoning faith and the more earthly admiration of their young, supple flesh.</p>
<p>He was still admiring them when the screaming started.</p>
<p>It started from the back, a sudden flurry of activity, spreading like a wave of panic. Soon everyone had recoiled from the door, some still chanting mindlessly, carried by the crush of humanity.</p>
<p>A demon stood in the doorway. The jaws hung wide, a mass of jagged death lining them. One hand ended in a spray of glistening points, the other in a smooth, hellish hook. The eyes crackled with a green glow, mouth frozen in a too-wide grin. It glistened with blood like a second skin.</p>
<p>Bronzon froze for a moment, paralyzed by fear, replaying every sin, every indulgence he'd taken. He looked in to those glowing eyes, and knew for one shining second, with all that he was, that his time had come. He broke free almost instantly, hitting the button below the podium to summon security and unlocking the hidden panic room behind the wall hanging.</p>
<p>Even in those few seconds, people had started dying. The demon slashed and carved like a living meat grinder, limbs and organs falling like leaves to the ground. Brave, strong men, Crusaders in training, threw their fellows before them to spare themselves a few more seconds, the whole mass pushing away like panicked cattle. Really, that's what they were, in the end. The loss would hurt for a time… but cattle could always be replaced.</p>
<p>Bronzon shook his head sadly, turning away from the carnage. It was only when he tried to open the panic room, and found it locked, that he felt that fear again, bright and sweet, like biting on a rotten tooth.</p>
<p>The screaming had died down, just a few wheezing, bubbling hisses, the odd flapping or brushing sound as some ruined limb tried to drag its dying body away. Bronzon was almost physically unable to turn around, the weight of what he knew was behind him freezing his muscles. He finally did, with great effort, keeping his eyes well away from the floor, still wincing at the sprays of blood and gore coating the walls.</p>
<p>The demon stood a few feet away, barely breathing heavy. Her eyes were wide and glistening, blood running around them like tears.</p>
<p>“W… who sent you? I deserve that much,” he stammered.</p>
<p>She tilted her head like a bird of prey, staring for a few seconds. “The Foundation. We know about your friends. What you did. What you want to do.”</p>
<p>He sighed, nodding his head, absently noting the banging against the locked chapel door… security. Finally arrived to help. Far too late to help.</p>
<p>He held his arms open, closing his eyes. “Send me on to The Broken. My faith may have waned, but I know The Broken waits to make me whole.”</p>
<p>“You talk like I'm about to kill you, bishop. You are mistaken. I have no intention of making you a martyr. My intention is to make you a heretic."</p>
<p>His eyes snapped open, a dark glimmer of idea emerging from a nightmare shadow. “No… no, you can't… ”</p>
<p>“Let me tell you what will happen. The security men will break in. They will find this room filled with the dead. They will find the room covered in blasphemous symbols. And they will find you, one of the priests of your mechanical God…"</p>
<p>"No! You can't!" Bronzon repeated.</p>
<p>"… covered in the blood of the faithful… having sacrificed… having slaughtered… the followers of The Broken for the glory of The Grey.”</p>
<p>He hisses, teeth bared at the very mention of that twisted sect's “god”.</p>
<p>“Blasphemy! They would never…”</p>
<p>“Oh, but they will believe… it says so right here, on this note that will be left on the podium, detailing the ritual you were performing. Too bad you had to remove your own hands, tongue and eyes as part of the ritual… I'm sure the other faithful would love to interrogate you before your body is torn to pieces and burned, excommunicated from your mechanical god.” She smiled wider, teeth chattering in excitement as she raised her slaughtering hands. “Oh well.”</p>
<p>The last sound his tongue made was a whimper, his last sight her dripping, blood-soaked hair.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The sun was going down when she stepped out from the alley, the outreach center closed up and dark nearly three hours before their normal closing. Agent Kramer looked a little rumpled, perhaps a bit dirty even, but still very presentable. She refused to feel her soreness, or reflect on the hard scrubbing she'd had to do after a short break-in at a nearby home. Whoever lived there would have a nasty shock when they went to use the tub…hopefully they'd just assume it was some kind of plumbing back-up.</p>
<p>Agent Harken sat in the driver's seat, a small hill of cigarette butts on the street next to the car door, topped with three or four empty crumpled packets. He sat up, a red-tinged twist of tissue paper jutting from one nostril, as he saw Kramer crossing the street. Kramer laughed, leaning into the open window, brushing at a small dried patch of blood on her hand, one of many she'd probably missed.</p>
<p>“The hell happened to you?”</p>
<p>“I fell asleep in the back. Some kid tried to take our stereo. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me.”</p>
<p>“Wow.”</p>
<p>He shook his head, tossing the tissue in to the road as she walked around the car. “Hey, don't worry about me, the hell happened in there?”</p>
<p>“Don't worry about it.”</p>
<p>“Can you think of any reason why I saw two guys come out of the building throwing up?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>Harken sighed, starting the car and pulling out, rolling slow as the last gasp of sun dipped out of sight. “So, everything went ok?”</p>
<p>“Yes," Kramer said, her face settled back into its usual expressionless mask. "Like clockwork.”</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/like-clockwork">Like Clockwork</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/like-clockwork">https://scpwiki.com/like-clockwork</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
“So how do we do this?” Harken asked, stubbing a cigarette into the growing pile on the console ashtray.
Kramer looked around inside the car that had been their mobile home the last few weeks. Not overly flashy to begin with, the interior been rendered a wreck by Harken's chain smoking, snacking, and general disregard for property. Perfect camouflage yes, but even with her olfactory senses dialed all the way down, it still stank of smoke, sweat and nervous tension.
“You still in there, cupcake?” he asked, tapping on her nose. Almost before he'd touched her, five scalpel-sharp blades sprung from her thin fingers, the lethal hand poised a hair's breadth from Harken's eyes. He pulled his hand back with a smirk, more amused then afraid. “At least you're still with us. So how are we doing this?”
She ignored him, turning to look at the “Open Hands Outreach Center” across the street. A combined thrift store and community outreach center, it was also a cover for one of the largest Church of The Broken God communities in the midwest, with an extensive underground network of rooms and tunnels stretching far and deep. She absently cycled to infrared, watching the vague heat-ghosts wander through the building.
"We are not doing anything. You are supporting.”
“Oh to hell with that, you can't smash up a church all by-”
“YOU can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, and you have all the physical combat skills of toast.”
He huffed, throwing up his hands. It was cheap, childish, and absolutely true.
“There's a vent beside the air conditioner that leads to the main chamber. I can dislocate my ribs, arms and legs, and slip down almost on top of them.” She smiled with predatory satisfaction.
He cringed, looking at her sidelong. “Jesus, do it the hard way, why don't you?”
“It's the quickest way in. I can't just crash the front door, and waiting for the bishop to come out and wander into a bullet could take weeks. Quick in, quick out, no time for anyone to really realize we're here… it's sneaky. I thought you'd be pleased.” She grinned at him, radiating the sweetness of a cat with a bloody muzzle.
Harken stared at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth a grim line. “You're full of shit, you know that, right?”
“My, what ever do you mean, Agent Harken?” Kramer was practically purring now, her voice tinged with a nearly seductive anticipation that had nothing to do with sex.
“You just want to watch everyone run in terror.”
She smiled, stepping out of the car with a wink. “See you after work, sweety,” she giggled, winking a eye cycling between green, yellow and white, striding across the street with a exaggerated wiggle of her thin hips.
Harken smouldered in impotent, frustrated fury, managing to light two cigarettes backwards before letting it go.
------
The brothers walked down the hall slowly, heads bowed, the dull beat of the machinery deep below them like the warm pulse of a mother's heart. The two men stepped in time to the throb, letting it fill their Broken bodies, the richness of the Silent Voice tugging deep inside. Their reverie was so deep, so profound, they didn't hear the wall grate open, the soft sound of scraping flesh as it oozed from the confined space.
Brother Cam looked up at a sudden noise, his meditation broken by what sounded like a…a chirp, or a squeal. He looked, then suddenly turned more, searching, trying to find Brother Han. He'd been right there, walking beside him. Brother Cam heard another noise, like a soft tap, and he leaned in to the semi-dark hall, trying to place the sound.
A thick metal hook tore his skull open like a rusty can.
------
The bishop Bronzon could feel the devotion like a wind on his face. The sanctuary was filled, every body singing in time to the Great Machine well below them. Since the hated heretics had been silenced, the Church had swollen with faith, initiates, and the most sacred of relics, shards of The Broken itself. He raised his face to the sooty ceiling, lifting his own voice with the throng, feeling the touch of The Broken firmly, for the first time in years.
He watched the steam and smoke rise from the vents in the floor, the very Breath of God itself, the taste as hot and coppery as blood. Several brothers and sisters had torn open their robes, exposing their flesh to the fumes, letting them soak inside and out. Others had already swooned, shivering in ecstacy at the feel of the heavy hand of The Broken on their soul. Bronzon felt a thrill of excitement coursing through his body, both from admiration of their burgeoning faith and the more earthly admiration of their young, supple flesh.
He was still admiring them when the screaming started.
It started from the back, a sudden flurry of activity, spreading like a wave of panic. Soon everyone had recoiled from the door, some still chanting mindlessly, carried by the crush of humanity.
A demon stood in the doorway. The jaws hung wide, a mass of jagged death lining them. One hand ended in a spray of glistening points, the other in a smooth, hellish hook. The eyes crackled with a green glow, mouth frozen in a too-wide grin. It glistened with blood like a second skin.
Bronzon froze for a moment, paralyzed by fear, replaying every sin, every indulgence he'd taken. He looked in to those glowing eyes, and knew for one shining second, with all that he was, that his time had come. He broke free almost instantly, hitting the button below the podium to summon security and unlocking the hidden panic room behind the wall hanging.
Even in those few seconds, people had started dying. The demon slashed and carved like a living meat grinder, limbs and organs falling like leaves to the ground. Brave, strong men, Crusaders in training, threw their fellows before them to spare themselves a few more seconds, the whole mass pushing away like panicked cattle. Really, that's what they were, in the end. The loss would hurt for a time… but cattle could always be replaced.
Bronzon shook his head sadly, turning away from the carnage. It was only when he tried to open the panic room, and found it locked, that he felt that fear again, bright and sweet, like biting on a rotten tooth.
The screaming had died down, just a few wheezing, bubbling hisses, the odd flapping or brushing sound as some ruined limb tried to drag its dying body away. Bronzon was almost physically unable to turn around, the weight of what he knew was behind him freezing his muscles. He finally did, with great effort, keeping his eyes well away from the floor, still wincing at the sprays of blood and gore coating the walls.
The demon stood a few feet away, barely breathing heavy. Her eyes were wide and glistening, blood running around them like tears.
“W… who sent you? I deserve that much,” he stammered.
She tilted her head like a bird of prey, staring for a few seconds. “The Foundation. We know about your friends. What you did. What you want to do.”
He sighed, nodding his head, absently noting the banging against the locked chapel door… security. Finally arrived to help. Far too late to help.
He held his arms open, closing his eyes. “Send me on to The Broken. My faith may have waned, but I know The Broken waits to make me whole.”
“You talk like I'm about to kill you, bishop. You are mistaken. I have no intention of making you a martyr. My intention is to make you a heretic."
His eyes snapped open, a dark glimmer of idea emerging from a nightmare shadow. “No… no, you can't… ”
“Let me tell you what will happen. The security men will break in. They will find this room filled with the dead. They will find the room covered in blasphemous symbols. And they will find you, one of the priests of your mechanical God…"
"No! You can't!" Bronzon repeated.
"… covered in the blood of the faithful… having sacrificed… having slaughtered… the followers of The Broken for the glory of The Grey.”
He hisses, teeth bared at the very mention of that twisted sect's “god”.
“Blasphemy! They would never…”
“Oh, but they will believe… it says so right here, on this note that will be left on the podium, detailing the ritual you were performing. Too bad you had to remove your own hands, tongue and eyes as part of the ritual… I'm sure the other faithful would love to interrogate you before your body is torn to pieces and burned, excommunicated from your mechanical god.” She smiled wider, teeth chattering in excitement as she raised her slaughtering hands. “Oh well.”
The last sound his tongue made was a whimper, his last sight her dripping, blood-soaked hair.
------
The sun was going down when she stepped out from the alley, the outreach center closed up and dark nearly three hours before their normal closing. Agent Kramer looked a little rumpled, perhaps a bit dirty even, but still very presentable. She refused to feel her soreness, or reflect on the hard scrubbing she'd had to do after a short break-in at a nearby home. Whoever lived there would have a nasty shock when they went to use the tub…hopefully they'd just assume it was some kind of plumbing back-up.
Agent Harken sat in the driver's seat, a small hill of cigarette butts on the street next to the car door, topped with three or four empty crumpled packets. He sat up, a red-tinged twist of tissue paper jutting from one nostril, as he saw Kramer crossing the street. Kramer laughed, leaning into the open window, brushing at a small dried patch of blood on her hand, one of many she'd probably missed.
“The hell happened to you?”
“I fell asleep in the back. Some kid tried to take our stereo. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me.”
“Wow.”
He shook his head, tossing the tissue in to the road as she walked around the car. “Hey, don't worry about me, the hell happened in there?”
“Don't worry about it.”
“Can you think of any reason why I saw two guys come out of the building throwing up?”
“No.”
Harken sighed, starting the car and pulling out, rolling slow as the last gasp of sun dipped out of sight. “So, everything went ok?”
“Yes," Kramer said, her face settled back into its usual expressionless mask. "Like clockwork.”
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-24T18:19:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"action",
"broken-god",
"game-day",
"horror",
"religious-fiction",
"tale"
] | Like Clockwork - SCP Foundation | 49 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"gamedaypart2index",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"church-of-the-broken-god-hub"
] | [] | 11933773 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/like-clockwork |
|
locks | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
The first time I came home to an unlocked door, I figured I’d just forgotten to lock it when I went to work. I’ve done that before.
<p>This morning, I made sure to lock it - jiggled the knob a few times just in case - and thought nothing of it until I returned.</p>
<p>I combed the house. Nothing was out of place, no murderers stashed in my closet, no valuables missing. I slept fitfully that night, hugging a baseball bat to myself. When I woke up, I found conditions to be the same as before: there was absolutely nothing unusual.</p>
<p>That night I slept with the bat again. In the morning, I poked through every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Nothing. I locked my door and left for work. And when I got home, it was unlocked. This continued for weeks.</p>
<p>As weeks turned into months I became used to the state of my door; even got to appreciate it. I liked that if I stayed out late, I didn’t have to fumble for my keys in the dark.</p>
<p>One night, when I returned home, my door was locked. After a good deal of messing about with my keys, I finally managed to unlock it and go inside. I clicked on the light - then I spotted the tiny writing on my wall.</p>
<p>"you need me."</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/locks">Locks</a>" by Cherry Pict, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/locks">https://scpwiki.com/locks</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The first time I came home to an unlocked door, I figured I’d just forgotten to lock it when I went to work. I’ve done that before.
This morning, I made sure to lock it - jiggled the knob a few times just in case - and thought nothing of it until I returned.
I combed the house. Nothing was out of place, no murderers stashed in my closet, no valuables missing. I slept fitfully that night, hugging a baseball bat to myself. When I woke up, I found conditions to be the same as before: there was absolutely nothing unusual.
That night I slept with the bat again. In the morning, I poked through every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Nothing. I locked my door and left for work. And when I got home, it was unlocked. This continued for weeks.
As weeks turned into months I became used to the state of my door; even got to appreciate it. I liked that if I stayed out late, I didn’t have to fumble for my keys in the dark.
One night, when I returned home, my door was locked. After a good deal of messing about with my keys, I finally managed to unlock it and go inside. I clicked on the light - then I spotted the tiny writing on my wall.
"you need me."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-12T06:25:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Locks - SCP Foundation | 42 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11684395 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/locks |
|
look-at-me-im-inventing-a-new-group-of-interest | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><em>Right, Kyle, here's those notes you asked for. Keep in mind, hush protocol seven means the investigation is still ongoing, so some of the stuff isn't released yet. Best I could do. Good luck.</em></p>
<p><em>~Nate</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>The following is a transcript of the voice over from a pirate television broadcast intercepted by the Foundation in September of 2011.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><tt><strong>Male voice:</strong> One zero zero five. Two one two. Six four six. Nine one seven.</tt></p>
<p><tt><strong>Short pause, soft beep, brief static which continues through the remainder of the interruption</strong></tt></p>
<p><tt><strong>Second male voice:</strong> People of the new media world, listen! There was a mouth that was where all that was on the media was and it spoke and we heard it was speaking and we heard its voice on the radio, the television, the internet, the sky. "Tell us truth," we cried, "oh voice, and we will break the world like sweet, sweet eggs before the mother, the hen, the television! Television voice, speak!" It spoke to us and we listened as it told us- told you- but us, because we listened- that the world was dead like leaves in fall that fall like all of us fall, and that it was dead because it slept through the message of the voice, and that message was "stop!". Wake, oh earth, as your cores crack, hatching volcanoes like chicks, sweet burning chicks to play in the fields left behind when the sleepers have gone. Good morning, living earth. Good night, dead society.</tt></p>
<p><strong><tt><Extended pause, rattling inhalation or sigh></tt></strong><br/>
<br/>
<tt><strong>Female voice:</strong> Are we cool yet?</tt></p>
</blockquote>
<p>The broadcast consisted of man hanged by the neck in a doorway softly twisting as the camera moved closer, at which point it became clear that he was mouthing along with the voice over. At approximately one minute and forty seconds, synchronized with the line "good night, dead society", the man began thrashing, apparently due to asphyxiation, and appeared to die. Throughout the video, at each instance of the word 'voice', an image of a bank of televisions, each showing a different image of violence, appeared on screen for exactly one second. Following the apparent death of the hanged man, a female voice interjected the whispered question "Are we cool yet?" in what is theorized to be an imitation of sexual ecstasy, and the broadcast terminated. Regular channel broadcasting resumed after a momentary delay, cutting approximately three minutes from the opening scenes of Ses[FURTHER INFORMATION REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Overwatch Report of agent Scott Manheilm</strong>:<br/>
<br/>
After one of our intelligence persons operating in [DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]zed the numbers as postal codes for Wall Street addresses, it got a lot easier to hone in on a point of origin for the transmission jam last week.<br/>
<br/>
We raided the building at approximately six in the morning. It was a bit before that, I'm not sure. It should be in the full report compiled after the incident. It was a small operation, not like the big SWAT style MTF things you hear about in the cafeteria or anything, just me, Steve [Mader], and Mike [Chillnoski] posing as local detectives. We were expecting maybe a token resistance from the squatters, nothing fancy.<br/>
<br/>
First thing we did was break the door down, flashing badges and yelling. We figured they'd come quietly. Didn't happen. Almost immediately a hand grenade comes down the stairs at us; we spent a couple days under observation afterward just in case it was one of… well, I'll get to that. Mike took down the guy who threw it, damn good shooting. After that, things went more or less as we'd expected. Wound up bringing in four subjects, three guys and a girl, all mid twenties. They're profiled in the mission docs, I'm sure. Just squatter artist types, locals. Probably recruited thro[DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]ging in a door frame upstairs pretty much confirmed it as the transmission location. Nasty.<br/>
<br/>
Anyway, I'll cut to the chase. The reason this operation became such a big deal is what we found upstairs. Not the body, but the crate in the next room… We figured they were just normal grenades at first, what with the one they tried to hit us with when we came in, but Steve had a bad feeling about the writing on the crate and those signs, so we boxed them up and called in an analysis team. Wound up being a good move; I think Steve got a commendation.</p>
<p>[FURTHER MATERIAL REDACTED FOR BREVITY.]</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><tt><strong>Transcript from the notes of Dr. Tsung regarding incident 1</strong>[REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]</tt></p>
<p><tt>Crate appears unmarked on sides, bottom. Large banner style logo on lid reading "Are We Cool Yet?" may prove significant, particularly in light of recent events. Crate contains thirty cardboard signs, each apparently produced by hand with varying degrees of artistic merit and style, all of which read "OSSIFY WALL STREET" in all caps. Ominous.</tt></p>
<p><tt>Below the signs is a layer of packing material. I've submitted a sample for forensic analysis and incinerated the rest in order to avoid possible contamination. The packing material is wrapped around several modified fragmentation grenades which look to have been originally of russian manufacture. Weld seams visible where grenades [unintelligible] modified payload. I'll crack one open and see.</tt></p>
<p><strong>Addendum 1</strong>[REDACTED PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN] <em>of Dr. Tsung has been retained for study in the Hazardous Lifeforms wing of Armed Research Site-45. Further information can be found in <a href="/scp-439">Report-439-A</a>.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Thanks Nate. These Foundation types catch on slow, don't they? They don't seem to appreciate our work much, either. Art tends to fly right over the head of tough guy types. Good thing they have a few like you in their ranks who can appreciate true creativity.</em></p>
<p><em>A few of the others say hi. Remember Miley from the thing in Alaska? She's made a full recovery and will be helping out at our next… exhibition. Are We Cool Yet?</em></p>
<p><em>~Kyle</em></p>
</blockquote>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/look-at-me-im-inventing-a-new-group-of-interest">Coming soon to a gallery near you!~</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/look-at-me-im-inventing-a-new-group-of-interest">https://scpwiki.com/look-at-me-im-inventing-a-new-group-of-interest</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> //Right, Kyle, here's those notes you asked for. Keep in mind, hush protocol seven means the investigation is still ongoing, so some of the stuff isn't released yet. Best I could do. Good luck.//
>
> //~Nate//
---------------------------
The following is a transcript of the voice over from a pirate television broadcast intercepted by the Foundation in September of 2011.
> {{**Male voice:** One zero zero five. Two one two. Six four six. Nine one seven.}}
>
> {{**Short pause, soft beep, brief static which continues through the remainder of the interruption**}}
>
> {{**Second male voice:** People of the new media world, listen! There was a mouth that was where all that was on the media was and it spoke and we heard it was speaking and we heard its voice on the radio, the television, the internet, the sky. "Tell us truth," we cried, "oh voice, and we will break the world like sweet, sweet eggs before the mother, the hen, the television! Television voice, speak!" It spoke to us and we listened as it told us- told you- but us, because we listened- that the world was dead like leaves in fall that fall like all of us fall, and that it was dead because it slept through the message of the voice, and that message was "stop!". Wake, oh earth, as your cores crack, hatching volcanoes like chicks, sweet burning chicks to play in the fields left behind when the sleepers have gone. Good morning, living earth. Good night, dead society.}}
>
> **{{<Extended pause, rattling inhalation or sigh>}}**
>
> {{**Female voice:** Are we cool yet?}}
The broadcast consisted of man hanged by the neck in a doorway softly twisting as the camera moved closer, at which point it became clear that he was mouthing along with the voice over. At approximately one minute and forty seconds, synchronized with the line "good night, dead society", the man began thrashing, apparently due to asphyxiation, and appeared to die. Throughout the video, at each instance of the word 'voice', an image of a bank of televisions, each showing a different image of violence, appeared on screen for exactly one second. Following the apparent death of the hanged man, a female voice interjected the whispered question "Are we cool yet?" in what is theorized to be an imitation of sexual ecstasy, and the broadcast terminated. Regular channel broadcasting resumed after a momentary delay, cutting approximately three minutes from the opening scenes of Ses[FURTHER INFORMATION REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]
----------------------
> **Overwatch Report of agent Scott Manheilm**:
>
> After one of our intelligence persons operating in [DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]zed the numbers as postal codes for Wall Street addresses, it got a lot easier to hone in on a point of origin for the transmission jam last week.
>
> We raided the building at approximately six in the morning. It was a bit before that, I'm not sure. It should be in the full report compiled after the incident. It was a small operation, not like the big SWAT style MTF things you hear about in the cafeteria or anything, just me, Steve [Mader], and Mike [Chillnoski] posing as local detectives. We were expecting maybe a token resistance from the squatters, nothing fancy.
>
> First thing we did was break the door down, flashing badges and yelling. We figured they'd come quietly. Didn't happen. Almost immediately a hand grenade comes down the stairs at us; we spent a couple days under observation afterward just in case it was one of... well, I'll get to that. Mike took down the guy who threw it, damn good shooting. After that, things went more or less as we'd expected. Wound up bringing in four subjects, three guys and a girl, all mid twenties. They're profiled in the mission docs, I'm sure. Just squatter artist types, locals. Probably recruited thro[DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]ging in a door frame upstairs pretty much confirmed it as the transmission location. Nasty.
>
> Anyway, I'll cut to the chase. The reason this operation became such a big deal is what we found upstairs. Not the body, but the crate in the next room... We figured they were just normal grenades at first, what with the one they tried to hit us with when we came in, but Steve had a bad feeling about the writing on the crate and those signs, so we boxed them up and called in an analysis team. Wound up being a good move; I think Steve got a commendation.
>
> [FURTHER MATERIAL REDACTED FOR BREVITY.]
---------------------
> {{**Transcript from the notes of Dr. Tsung regarding incident 1**[REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]}}
>
> {{Crate appears unmarked on sides, bottom. Large banner style logo on lid reading "Are We Cool Yet?" may prove significant, particularly in light of recent events. Crate contains thirty cardboard signs, each apparently produced by hand with varying degrees of artistic merit and style, all of which read "OSSIFY WALL STREET" in all caps. Ominous.}}
>
> {{Below the signs is a layer of packing material. I've submitted a sample for forensic analysis and incinerated the rest in order to avoid possible contamination. The packing material is wrapped around several modified fragmentation grenades which look to have been originally of russian manufacture. Weld seams visible where grenades [unintelligible] modified payload. I'll crack one open and see.}}
>
> **Addendum 1**[REDACTED PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN] //of Dr. Tsung has been retained for study in the Hazardous Lifeforms wing of Armed Research Site-45. Further information can be found in [[[scp-439| Report-439-A]]].//
----------------
> //Thanks Nate. These Foundation types catch on slow, don't they? They don't seem to appreciate our work much, either. Art tends to fly right over the head of tough guy types. Good thing they have a few like you in their ranks who can appreciate true creativity.//
>
> //A few of the others say hi. Remember Miley from the thing in Alaska? She's made a full recovery and will be helping out at our next... exhibition. Are We Cool Yet?//
>
> //~Kyle//
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-06T01:57:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"are-we-cool-yet",
"tale"
] | Coming soon to a gallery near you!~ - SCP Foundation | 96 | [
"scp-439",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"are-we-cool-yet-hub"
] | [] | 11997738 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/look-at-me-im-inventing-a-new-group-of-interest |
|
love-springs-eternal | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Why, it was love at first sight, darling. You awoke to the early song of dawn, and as you rose from the clutches of Morpheus I was there, watching you, every dewdrop on the windowpane an eye into your world. I was watching as you drank deep in my flesh, through your glass vessel I was watching, and I was watching as you bathed in my skin, embracing me in your face. I was watching as you let me run my fingers across your naked skin, cleansing you, baptising you in my scent. And as I watched, I knew you were mine, darling.</p>
<p>I made the first move, my humid breath caressing you in the morning light, lingering by your face and neck. You walked down the street, as I leapt from puddles and gathered at your tender feet. My hands crept up your body, stroking, moving in delicate rhythms to your nervous, quickening breath. You started to run, and for a moment I thought you were going to shake me off like the others, but I held on, drunk on desire. I wanted you, can't you see, darling? And 'want' is such a powerful thing, for both gods and men alike, that I continued to caress you as you ran, and more of me leapt out of you, and joined in the loving embrace.</p>
<p>You tore into the woods, as I rose from the fresh grass and slithered down from treetops. If only you could stay still to take in my love, but you kept running, kept running as I hugged your chest and ran my hands over your features. Such an exquisite face, certainly a cut above the other mortals, I thought. But of course, that was why I chose you, darling. Why did you continue to spurn me, when you clearly are not like the rest of them? You did not answer, but kept running, and running, as I gathered around you and wove around your arms in a dance of fated romance.</p>
<p>I pooled in your shoes, round your ankles and feet, gathering, rising, pleading for you to stop. But you somehow found the strength to keep running, and for a moment I was afraid you would keep running for ever, escaping me like so many others had did. Would you, in your irrational rejection of me, keep running till every last drop of me had been expelled from your tender body, running till your supple lips shrivelled and deep blue eyes dessicated like raisins in the sun, till you lay screaming in the dirt, begging for me to leave you alone? I panicked, and lost my hold, briefly slipping off your chest before the river joined in, rising in desire with me, cuddling your warm, sweet body as you ran, screaming now, out of the woods and into the dry, bare plains.</p>
<p>The midday sun was unforgiving, sending me off your back in wisps of vapor before I managed to hold you again. It was a trial of love, and I strived to pass it, grabbing you, hugging you in a mad frenzy. You collapsed, and briefly I thought you were going to give up the chase and surrender your body, and I relaxed, but you started to struggle, and threw me off in splashes. I leapt right back on you, determined even as more of me lost my hold on you, but the heat and your tenacity started to prevail over my rushing desire. Would I lose you forever, my darling, in this arid field beneath the unforgiving sky?</p>
<p>Then like an answer to my prayer, the clouds rolled over like a smooth satin blanket, and I fell down, in drips and drops, kissing your skin, pinning it down, preparing you for my love. And I ran my lips over you, licking your flesh lovingly, as you continued to struggle beneath the weight of my body. You continued to struggle as I put my hands on your head, holding it and smiling into your bewildered eyes. You continued to struggle as I rose from the earth and wrapped my legs around your hips, and pushed my face ever closer to yours. You continued to struggle as I rushed in for true love's first kiss, embracing your hair, your eyes, quivering with lustful wanting. You continued to struggle as I closed my face upon your nose, and put my lips to yours, and then you struggled no more as I fully took you into my grasp, cuddling you even as more of me fell gently on the soft, cool ground.</p>
<p>Then you were still, and I forced my way past your lips and into your throat, and you were mine at last.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
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<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/love-springs-eternal">Love Springs Eternal</a>" by minmin, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/love-springs-eternal">https://scpwiki.com/love-springs-eternal</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Why, it was love at first sight, darling. You awoke to the early song of dawn, and as you rose from the clutches of Morpheus I was there, watching you, every dewdrop on the windowpane an eye into your world. I was watching as you drank deep in my flesh, through your glass vessel I was watching, and I was watching as you bathed in my skin, embracing me in your face. I was watching as you let me run my fingers across your naked skin, cleansing you, baptising you in my scent. And as I watched, I knew you were mine, darling.
I made the first move, my humid breath caressing you in the morning light, lingering by your face and neck. You walked down the street, as I leapt from puddles and gathered at your tender feet. My hands crept up your body, stroking, moving in delicate rhythms to your nervous, quickening breath. You started to run, and for a moment I thought you were going to shake me off like the others, but I held on, drunk on desire. I wanted you, can't you see, darling? And 'want' is such a powerful thing, for both gods and men alike, that I continued to caress you as you ran, and more of me leapt out of you, and joined in the loving embrace.
You tore into the woods, as I rose from the fresh grass and slithered down from treetops. If only you could stay still to take in my love, but you kept running, kept running as I hugged your chest and ran my hands over your features. Such an exquisite face, certainly a cut above the other mortals, I thought. But of course, that was why I chose you, darling. Why did you continue to spurn me, when you clearly are not like the rest of them? You did not answer, but kept running, and running, as I gathered around you and wove around your arms in a dance of fated romance.
I pooled in your shoes, round your ankles and feet, gathering, rising, pleading for you to stop. But you somehow found the strength to keep running, and for a moment I was afraid you would keep running for ever, escaping me like so many others had did. Would you, in your irrational rejection of me, keep running till every last drop of me had been expelled from your tender body, running till your supple lips shrivelled and deep blue eyes dessicated like raisins in the sun, till you lay screaming in the dirt, begging for me to leave you alone? I panicked, and lost my hold, briefly slipping off your chest before the river joined in, rising in desire with me, cuddling your warm, sweet body as you ran, screaming now, out of the woods and into the dry, bare plains.
The midday sun was unforgiving, sending me off your back in wisps of vapor before I managed to hold you again. It was a trial of love, and I strived to pass it, grabbing you, hugging you in a mad frenzy. You collapsed, and briefly I thought you were going to give up the chase and surrender your body, and I relaxed, but you started to struggle, and threw me off in splashes. I leapt right back on you, determined even as more of me lost my hold on you, but the heat and your tenacity started to prevail over my rushing desire. Would I lose you forever, my darling, in this arid field beneath the unforgiving sky?
Then like an answer to my prayer, the clouds rolled over like a smooth satin blanket, and I fell down, in drips and drops, kissing your skin, pinning it down, preparing you for my love. And I ran my lips over you, licking your flesh lovingly, as you continued to struggle beneath the weight of my body. You continued to struggle as I put my hands on your head, holding it and smiling into your bewildered eyes. You continued to struggle as I rose from the earth and wrapped my legs around your hips, and pushed my face ever closer to yours. You continued to struggle as I rushed in for true love's first kiss, embracing your hair, your eyes, quivering with lustful wanting. You continued to struggle as I closed my face upon your nose, and put my lips to yours, and then you struggled no more as I fully took you into my grasp, cuddling you even as more of me fell gently on the soft, cool ground.
Then you were still, and I forced my way past your lips and into your throat, and you were mine at last.
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-18T04:44:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"tale"
] | Love Springs Eternal - SCP Foundation | 25 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12227458 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/love-springs-eternal |
|
lux | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Timothy Dalton's young hands shook with the exuberance that only a child can feel. It had been two weeks to the day. To the day! And now, it should finally be here! He ran home, grinning the entire way, dragging his backpack behind him.</p>
<p>He rushed to the mailbox, opening it and peering inside, his smile falling away. It was empty. He sighed, slowly dragging his bag after himself, walking up the step of his house. He dropped off his backpack on the kitchen table and got a glass of water, sipping it as his mother walked into the room, leaning over to kiss his head. When she stood back up, she frowned gently. "What's wrong, hun?" she asked. She only called him 'hun' when she wanted to be sweet to him.</p>
<p>"Did I… get any mail today?" he asked.</p>
<p>She shook her head. "Were you expecting something?" she asked. "You didn't sign up for something, did you?" she asked, more sternly.</p>
<p>"N-no…" he lied. "I was just… hoping to hear from my penpal…"</p>
<p>She didn't believe him, but his disappointment was enough to ease her anger. 'Probably just a stupid mailing list again…' she thought. Already, he'd gotten Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists… Ever since he'd learned his address, they'd been getting mail and fliers.</p>
<p>She kissed his head again. "Maybe tomorrow…" she said. "Now, head up to your room and take care of your homework."</p>
<p>He nodded, taking his bag and heading up the stairs, tossing it onto his bed. He walked over to his desk and sat at it, turning on the old computer his parents let him have, almost not noticing the box sitting to the left of it.</p>
<p>It was wrapped in brown paper, with a string around it. It looked like a package out of a movie. With trembling hands, he reached for it, taking it and pulling off the paper quickly, stopping and tugging at the string, frustrated until it broke with a quick snap, opening it and seeing…</p>
<p>It was beautiful. Shining silver—who cared if it was plastic?—with lights running up and down either side. It looked <em>exactly</em> like the picture. He pointed it out the window, pulling the trigger and grinning as all the lights flashed and a high pitched sound, just like from a movie, issued from it. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he slipped it into his pocket, hurrying out of his room and down the stairs again, shouting to his mother as he flew out the door: "I'll be at Johnny's house!"</p>
<p>"What about your homework?" she shouted back, but he was already gone, running down the street, eager to show off his new acquisition.</p>
<p>When he got there, he found Johnny in the yard, playing with his imagination, running and gunning. Tim smiled, jumping out from behind a tree and shouting loudly, intending to scare as he pulled out his new toy. "I'll fix you, Space Man!" Johnny jumped, turning and then frowning, angry at having been sneaked up on.</p>
<p>"That's not funny, Ti—"</p>
<p>His voice died away as Tim pulled the trigger. He stopped for a moment, then slumped to the ground, falling in a heap. Tim smiled a little, laughing and running to him. "Johnny! Johnny! Isn't it neat?!" he asked, laughing and smiling.</p>
<p>But Johnny didn't respond.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Simon Hayden opened the box, smiling and grinning as he took out the toy, eyes wide and expectant. He turned, showing to his little brother whose face practically glowed with envy. "Hey! No fair! Where'd you get that?!" he said.</p>
<p>"Isn't it cool!" he said, smiling. "It's free! You just have to go to this website and give them your address and they send you free stuff!"</p>
<p>His little brother got a greedy glint in his eye. "What is it?! What is it!?!"</p>
<p>Simon smiled, ruffling his hair playfully—and because it annoyed him—and grinned. "Just go to <a href="/scp-001-o5">www.thefactory.net</a>…"</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/lux">Lux</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lux">https://scpwiki.com/lux</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Timothy Dalton's young hands shook with the exuberance that only a child can feel. It had been two weeks to the day. To the day! And now, it should finally be here! He ran home, grinning the entire way, dragging his backpack behind him.
He rushed to the mailbox, opening it and peering inside, his smile falling away. It was empty. He sighed, slowly dragging his bag after himself, walking up the step of his house. He dropped off his backpack on the kitchen table and got a glass of water, sipping it as his mother walked into the room, leaning over to kiss his head. When she stood back up, she frowned gently. "What's wrong, hun?" she asked. She only called him 'hun' when she wanted to be sweet to him.
"Did I... get any mail today?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Were you expecting something?" she asked. "You didn't sign up for something, did you?" she asked, more sternly.
"N-no..." he lied. "I was just... hoping to hear from my penpal..."
She didn't believe him, but his disappointment was enough to ease her anger. 'Probably just a stupid mailing list again...' she thought. Already, he'd gotten Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists... Ever since he'd learned his address, they'd been getting mail and fliers.
She kissed his head again. "Maybe tomorrow..." she said. "Now, head up to your room and take care of your homework."
He nodded, taking his bag and heading up the stairs, tossing it onto his bed. He walked over to his desk and sat at it, turning on the old computer his parents let him have, almost not noticing the box sitting to the left of it.
It was wrapped in brown paper, with a string around it. It looked like a package out of a movie. With trembling hands, he reached for it, taking it and pulling off the paper quickly, stopping and tugging at the string, frustrated until it broke with a quick snap, opening it and seeing...
It was beautiful. Shining silver—who cared if it was plastic?—with lights running up and down either side. It looked //exactly// like the picture. He pointed it out the window, pulling the trigger and grinning as all the lights flashed and a high pitched sound, just like from a movie, issued from it. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he slipped it into his pocket, hurrying out of his room and down the stairs again, shouting to his mother as he flew out the door: "I'll be at Johnny's house!"
"What about your homework?" she shouted back, but he was already gone, running down the street, eager to show off his new acquisition.
When he got there, he found Johnny in the yard, playing with his imagination, running and gunning. Tim smiled, jumping out from behind a tree and shouting loudly, intending to scare as he pulled out his new toy. "I'll fix you, Space Man!" Johnny jumped, turning and then frowning, angry at having been sneaked up on.
"That's not funny, Ti—"
His voice died away as Tim pulled the trigger. He stopped for a moment, then slumped to the ground, falling in a heap. Tim smiled a little, laughing and running to him. "Johnny! Johnny! Isn't it neat?!" he asked, laughing and smiling.
But Johnny didn't respond.
-----
Simon Hayden opened the box, smiling and grinning as he took out the toy, eyes wide and expectant. He turned, showing to his little brother whose face practically glowed with envy. "Hey! No fair! Where'd you get that?!" he said.
"Isn't it cool!" he said, smiling. "It's free! You just have to go to this website and give them your address and they send you free stuff!"
His little brother got a greedy glint in his eye. "What is it?! What is it!?!"
Simon smiled, ruffling his hair playfully—and because it annoyed him—and grinned. "Just go to [[[scp-001-o5|www.thefactory.net]]]..."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-21T00:56:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"bleak",
"factory",
"project-thaumiel",
"tale"
] | Lux - SCP Foundation | 83 | [
"scp-001-o5",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"thaumiel",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"factory-hub"
] | [] | 11917239 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lux |
|
marysuewho | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Agent Doctor Merry Soo was the greatest researcher and operative the Foundation had ever known. And at the age of seventeen, she was also the youngest! Joining the Foundation straight out of her amazing year at West Point, where she simultaneously managed four years' worth of study at the top of her class and stood out as the absolutely most physically perfect student.</p>
<p>The Foundation was lucky to have her. Almost all of senior Staff said so! "She is true credit to spirit of working operative!" Captain Strelnikov was often heard to remark. "No one can handle an SCP like her! And she knows just the spot behind my ears to scratch to make my leg thump!" Doctor Crow was known to say. "She's not bad." Doctor Snorlison once remarked. He was immediately given a stern talking to by the site staff, after which he requested to change his comment to "We wouldn't be able to do all this without her!"</p>
<p>And, although it's not something she liked anyone to judge her by, she was also the prettiest girl on site! The other women on site knew it too. "I could never be as pretty as Agent Doctor Soo." Rights had been heard to lament. But Merry was such a good person, they couldn't hold it against her. They loved her! Even Dr. Light, a well known sour-puss, had said, through oddly clenched teeth, "We could never hold that against her. She's such a good person. We love her."</p>
<p>It was Agent Doctor Soo who figured out how to keep the D-class from having to be terminated every month! After all, a simple memory wipe, and a piece of SCP-500 (which she had also figured out how to easily replicate) and the Foundation no longer had to kill anyone! And then she was assigned to SCP-231, where she was able to rescue that poor girl, and stop her from undergoing those HORRID experiments. She had a stern talk with SCP-082, and convinced him not to eat human flesh anymore. Of course, her greatest achievement was when she confronted SCP-173. All he ever really wanted was a hug, and some SCP-500 to stop that horrible blood in the feces problem of his. She also got a sculptor in to make him look a little friendlier. She was even the only one to point out how that old man seemed to always be around, but he just patted her on the head and walked away.</p>
<p>But Agent Doctor Merry Soo did not lead a life free of worry, oh no! She had many, many, horrible problems! She would often cry about them to her many lovers. "It is so awful!" She cried, her head resting gently against Kondraki's chest.</p>
<p>"What is?" Dr. Kondraki would have frowned, but he could never frown around the delightful Merry. No matter how much he might have wanted to.</p>
<p>"My horrible, awful secret! If you knew it, you would not love me anymore!" And she cried against his manly chest.</p>
<p>"Oh." Kondraki exclaimed. It took a few more minutes of her telling him about how he would not love her, and how horrible her secret was, before he finally had to, really had to, ask her "What secret?"</p>
<p>"Oh! My love! It is terrible!" And she threw herself from the bed weeping. Another hour or so of such passed, before she finally deigned to tell him the secret. "You see my dear, sweet Konnie, I am half dragon! I know this does not make me an SCP, as I am only half, but it is terrible, and awful! Also, occasional scales in weird places."</p>
<p>"Well, I guess that explains why your mouth is so hot when you…" But that was not the least of her problems! NO! Merry Soo had many more problems!</p>
<p>"They can never know, my truest love!" she exclaimed as she cuddled up next to Able. The once horrible SCP, turned loving boyfriend, grunted in response. Despite their true love, and the feelings only they had for each other, or perhaps, because of the depth of such emotions, Able found he could barely talk in her presence. The fact that he could not keep his hands from clenching either bore no impact on this story.</p>
<p>"They can never know that I bear your child! It is with love I bear it, and thanks to my keen use of SCPs, I will not look it, but our child will be here soon!" She quickly fled his presence. Soon after she left, Site-52 was destroyed in a Keter Class outbreak, but that doesn't matter.</p>
<p>Doctor Clef would have been her lover, but for some reason he vanished before she could talk to him. Weird.</p>
<p>"My sweet, sweet Gearsy-poo!" She stroked his head as it lay upon her chest. Dr. Gears' mouth twitched upwards, in a bizarre smile. It was true, she was the only one who could still reach his cold, cold heart. She made him happy, truly she did. "I have to thank you!"</p>
<p>"For… For What?" Dr. Gears always had trouble getting his words out around dear, sweet Agent Doctor Merry Soo. It was a fight, to get them out at all, as if his brain wanted to say things his heart would never speak. "For keeping the dreadful secret of mine my sweet! The other Senior Staff must never know that my father was the Fis-" But she was not a girl to be defined by her loves, many though they were! She was also a first-class researcher!</p>
<p>"Thank you Merry!" Gerald was oft heard to exclaim. No one quite knew how to put out a head fire like sweet Agent Soo! And her dutiful Assistants, Agent Elroy and Dr. Mann were always glad to be working under such a renowned scientist! "She really showed me a thing or two about anatomy!" Mann remarked to Yoric. "And she's saved my life so many times! It seems like I can't do anything but screw up!"</p>
<p>"She's perfectly sane," Dr. Glass once said. "Perfectly. Do you know how odd that is?" He then had to go lay down to stop his nose from bleeding.</p>
<p>But it was her relationship with her Mentor, Dr. Bright, that was most important to her. "Oh, Jack!" She remarked, as she stroked his soft fur. "Do not worry. One day, I will find a way to free you from that cursed amulet."</p>
<p>The Monkey smiled up at her, proud of the work his star pupil had done. "So, uh, I get some nookie now too, right?" he asked with a leer.</p>
<p>Soo could not help but blush. "Oh, Dr. Bright, I could never, not with you! You are like a father to me! A hairy, weird, kinda smelly father, who keeps touching my butt, but still a father!" Bright just rolled his eyes, and nodded his head to someone just out the door.</p>
<p>"Doctor Agent Merry Soo!" Agent Break called out, rushing in, looking worried. "We have a problem, one only you can fix! We need you, and we need you now!"</p>
<p>Dr. Soo rushed to follow Break, to notice the rest of the Senior Staff gathered round. It was Heiden who stepped forward, for some reason, with half of a straw clutched in his left hand. "Dr. Soo, thank god you're here!" He pointed down the hall. "Something weird is happening, you have to stop it!"</p>
<p>Agent Doctor Merry Soo rushed down the hall to the room in question, as the other Senior Staff rushed into a nearby safe room/observation chamber. The room Merry found herself in was huge, but she could see the Senior Staff watching her from way up above. She waved to them, even as she heard the sound of a door opening behind her. Wait… When did Clef join them?</p>
<p>What she thought didn't matter. One snap, two bites, and little miss Merry Soo was gone, vanishing into the gullet of the beast known as SCP-682.</p>
<p>Up above, Clef hit a second button, turning on the acid sprayers, driving 682 back into its pit. The other Senior Staff sighed, patted each other on the back, thanked Clef, and walked away, many of them to take long hot showers.</p>
<p>In the end, it was just Clef and Bright watching 682 dissolve under the spray of acid. "That was some quick thinking there, Alto," the monkey commented.</p>
<p>"I've seen too many of them come through here, trying to beat us by joining us. They can never keep under the radar."</p>
<p>"Never?" Bright spared a knowing look for his old comrade.</p>
<p>"Well." Clef couldn't help but grin. "Maybe once."</p>
<p>The two, if not friends, then co-workers, turned their gaze on the pit again, and, in a sign that they had both been working together for far too long, heaved identical sighs, and spoke the same words together.</p>
<p>"Fucking Mary Sues."</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/marysuewho">Mary Sue Who</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/marysuewho">https://scpwiki.com/marysuewho</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Agent Doctor Merry Soo was the greatest researcher and operative the Foundation had ever known. And at the age of seventeen, she was also the youngest! Joining the Foundation straight out of her amazing year at West Point, where she simultaneously managed four years' worth of study at the top of her class and stood out as the absolutely most physically perfect student.
The Foundation was lucky to have her. Almost all of senior Staff said so! "She is true credit to spirit of working operative!" Captain Strelnikov was often heard to remark. "No one can handle an SCP like her! And she knows just the spot behind my ears to scratch to make my leg thump!" Doctor Crow was known to say. "She's not bad." Doctor Snorlison once remarked. He was immediately given a stern talking to by the site staff, after which he requested to change his comment to "We wouldn't be able to do all this without her!"
And, although it's not something she liked anyone to judge her by, she was also the prettiest girl on site! The other women on site knew it too. "I could never be as pretty as Agent Doctor Soo." Rights had been heard to lament. But Merry was such a good person, they couldn't hold it against her. They loved her! Even Dr. Light, a well known sour-puss, had said, through oddly clenched teeth, "We could never hold that against her. She's such a good person. We love her."
It was Agent Doctor Soo who figured out how to keep the D-class from having to be terminated every month! After all, a simple memory wipe, and a piece of SCP-500 (which she had also figured out how to easily replicate) and the Foundation no longer had to kill anyone! And then she was assigned to SCP-231, where she was able to rescue that poor girl, and stop her from undergoing those HORRID experiments. She had a stern talk with SCP-082, and convinced him not to eat human flesh anymore. Of course, her greatest achievement was when she confronted SCP-173. All he ever really wanted was a hug, and some SCP-500 to stop that horrible blood in the feces problem of his. She also got a sculptor in to make him look a little friendlier. She was even the only one to point out how that old man seemed to always be around, but he just patted her on the head and walked away.
But Agent Doctor Merry Soo did not lead a life free of worry, oh no! She had many, many, horrible problems! She would often cry about them to her many lovers. "It is so awful!" She cried, her head resting gently against Kondraki's chest.
"What is?" Dr. Kondraki would have frowned, but he could never frown around the delightful Merry. No matter how much he might have wanted to.
"My horrible, awful secret! If you knew it, you would not love me anymore!" And she cried against his manly chest.
"Oh." Kondraki exclaimed. It took a few more minutes of her telling him about how he would not love her, and how horrible her secret was, before he finally had to, really had to, ask her "What secret?"
"Oh! My love! It is terrible!" And she threw herself from the bed weeping. Another hour or so of such passed, before she finally deigned to tell him the secret. "You see my dear, sweet Konnie, I am half dragon! I know this does not make me an SCP, as I am only half, but it is terrible, and awful! Also, occasional scales in weird places."
"Well, I guess that explains why your mouth is so hot when you..." But that was not the least of her problems! NO! Merry Soo had many more problems!
"They can never know, my truest love!" she exclaimed as she cuddled up next to Able. The once horrible SCP, turned loving boyfriend, grunted in response. Despite their true love, and the feelings only they had for each other, or perhaps, because of the depth of such emotions, Able found he could barely talk in her presence. The fact that he could not keep his hands from clenching either bore no impact on this story.
"They can never know that I bear your child! It is with love I bear it, and thanks to my keen use of SCPs, I will not look it, but our child will be here soon!" She quickly fled his presence. Soon after she left, Site-52 was destroyed in a Keter Class outbreak, but that doesn't matter.
Doctor Clef would have been her lover, but for some reason he vanished before she could talk to him. Weird.
"My sweet, sweet Gearsy-poo!" She stroked his head as it lay upon her chest. Dr. Gears' mouth twitched upwards, in a bizarre smile. It was true, she was the only one who could still reach his cold, cold heart. She made him happy, truly she did. "I have to thank you!"
"For... For What?" Dr. Gears always had trouble getting his words out around dear, sweet Agent Doctor Merry Soo. It was a fight, to get them out at all, as if his brain wanted to say things his heart would never speak. "For keeping the dreadful secret of mine my sweet! The other Senior Staff must never know that my father was the Fis-" But she was not a girl to be defined by her loves, many though they were! She was also a first-class researcher!
"Thank you Merry!" Gerald was oft heard to exclaim. No one quite knew how to put out a head fire like sweet Agent Soo! And her dutiful Assistants, Agent Elroy and Dr. Mann were always glad to be working under such a renowned scientist! "She really showed me a thing or two about anatomy!" Mann remarked to Yoric. "And she's saved my life so many times! It seems like I can't do anything but screw up!"
"She's perfectly sane," Dr. Glass once said. "Perfectly. Do you know how odd that is?" He then had to go lay down to stop his nose from bleeding.
But it was her relationship with her Mentor, Dr. Bright, that was most important to her. "Oh, Jack!" She remarked, as she stroked his soft fur. "Do not worry. One day, I will find a way to free you from that cursed amulet."
The Monkey smiled up at her, proud of the work his star pupil had done. "So, uh, I get some nookie now too, right?" he asked with a leer.
Soo could not help but blush. "Oh, Dr. Bright, I could never, not with you! You are like a father to me! A hairy, weird, kinda smelly father, who keeps touching my butt, but still a father!" Bright just rolled his eyes, and nodded his head to someone just out the door.
"Doctor Agent Merry Soo!" Agent Break called out, rushing in, looking worried. "We have a problem, one only you can fix! We need you, and we need you now!"
Dr. Soo rushed to follow Break, to notice the rest of the Senior Staff gathered round. It was Heiden who stepped forward, for some reason, with half of a straw clutched in his left hand. "Dr. Soo, thank god you're here!" He pointed down the hall. "Something weird is happening, you have to stop it!"
Agent Doctor Merry Soo rushed down the hall to the room in question, as the other Senior Staff rushed into a nearby safe room/observation chamber. The room Merry found herself in was huge, but she could see the Senior Staff watching her from way up above. She waved to them, even as she heard the sound of a door opening behind her. Wait... When did Clef join them?
What she thought didn't matter. One snap, two bites, and little miss Merry Soo was gone, vanishing into the gullet of the beast known as SCP-682.
Up above, Clef hit a second button, turning on the acid sprayers, driving 682 back into its pit. The other Senior Staff sighed, patted each other on the back, thanked Clef, and walked away, many of them to take long hot showers.
In the end, it was just Clef and Bright watching 682 dissolve under the spray of acid. "That was some quick thinking there, Alto," the monkey commented.
"I've seen too many of them come through here, trying to beat us by joining us. They can never keep under the radar."
"Never?" Bright spared a knowing look for his old comrade.
"Well." Clef couldn't help but grin. "Maybe once."
The two, if not friends, then co-workers, turned their gaze on the pit again, and, in a sign that they had both been working together for far too long, heaved identical sighs, and spoke the same words together.
"Fucking Mary Sues."
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medical-seminar | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>So you've all been selected to be doctors for the Foundation. Heads of your fields and all of that. Well, I'm here to tell you that none of that matters. Here, you're just one of the rest. We have on staff over nine hundred and seventy four doctors among the eight primary sites alone. Why so many? They're necessary. The Foundation racks up a body count like it's going out of style, and it's your job to get that number as close to zero as you can, while not getting yourself wiped off this rock.</p>
<p>My name? Doctor Christopher Zartion, MD. Yes, I know you've all got your MDs, and probably a few PhD's. You're all world renowned surgeons and pathologists et cetera. I don't care, and neither do your superiors. You're here to do a job, and to be honest, it's going to suck.</p>
<p>The good news: The forefront of medicine? It's here. Right here. This is the place where you'll work on superviruses, strains of staphylococcus that would make your head explode, and viruses and bacteria which you'd never heard of before. We work with technologies and methods of treatment that are deemed too dangerous, and too experimental. If you think you can't handle that, I suggest you leave now.</p>
<p>What? Hey— What are you doing?! Sit back down. That was a joke. This isn't voluntary.</p>
<p>What you'll see here is going to make or break you, in some cases quite literally. Now I know you're probably wondering what I'm getting at, but I can't tell you. If I told you, in some cases, you'd risk exposure right there. I've been working here for less than five years, and I've seen pathologies that would make you shudder to think of it happening to you, or even any other human being.</p>
<p>That being said, it's going to be your job to log all of what you see, so that it doesn't happen to your teams, and your friends in the containment division. Believe me, they'll be your friends. You'll certainly have to patch them up enough. Yes, Doctor? Of course you're expected to keep accurate records. See this? This is a standard case file for a D-class that the research staff were exposing to one type of virus. You'll notice it's over eighty pages long. That's from one experiment. We perform hundreds in a given month. It should be noted that paper copies are only kept for experiments that are deemed too vital to be left to electronic storage. So you write up this extremely meticulous log, and you might be given a one line mention about the results in a distilled format on the database. Sucks, but it's what happens. It's your job, and you don't get to call out.</p>
<p>The D-class. You're going to feel bad for the D-class, you really are. They're all terrible people, but they're still people. You'll patch up the spine snappings, and the lacerations of the throat. You'll remove rock candy from mucus membranes, and send them back to have it done to them again. This is horrifying, yes? No, it's your job now. The Foundation runs on, whether we like it to or not, and we are the ones who keep it on its feet. Not the researchers, not even the containment staff. We do. Without us, everything would go to hell around here.</p>
<p>We have, in containment, right now, several viruses that if unleashed on the world, wouldn't be an epidemic situation. It would be pandemic, guaranteed. I'm sure some of the pathologists here would be assigned to researching them, and developing countermeasures. Of course it goes without saying that all those procedures you learned back in medschool about cleanliness and disinfecting go double while you're here. Hell, some of those won't work either, so you'll have to follow the containment procedures for the specific object you're working with.</p>
<p>The best case scenario for you who will be working in actual medical? Severe lacerations, or bullet wounds. Hopefully it's only physical trauma. God help you if something infectious gets in to your lab. Some of you might even be assigned to site resident shifts, and get it easy. Keep in mind researchers aren't as scrupulous about disinfecting after experiments as we are. You'd be amazed what passes under your microscope.</p>
<p>Maybe if you get a little less lucky, you'll deal with someone whose arm spontaneously exploded. Then you'll have to report what exactly the patient is going through, secondary symptoms, etc. If you're assigned in a research capacity rather than called in to treat the injury, your first job is to report anything that is off, or anomalous about the trauma. That's your job now, the patient comes second. If you're kind of lucky, you'll deal with someone whose blood is boiling out of his eyes as you speak to him. These are standard cases, of known SCP's. These aren't fabrications to scare you.</p>
<p>What if you're not lucky? You become the patient, doctor. Something gets out, gets inside of you, and we study you.</p>
<p>Let me give you two major pieces of advice.</p>
<p>One, we're here to treat, to heal, and to do as we're told. Sometimes, that might involve breaking the Hippocratic oath.</p>
<p>Oh sit down, I know, first do no harm. This, however, is the Foundation. If anything gets out, it's more than the patient who will suffer. Remember, we're responsible for the lives of countless thousands. If one has to suffer for it, they will. Besides, if you don't do as you're told, you'll probably end up in front of an inquiry.</p>
<p>Two, if the patient is violent, or carrying something; don't try to contain it yourself. Call a containment team immediately. Don't risk your own life. We have precious few doctors now, and believe it or not, training a doctor takes more resources than the Foundation is generally willing to expend without a damn good reason. For those of you who thought joining the Foundation turned you into Doctor House, or James Bond, think again. You're here to do a job, keep that in mind at all times.</p>
<p>For those of you who work outside of medical, assisting in the field, keep your heads down. Yeah, you with the Bill Nye bowtie. Of course you'll be in danger. You could get shot at, exposed to a memetic hazard, anything. The idea is to keep your head down, follow the instructions of the field agents, and try to come back in one piece.</p>
<p>Yeah, you with the— Is that a top hat? Why in the hell are you wearing a top hat? Go see Doctor Bright about staff dress code. Office 37-C, level 4. What? I don't know, he's just as weirded out by that stupid list as everyone else. You're all dismissed, try not to get yourselves maimed on your first week. I don't want to see any of you in the medical bay.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
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<p>"<a href="/medical-seminar">Medical Seminar</a>" by DrMagnus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/medical-seminar">https://scpwiki.com/medical-seminar</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
So you've all been selected to be doctors for the Foundation. Heads of your fields and all of that. Well, I'm here to tell you that none of that matters. Here, you're just one of the rest. We have on staff over nine hundred and seventy four doctors among the eight primary sites alone. Why so many? They're necessary. The Foundation racks up a body count like it's going out of style, and it's your job to get that number as close to zero as you can, while not getting yourself wiped off this rock.
My name? Doctor Christopher Zartion, MD. Yes, I know you've all got your MDs, and probably a few PhD's. You're all world renowned surgeons and pathologists et cetera. I don't care, and neither do your superiors. You're here to do a job, and to be honest, it's going to suck.
The good news: The forefront of medicine? It's here. Right here. This is the place where you'll work on superviruses, strains of staphylococcus that would make your head explode, and viruses and bacteria which you'd never heard of before. We work with technologies and methods of treatment that are deemed too dangerous, and too experimental. If you think you can't handle that, I suggest you leave now.
What? Hey— What are you doing?! Sit back down. That was a joke. This isn't voluntary.
What you'll see here is going to make or break you, in some cases quite literally. Now I know you're probably wondering what I'm getting at, but I can't tell you. If I told you, in some cases, you'd risk exposure right there. I've been working here for less than five years, and I've seen pathologies that would make you shudder to think of it happening to you, or even any other human being.
That being said, it's going to be your job to log all of what you see, so that it doesn't happen to your teams, and your friends in the containment division. Believe me, they'll be your friends. You'll certainly have to patch them up enough. Yes, Doctor? Of course you're expected to keep accurate records. See this? This is a standard case file for a D-class that the research staff were exposing to one type of virus. You'll notice it's over eighty pages long. That's from one experiment. We perform hundreds in a given month. It should be noted that paper copies are only kept for experiments that are deemed too vital to be left to electronic storage. So you write up this extremely meticulous log, and you might be given a one line mention about the results in a distilled format on the database. Sucks, but it's what happens. It's your job, and you don't get to call out.
The D-class. You're going to feel bad for the D-class, you really are. They're all terrible people, but they're still people. You'll patch up the spine snappings, and the lacerations of the throat. You'll remove rock candy from mucus membranes, and send them back to have it done to them again. This is horrifying, yes? No, it's your job now. The Foundation runs on, whether we like it to or not, and we are the ones who keep it on its feet. Not the researchers, not even the containment staff. We do. Without us, everything would go to hell around here.
We have, in containment, right now, several viruses that if unleashed on the world, wouldn't be an epidemic situation. It would be pandemic, guaranteed. I'm sure some of the pathologists here would be assigned to researching them, and developing countermeasures. Of course it goes without saying that all those procedures you learned back in medschool about cleanliness and disinfecting go double while you're here. Hell, some of those won't work either, so you'll have to follow the containment procedures for the specific object you're working with.
The best case scenario for you who will be working in actual medical? Severe lacerations, or bullet wounds. Hopefully it's only physical trauma. God help you if something infectious gets in to your lab. Some of you might even be assigned to site resident shifts, and get it easy. Keep in mind researchers aren't as scrupulous about disinfecting after experiments as we are. You'd be amazed what passes under your microscope.
Maybe if you get a little less lucky, you'll deal with someone whose arm spontaneously exploded. Then you'll have to report what exactly the patient is going through, secondary symptoms, etc. If you're assigned in a research capacity rather than called in to treat the injury, your first job is to report anything that is off, or anomalous about the trauma. That's your job now, the patient comes second. If you're kind of lucky, you'll deal with someone whose blood is boiling out of his eyes as you speak to him. These are standard cases, of known SCP's. These aren't fabrications to scare you.
What if you're not lucky? You become the patient, doctor. Something gets out, gets inside of you, and we study you.
Let me give you two major pieces of advice.
One, we're here to treat, to heal, and to do as we're told. Sometimes, that might involve breaking the Hippocratic oath.
Oh sit down, I know, first do no harm. This, however, is the Foundation. If anything gets out, it's more than the patient who will suffer. Remember, we're responsible for the lives of countless thousands. If one has to suffer for it, they will. Besides, if you don't do as you're told, you'll probably end up in front of an inquiry.
Two, if the patient is violent, or carrying something; don't try to contain it yourself. Call a containment team immediately. Don't risk your own life. We have precious few doctors now, and believe it or not, training a doctor takes more resources than the Foundation is generally willing to expend without a damn good reason. For those of you who thought joining the Foundation turned you into Doctor House, or James Bond, think again. You're here to do a job, keep that in mind at all times.
For those of you who work outside of medical, assisting in the field, keep your heads down. Yeah, you with the Bill Nye bowtie. Of course you'll be in danger. You could get shot at, exposed to a memetic hazard, anything. The idea is to keep your head down, follow the instructions of the field agents, and try to come back in one piece.
Yeah, you with the— Is that a top hat? Why in the hell are you wearing a top hat? Go see Doctor Bright about staff dress code. Office 37-C, level 4. What? I don't know, he's just as weirded out by that stupid list as everyone else. You're all dismissed, try not to get yourselves maimed on your first week. I don't want to see any of you in the medical bay.
@@ @@
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| 2011-10-12T18:50:00 | [
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|
memorandum-dated-6-november-1944 | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>To: Sir Edward Wilfred Travis, Deputy Director<br/>
From: Col. Lionel Pierce (Bletchley Park)<br/>
Date: 6 November 1944<br/>
Re: German project in Upper Silesia</p>
<p>Sir Edward:</p>
<p>In obedience to your order of 26 October, I have directed the staff of my section to identify and analyze intelligence relevant to an understanding of special German military assets and projects that are located in areas that we expect the Soviets to take in the next 60 days. This memorandum discusses such a German asset. The Jerries have it in East Upper Silesia near Kattowitz, an area that we expect Marshal Konev to overrun in the next few weeks. In view of the implications of the Soviets acquiring and possessing this asset, I wanted to get this report to you immediately.</p>
<p>I attach three exhibits:</p>
<p>Exhibit 1: Plaintext decrypt of an intercepted pre-war ENIGMA communication. As this was an older message, we didn’t prioritize breaking the code on this one, and it remained in the queue until a few weeks ago when one of the lads took it up as a training exercise.<br/>
Exhibit 2: Intercepted orders dated 7 August 1941 from R. Heydrich to Dr. Eduard Wirths regarding the construction of a facility to house the asset.<br/>
Exhibit 3: Description of asset and protocol for its handling.</p>
<p>I respectfully suggest that Command convey this information (in particular, Exhibit 3) to the Soviets through appropriate channels. They need to know what to do when they get there- and more pointedly, what not to do.</p>
<p>Respectfully,<br/>
/s/<br/>
L. Pierce</p>
<p>Attachments</p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>Exhibit 1:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>24 January 1939<br/>
To: Dr. Schmidt, <em>Neuschwabenland</em>, [coordinates]<br/>
From: <em>SS-Gruppenführer</em> Reinhard Heydrich, <em>Reichssicherheitshauptamt</em><br/>
Heil Hitler! Allow me to be among the first to congratulate you and your team on your discovery at Austvorren Ridge <em>[Col. Pierce’s note: German name for geographic feature at 73°6′S by 1°35′W)]</em>. Berlin has been following the reports of your expedition to Antarctica with the closest attention. Although the <em>erbsenzähler</em> <em>[translated as “bean-counters”]</em> will probably be less than pleased that the establishment of a German whaling station on the Antarctic continent has proved to be impracticable, that setback cannot diminish the results of your valuable scientific work.</p>
<p>The ship <em>Neuschwabenland</em> is to remain in the Antarctic for a few more weeks. You and your team, however, are directed to return to Germany immediately, and bring her with you. <em>[Col. Pierce’s note: Here and elsewhere, the Jerries refer to the asset as “she”, or “her”. See Exhibit 3 for our best effort at a physical description.]</em> In eleven days, the Kriegsmarine will dispatch U-38 from Wilhelmshaven to pick you up and convey you to Hamburg. U-38’s three forward compartments have been modified into a <em>Aufbewahrungskammer</em> [translated as “containment chamber”]. Feed her, if you must, then freeze her just as you had found her, then crate her and get her aboard the U-boat with as much discretion as possible-Captain Mootz of U-38 has been instructed not to ask questions. You must get her back to the Reich as quickly as possible, as political events in the near future may inconvenience sea access to Antarctica in the short term.</p>
<p>You were very brave to dig her up and thaw her out. Do not second-guess your own decision based upon what happened: it is upon courageous men like you that the Reich’s vitality and glory depend. Upon your arrival in Hamburg, you will be presented with the Reich’s highest honours. The remains of expedition members Hess, Gruber, Schneider and Joachim will also be given an honourable burial— in truth, not a burial, given the circumstances, but I am sure that their widows will appreciate the gesture.</p>
<p>Yours,<br/>
Reinhard Heydrich, Director- <em>Sicherheitspolizei</em></p>
<p><em>[Col. Pierce’s note: We know from subsequent intercepted communications that U-38 returned to Hamburg in late February 1939 and delivered Ernst Schmidt, a few researchers, a large metal tank and several tons of other equipment. This journey was not without incident—based on some intercepted communications between U-38 and Admiral Dönitz’s headquarters in early February 1939, it appears that the crew of U-38 attempted to mutiny and scuttle the boat at sea about 120 miles southwest of the Faroe Islands. However, Captain Mootz was able to re-assert control on 18 February and notified Admiral Dönitz regarding the same. U-38 was retired from service following arrival and disassembled. The tank was loaded onto a rail car and sent eastward- our man on the ground tracked it as far as Dresden.]</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Exhibit 2</p>
<blockquote>
<p>7 August 1941<br/>
To: Dr. Wirths<br/>
From: SS-Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, <em>Reichssicherheitshauptamt</em><br/>
Heil Hitler! In four days, you will take delivery of the asset that we discussed after the conference back in June. <em>Gruppe G: Technische Arbeitsmittel</em> of the <em>Abteilung Nachrichtenbeschaffung</em> <em>[Col. Pierce's note: We believe that this organization directs the Wehrmacht's research division]</em> has attempted, for the last two years, to make a reliable weapon out of her, without success. She is voracious and deadly, to be sure, but she has consistently been as great a danger to our personnel as to the enemy. Since we have not yet found an effective way of permanently neutralizing her, we are shipping her to you so that she may serve the Reich in a different way.</p>
<p>In your letter of 22 July, you noted that the research that <em>Hauptsturmführer</em> Dr. Mengele will be undertaking under your direction could be carried out with greater efficiency if there were a reliable means of rapidly disposing of the detritus of failed tests. We believe that she will serve admirably in this capacity at the <em>Vernichtungslager</em> that you are constructing. However, in order that she may serve this function safely, we have learned from experience that she must be contained in accordance with the attached protocol, which must be observed diligently and without fail.</p>
<p>Yours,<br/>
Reinhard</p>
<p><em>[Col. Pierce's Note: The protocol document to which Exhibit 2 refers is attached as Exhibit 3.]</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Exhibit 3<br/>
[DATA EXPUNGED]</p>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<p><strong>« <em>COLD HARPER</em> | <a href="/transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972">Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972</a> »</strong></p>
</div>
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<p>"<a href="/memorandum-dated-6-november-1944">Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944</a>" by spikebrennan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/memorandum-dated-6-november-1944">https://scpwiki.com/memorandum-dated-6-november-1944</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
To: Sir Edward Wilfred Travis, Deputy Director
From: Col. Lionel Pierce (Bletchley Park)
Date: 6 November 1944
Re: German project in Upper Silesia
Sir Edward:
In obedience to your order of 26 October, I have directed the staff of my section to identify and analyze intelligence relevant to an understanding of special German military assets and projects that are located in areas that we expect the Soviets to take in the next 60 days. This memorandum discusses such a German asset. The Jerries have it in East Upper Silesia near Kattowitz, an area that we expect Marshal Konev to overrun in the next few weeks. In view of the implications of the Soviets acquiring and possessing this asset, I wanted to get this report to you immediately.
I attach three exhibits:
Exhibit 1: Plaintext decrypt of an intercepted pre-war ENIGMA communication. As this was an older message, we didn’t prioritize breaking the code on this one, and it remained in the queue until a few weeks ago when one of the lads took it up as a training exercise.
Exhibit 2: Intercepted orders dated 7 August 1941 from R. Heydrich to Dr. Eduard Wirths regarding the construction of a facility to house the asset.
Exhibit 3: Description of asset and protocol for its handling.
I respectfully suggest that Command convey this information (in particular, Exhibit 3) to the Soviets through appropriate channels. They need to know what to do when they get there- and more pointedly, what not to do.
Respectfully,
/s/
L. Pierce
Attachments
---
Exhibit 1:
> 24 January 1939
> To: Dr. Schmidt, //Neuschwabenland//, [coordinates]
> From: //SS-Gruppenführer// Reinhard Heydrich, //Reichssicherheitshauptamt//
> Heil Hitler! Allow me to be among the first to congratulate you and your team on your discovery at Austvorren Ridge //[Col. Pierce’s note: German name for geographic feature at 73°6′S by 1°35′W)]//. Berlin has been following the reports of your expedition to Antarctica with the closest attention. Although the //erbsenzähler// //[translated as “bean-counters”]// will probably be less than pleased that the establishment of a German whaling station on the Antarctic continent has proved to be impracticable, that setback cannot diminish the results of your valuable scientific work.
>
> The ship //Neuschwabenland// is to remain in the Antarctic for a few more weeks. You and your team, however, are directed to return to Germany immediately, and bring her with you. //[Col. Pierce’s note: Here and elsewhere, the Jerries refer to the asset as “she”, or “her”. See Exhibit 3 for our best effort at a physical description.]// In eleven days, the Kriegsmarine will dispatch U-38 from Wilhelmshaven to pick you up and convey you to Hamburg. U-38’s three forward compartments have been modified into a //Aufbewahrungskammer// [translated as “containment chamber”]. Feed her, if you must, then freeze her just as you had found her, then crate her and get her aboard the U-boat with as much discretion as possible-Captain Mootz of U-38 has been instructed not to ask questions. You must get her back to the Reich as quickly as possible, as political events in the near future may inconvenience sea access to Antarctica in the short term.
>
> You were very brave to dig her up and thaw her out. Do not second-guess your own decision based upon what happened: it is upon courageous men like you that the Reich’s vitality and glory depend. Upon your arrival in Hamburg, you will be presented with the Reich’s highest honours. The remains of expedition members Hess, Gruber, Schneider and Joachim will also be given an honourable burial-- in truth, not a burial, given the circumstances, but I am sure that their widows will appreciate the gesture.
>
> Yours,
> Reinhard Heydrich, Director- //Sicherheitspolizei//
>
> //[Col. Pierce’s note: We know from subsequent intercepted communications that U-38 returned to Hamburg in late February 1939 and delivered Ernst Schmidt, a few researchers, a large metal tank and several tons of other equipment. This journey was not without incident—based on some intercepted communications between U-38 and Admiral Dönitz’s headquarters in early February 1939, it appears that the crew of U-38 attempted to mutiny and scuttle the boat at sea about 120 miles southwest of the Faroe Islands. However, Captain Mootz was able to re-assert control on 18 February and notified Admiral Dönitz regarding the same. U-38 was retired from service following arrival and disassembled. The tank was loaded onto a rail car and sent eastward- our man on the ground tracked it as far as Dresden.]//
------
Exhibit 2
> 7 August 1941
> To: Dr. Wirths
> From: SS-Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, //Reichssicherheitshauptamt//
> Heil Hitler! In four days, you will take delivery of the asset that we discussed after the conference back in June. //Gruppe G: Technische Arbeitsmittel// of the //Abteilung Nachrichtenbeschaffung// //[Col. Pierce's note: We believe that this organization directs the Wehrmacht's research division]// has attempted, for the last two years, to make a reliable weapon out of her, without success. She is voracious and deadly, to be sure, but she has consistently been as great a danger to our personnel as to the enemy. Since we have not yet found an effective way of permanently neutralizing her, we are shipping her to you so that she may serve the Reich in a different way.
>
> In your letter of 22 July, you noted that the research that //Hauptsturmführer// Dr. Mengele will be undertaking under your direction could be carried out with greater efficiency if there were a reliable means of rapidly disposing of the detritus of failed tests. We believe that she will serve admirably in this capacity at the //Vernichtungslager// that you are constructing. However, in order that she may serve this function safely, we have learned from experience that she must be contained in accordance with the attached protocol, which must be observed diligently and without fail.
>
> Yours,
> Reinhard
>
> //[Col. Pierce's Note: The protocol document to which Exhibit 2 refers is attached as Exhibit 3.]//
Exhibit 3
[DATA EXPUNGED]
[[=]]
**<< //COLD HARPER// | [[[Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972]]] >>**
[[/=]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-sandbox-3.wikidot.com/more-by-spike-alt">:scp-sandbox-3:more-by-spike-alt</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-20T22:49:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"global-occult-coalition",
"goc-casefiles",
"historical",
"military-fiction",
"period-piece",
"tale"
] | Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944 - SCP Foundation | 84 | [
"transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972",
"scp-1322",
"scp-089",
"spikebrennan-s-proposal",
"scp-1844",
"scp-1012",
"scp-2553",
"scp-1036",
"scp-1512",
"scp-1746",
"scp-908",
"scp-831",
"scp-3236",
"scp-2336",
"scp-955",
"scp-926",
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"scp-920-ex",
"scp-2914",
"scp-2008-j",
"scp-4436",
"scp-4336",
"scp-1060",
"sic-transit-gloria-mundi",
"spring-cleaning",
"transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991",
"scroll-fragment-13q29",
"stray-katz",
"ad-majorem-bonum",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"simply-creative-people-hub",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"goc-hub-page"
] | [] | 12081856 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/memorandum-dated-6-november-1944 |
|
memories | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
<strong>Memories</strong>
<p>Jason surveyed the scene. The place was a mess, broken glass scattered across the floor, small puddles of blood and chemicals here and there, and three dead bodies lying in the middle of the room. Jason shook his head. Things had gotten out of hand real quick. Two of the scientists had pulled guns on the Foundation team, and in the ensuing firefight all three scientists were killed. Walking through the room, Jason spotted a piece of paper jutting out beneath a shelf, just the corner visible. He picked it up, and let out a sigh as he looked at it. A photograph of a family, smiling happily in the nice weather. A woman in her late forties, with a kind and caring look. A little girl, no more than ten years old, beaming like she’d just won the grand prize in the lottery. And a man, probably in his early fifties, one arm around his woman’s shoulder and the other holding the girl’s hand. On the back, in very neat handwriting, was written “We’ll miss you every day you’re away. Love, Carla and Lily”.</p>
<p>Jason shook his head. The two who had drawn guns were probably members of some shady organization, looking to weaponize or profit off of the SCPs they had acquired, but this man… He hadn’t fought, and had seemed completely surprised and terrified when his colleagues started shooting. He had cowered beneath a table, and been hit by a stray bullet. He probably had no idea what they were really doing, perhaps too excited about working with such unusual samples to notice anything suspicious. Jason looked around the room, making sure nobody could see him, and pocketed the photo. He took another round through the room, making sure he hadn’t missed anything important, and headed outside.</p>
<p>Back in his quarters, Jason sat down on his bed and took out the photo. He looked at it for a little while, and then pulled out the small box he kept in his desk. He unlocked and opened it, slowly looking over the contents. He’d have to get another box soon, this one was getting full. Inside were a number of items; a locket, a scratched and cracked CD plate, several photos, a broken watch, two drawings in crayon, and many other small objects. To anyone else, just a random assortment of trinkets and junk.</p>
<p>But Jason knew that each of these items had a history. Each had been taken from a site where the Foundation had run into a conflict that had claimed the life of someone whose only wrongdoing was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn’t known why they were killed. And their loved ones would never know the truth. Jason knew though. He had held onto these things to make sure he would remember. The truth might be hidden, but it wouldn’t be forgotten. Not so long as he lived. He understood all too well how necessary the work of the Foundation was, and why secrecy was so important. He knew that sacrifices had to be made. But the least he could do was remember those who had been sacrificed for the sake of all of humanity.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/memories">Memories</a>" by Iron_wofle, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/memories">https://scpwiki.com/memories</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**Memories**
Jason surveyed the scene. The place was a mess, broken glass scattered across the floor, small puddles of blood and chemicals here and there, and three dead bodies lying in the middle of the room. Jason shook his head. Things had gotten out of hand real quick. Two of the scientists had pulled guns on the Foundation team, and in the ensuing firefight all three scientists were killed. Walking through the room, Jason spotted a piece of paper jutting out beneath a shelf, just the corner visible. He picked it up, and let out a sigh as he looked at it. A photograph of a family, smiling happily in the nice weather. A woman in her late forties, with a kind and caring look. A little girl, no more than ten years old, beaming like she’d just won the grand prize in the lottery. And a man, probably in his early fifties, one arm around his woman’s shoulder and the other holding the girl’s hand. On the back, in very neat handwriting, was written “We’ll miss you every day you’re away. Love, Carla and Lily”.
Jason shook his head. The two who had drawn guns were probably members of some shady organization, looking to weaponize or profit off of the SCPs they had acquired, but this man… He hadn’t fought, and had seemed completely surprised and terrified when his colleagues started shooting. He had cowered beneath a table, and been hit by a stray bullet. He probably had no idea what they were really doing, perhaps too excited about working with such unusual samples to notice anything suspicious. Jason looked around the room, making sure nobody could see him, and pocketed the photo. He took another round through the room, making sure he hadn’t missed anything important, and headed outside.
Back in his quarters, Jason sat down on his bed and took out the photo. He looked at it for a little while, and then pulled out the small box he kept in his desk. He unlocked and opened it, slowly looking over the contents. He’d have to get another box soon, this one was getting full. Inside were a number of items; a locket, a scratched and cracked CD plate, several photos, a broken watch, two drawings in crayon, and many other small objects. To anyone else, just a random assortment of trinkets and junk.
But Jason knew that each of these items had a history. Each had been taken from a site where the Foundation had run into a conflict that had claimed the life of someone whose only wrongdoing was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn’t known why they were killed. And their loved ones would never know the truth. Jason knew though. He had held onto these things to make sure he would remember. The truth might be hidden, but it wouldn’t be forgotten. Not so long as he lived. He understood all too well how necessary the work of the Foundation was, and why secrecy was so important. He knew that sacrifices had to be made. But the least he could do was remember those who had been sacrificed for the sake of all of humanity.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-11-22T16:09:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Memories - SCP Foundation | 60 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 12092276 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/memories |
|
message-of-the-relic | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
<strong>SCP-███ Observation Log</strong><br/>
<strong>Forward:</strong> A total of ██ transcriptions have been made from SCP-███. Each has resulted in similar narratives in the subject's native language, using vocabulary appropriate for their education level. The following notes were written as they were perceived by Dr. ███████.<br/>
<strong>Begin Log:</strong><br/>
<strong>Dr. ███████</strong> (spoken): SCP-███ has begun to [DATA EXPUNGED]. Taking it in my hand, I feel the same compulsion reported by D-1589. Memetic precautions are in place, and I will now proceed to write as directed by the object.<br/>
<strong>Dr. ███████</strong> (written):
<blockquote>
<p>There were so many against us. So many lies from so many liars. The non-believers argued with us, they taunted us, they laughed at us. It never stopped. My family grew smaller and smaller as the years went by. Those of us who remained dedicated were becoming fewer and fewer. Everywhere we looked, the temples were closing and the dear followers of The Gods were abandoning the faith. The endless hordes of putrid faithless, reveling in their blasphemy, assaulted our very essence. Their existence was an insult to the Divine. But we are not unreasonable people. While the heathens chanted their propaganda of "progress", we raised no hand in anger. The faithful knew that, in time, it would be Their hands raised in anger against the vile ones. And this would be all the justice our battered community could hope for. But the Elders knew that time was running out. The Truth was clear to some of us, but it had begun to fade in others.</p>
<p>The strident grew older, and the younger ones were being seduced by the heathen filth. The heathens took credit for the "miracles" of science and technology, and the young ones believed them. It is through The Gods that all miracles are possible. It was through Them that our solution was made possible.<br/>
<em>Praise be to They who are Divine, for granting us reprise from the heathens! Damned are they in their ignorance!</em><br/>
Those with the financial means to make a difference looked to us, the Elders, for guidance. Surely, said the faithful, there must be a haven. Our prayers were many and desperate but our faith held strong. Finally, we were granted a vision of our blessed future. A paradise awaited us! Our children would finally be free from the barrage of filth the non-believers tried to visit upon them. The stench of moral decay could not follow us to our new home.</p>
<p>The faithful of means had discovered a place of safety, and the arrangements were made. The heathens agreed to leave us alone forever. Never would their feet, their words, or their signals get to us. Their lies would never reach our new home. And as we claimed our new land, free of the tyranny of the heathens, we destroyed everything that might remind us of that terrible past. We destroyed everything but this. This Holy record is for you, my dearest descendant. May it be passed on to each High Elder in turn, so that our final struggle for paradise might not be forgotten. May our kind live out all of our days in Holy isolation on this beautiful new world.</p>
<p>All glory be to The Gods, for ever and ever.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/message-of-the-relic">Message of the Relic</a>" by Dr_Adams, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/message-of-the-relic">https://scpwiki.com/message-of-the-relic</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**SCP-███ Observation Log**
**Forward:** A total of ██ transcriptions have been made from SCP-███. Each has resulted in similar narratives in the subject's native language, using vocabulary appropriate for their education level. The following notes were written as they were perceived by Dr. ███████.
**Begin Log:**
**Dr. ███████** (spoken): SCP-███ has begun to [DATA EXPUNGED]. Taking it in my hand, I feel the same compulsion reported by D-1589. Memetic precautions are in place, and I will now proceed to write as directed by the object.
**Dr. ███████** (written):
> There were so many against us. So many lies from so many liars. The non-believers argued with us, they taunted us, they laughed at us. It never stopped. My family grew smaller and smaller as the years went by. Those of us who remained dedicated were becoming fewer and fewer. Everywhere we looked, the temples were closing and the dear followers of The Gods were abandoning the faith. The endless hordes of putrid faithless, reveling in their blasphemy, assaulted our very essence. Their existence was an insult to the Divine. But we are not unreasonable people. While the heathens chanted their propaganda of "progress", we raised no hand in anger. The faithful knew that, in time, it would be Their hands raised in anger against the vile ones. And this would be all the justice our battered community could hope for. But the Elders knew that time was running out. The Truth was clear to some of us, but it had begun to fade in others.
>
> The strident grew older, and the younger ones were being seduced by the heathen filth. The heathens took credit for the "miracles" of science and technology, and the young ones believed them. It is through The Gods that all miracles are possible. It was through Them that our solution was made possible.
> //Praise be to They who are Divine, for granting us reprise from the heathens! Damned are they in their ignorance!//
> Those with the financial means to make a difference looked to us, the Elders, for guidance. Surely, said the faithful, there must be a haven. Our prayers were many and desperate but our faith held strong. Finally, we were granted a vision of our blessed future. A paradise awaited us! Our children would finally be free from the barrage of filth the non-believers tried to visit upon them. The stench of moral decay could not follow us to our new home.
>
> The faithful of means had discovered a place of safety, and the arrangements were made. The heathens agreed to leave us alone forever. Never would their feet, their words, or their signals get to us. Their lies would never reach our new home. And as we claimed our new land, free of the tyranny of the heathens, we destroyed everything that might remind us of that terrible past. We destroyed everything but this. This Holy record is for you, my dearest descendant. May it be passed on to each High Elder in turn, so that our final struggle for paradise might not be forgotten. May our kind live out all of our days in Holy isolation on this beautiful new world.
>
> All glory be to The Gods, for ever and ever.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-04-29T17:53:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Message of the Relic - SCP Foundation | 12 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 9678242 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/message-of-the-relic |
|
mice | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>We have such a mouse problem. What's worse, they're stupid. Your average mouse has the common decency to stay hidden 90% of the time, you just find nibbled items and mouse crap. Our mice just wander around, it seems. Step in to the kitchen, and one's running like hell for the stove gap, like he had no idea anyone was in the house. In the bathroom, and one's frozen on the edge of the tub with an “oh shit” look. I run five traps, and get at least one a night, high score is a solid five. Either a testament to my trapping skill, or (more likely) additional evidence of dumb mice.</p>
<p>It was very late, and I'd gotten up to lay down my baby daughter, who had woken up doing her “nobody loves me in the entire world” cry. Again. I was stumbling back to bed, navigating more by memory and that sleepy sixth-sense you get in the dark, when I heard a clacking sound. Our house creaks and groans like a clipper ship, but this was odd. A sort of rhythmic clicking: Clack…clack…clack…clack…</p>
<p>If you've ever used a glue trap before, you already know the sound. It's less common with the standard wood-and-spring traps. It's the sound of a mouse that is stuck and/or crippled, and trying to get away. For about ten seconds I seriously considered just ignoring it and going to bed, but knowing my luck my wife would get up for a drink, step on it, and lose her shit for the rest of the night. So I followed the noise to the kitchen, still only half awake, and clicked on the light. It wasn't a mouse.</p>
<p>Jesus CHRIST it wasn't a mouse.</p>
<p>It had gotten nailed by the stove. It looked like it hadn't even been trying to get the peanut butter, just crawling (Walking? Running?) by the trap and set it off. It'd crawled about thirteen feet in the general direction of the laundry room. I just stood there, dumb with sleep, watching it crawl. The arms were toothpick skinny, ending in little squirming masses that looked like pinworms. Below those were rows of the same little tentacles, and the legs looked boneless, but they might have been broken. The trap had snapped over the things back, and the metal was sunk in deep. Some kind of clear liquid was oozing around it and leaving a tiny trail.</p>
<p>I think it had a tail, or it might have been three legs. The lower body was wrecked, and just looked like a torn fleshy skirt. The head. The head was disk-shaped and had this kind of random spattering of little back dots on top. They looked like spider eyes. Underneath was the mouth, it looked like an upside-down “Y”. It had a kind of greasy looking fur all over except for the head. The clacking came when it tried to crawl. It would reach out and pull, but the trap would catch on something in its back, lift up, then fall. The thing couldn't have been much bigger then a kitten.</p>
<p>I didn't know what to do. I just…froze, kinda. Some people can stomp a mouse, easy as swatting a fly. My dad can. I can't. I just…I can't, and I couldn't then. I just watched it, assuming I was dreaming or something. I thought maybe I could try and grab it and throw it outside or something, but if it bit me or touched me, I'm pretty sure I would lose it. I thought again of whacking it with something, or stomping it, or something, but I just watched it. Finally I grabbed a broom and just kind of…brushed it over to the trash area.</p>
<p>It just wallowed there, on its side. I'm pretty sure it didn't know what was going on. Anyway, I pushed the trash can in front of it and went back to bed. It seems retarded now, but at the time it just seemed like what I could do. I figured I'd just deal with it in the morning. I was pretty sure I was still half dreaming, and that it was just a screwed-up mouse that I wasn't seeing right. I laid in bed for about an hour, then got up to go look at the thing again.</p>
<p>It was gone, and the basement door was open a crack. I was honestly relieved, I didn't have to deal with it now. Then, I thought of stepping on it in the dark, or slipping down the steps, and sighed. So, I opened the door and pulled on the light over the steps. The light is pretty crappy, and to light the actual basement you have to go downstairs to get to the switch, so I could only really see the steps and a couple feet in to the basement. There was a little trail of that clear stuff down the steps.</p>
<p>There's a wall with a vent right at the bottom of the steps on the left side. The grating is an old cast-iron job that's probably been there since the house was built. The grating gaps are very wide. The trap was sitting right beside it. Hanging above the trap was the little thing. Holding it up was the head of a bigger version. All I saw was the head, but it's probably the size of a average cat. Disk head the size of my fist, eye-spots a lot bigger and blacker. It was holding the little dead thing by the neck. Like a mama cat. It stared at me a second, or maybe it was just the light. Then the head sort of…narrowed, and it slipped in to the vent with the dead thing.</p>
<p>I didn't get back to sleep. The ice machine went on as I was walking around the house, and I screamed like I'd been shot. My wife woke up in a panic, told her I had a bad dream. I get those. The next day, I booked a hotel for a couple days, called off work, and lit at least two bug bombs off in every room of the house. Six in the basement, and even rolled two in to the vent. The house smelled like chemicals for days, but by god the mice were dead as shit. I never told my wife. I'm not even sure what I saw, really, it was late and I was very, very tired.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The problem is, the cat got hurt yesterday. We got her just a little bit after that night, much to my wife's delight. She brought the cat to me yesterday, crying, her hands bloody. The vet says she must have gotten in to something, or fell somehow. She was cut all over. She was all dusty when we brought her in, and the vet said she'd probably got in to a closet or vent somehow and gotten hurt. I looked in on her when the vet was fixing her up. The cuts looked like little “Y” shapes.</p>
<p>I don't know what to think. She could have gotten hurt on anything, anywhere. Maybe she was chasing a stupid mouse that was too dumb to hide well. Or one that was too scared to hide in or behind anything. One whose territory had already been taken. There's been nibbled things around the house lately, and my wife says she hears mice in the attic. I pretend I don't. I don't dare set a trap.</p>
<p>I really don't want to know.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/mice">Mice</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mice">https://scpwiki.com/mice</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
We have such a mouse problem. What's worse, they're stupid. Your average mouse has the common decency to stay hidden 90% of the time, you just find nibbled items and mouse crap. Our mice just wander around, it seems. Step in to the kitchen, and one's running like hell for the stove gap, like he had no idea anyone was in the house. In the bathroom, and one's frozen on the edge of the tub with an “oh shit” look. I run five traps, and get at least one a night, high score is a solid five. Either a testament to my trapping skill, or (more likely) additional evidence of dumb mice.
It was very late, and I'd gotten up to lay down my baby daughter, who had woken up doing her “nobody loves me in the entire world” cry. Again. I was stumbling back to bed, navigating more by memory and that sleepy sixth-sense you get in the dark, when I heard a clacking sound. Our house creaks and groans like a clipper ship, but this was odd. A sort of rhythmic clicking: Clack...clack...clack...clack...
If you've ever used a glue trap before, you already know the sound. It's less common with the standard wood-and-spring traps. It's the sound of a mouse that is stuck and/or crippled, and trying to get away. For about ten seconds I seriously considered just ignoring it and going to bed, but knowing my luck my wife would get up for a drink, step on it, and lose her shit for the rest of the night. So I followed the noise to the kitchen, still only half awake, and clicked on the light. It wasn't a mouse.
Jesus CHRIST it wasn't a mouse.
It had gotten nailed by the stove. It looked like it hadn't even been trying to get the peanut butter, just crawling (Walking? Running?) by the trap and set it off. It'd crawled about thirteen feet in the general direction of the laundry room. I just stood there, dumb with sleep, watching it crawl. The arms were toothpick skinny, ending in little squirming masses that looked like pinworms. Below those were rows of the same little tentacles, and the legs looked boneless, but they might have been broken. The trap had snapped over the things back, and the metal was sunk in deep. Some kind of clear liquid was oozing around it and leaving a tiny trail.
I think it had a tail, or it might have been three legs. The lower body was wrecked, and just looked like a torn fleshy skirt. The head. The head was disk-shaped and had this kind of random spattering of little back dots on top. They looked like spider eyes. Underneath was the mouth, it looked like an upside-down “Y”. It had a kind of greasy looking fur all over except for the head. The clacking came when it tried to crawl. It would reach out and pull, but the trap would catch on something in its back, lift up, then fall. The thing couldn't have been much bigger then a kitten.
I didn't know what to do. I just...froze, kinda. Some people can stomp a mouse, easy as swatting a fly. My dad can. I can't. I just...I can't, and I couldn't then. I just watched it, assuming I was dreaming or something. I thought maybe I could try and grab it and throw it outside or something, but if it bit me or touched me, I'm pretty sure I would lose it. I thought again of whacking it with something, or stomping it, or something, but I just watched it. Finally I grabbed a broom and just kind of...brushed it over to the trash area.
It just wallowed there, on its side. I'm pretty sure it didn't know what was going on. Anyway, I pushed the trash can in front of it and went back to bed. It seems retarded now, but at the time it just seemed like what I could do. I figured I'd just deal with it in the morning. I was pretty sure I was still half dreaming, and that it was just a screwed-up mouse that I wasn't seeing right. I laid in bed for about an hour, then got up to go look at the thing again.
It was gone, and the basement door was open a crack. I was honestly relieved, I didn't have to deal with it now. Then, I thought of stepping on it in the dark, or slipping down the steps, and sighed. So, I opened the door and pulled on the light over the steps. The light is pretty crappy, and to light the actual basement you have to go downstairs to get to the switch, so I could only really see the steps and a couple feet in to the basement. There was a little trail of that clear stuff down the steps.
There's a wall with a vent right at the bottom of the steps on the left side. The grating is an old cast-iron job that's probably been there since the house was built. The grating gaps are very wide. The trap was sitting right beside it. Hanging above the trap was the little thing. Holding it up was the head of a bigger version. All I saw was the head, but it's probably the size of a average cat. Disk head the size of my fist, eye-spots a lot bigger and blacker. It was holding the little dead thing by the neck. Like a mama cat. It stared at me a second, or maybe it was just the light. Then the head sort of...narrowed, and it slipped in to the vent with the dead thing.
I didn't get back to sleep. The ice machine went on as I was walking around the house, and I screamed like I'd been shot. My wife woke up in a panic, told her I had a bad dream. I get those. The next day, I booked a hotel for a couple days, called off work, and lit at least two bug bombs off in every room of the house. Six in the basement, and even rolled two in to the vent. The house smelled like chemicals for days, but by god the mice were dead as shit. I never told my wife. I'm not even sure what I saw, really, it was late and I was very, very tired.
------
The problem is, the cat got hurt yesterday. We got her just a little bit after that night, much to my wife's delight. She brought the cat to me yesterday, crying, her hands bloody. The vet says she must have gotten in to something, or fell somehow. She was cut all over. She was all dusty when we brought her in, and the vet said she'd probably got in to a closet or vent somehow and gotten hurt. I looked in on her when the vet was fixing her up. The cuts looked like little “Y” shapes.
I don't know what to think. She could have gotten hurt on anything, anywhere. Maybe she was chasing a stupid mouse that was too dumb to hide well. Or one that was too scared to hide in or behind anything. One whose territory had already been taken. There's been nibbled things around the house lately, and my wife says she hears mice in the attic. I pretend I don't. I don't dare set a trap.
I really don't want to know.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-02-26T07:03:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"tale"
] | Mice - SCP Foundation | 83 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-gears-storytime-entries"
] | [] | 7647720 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mice |
|
mr-clank | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, and looked around, blinking. The sun was still somewhat bright through the wisps of storm clouds, The great city glittering in the distance, as bright and fresh as new silver. Mr. Clank stretched, feeling the smooth roll of clockworks along his spine. It had been a hard choice, but even a flickering life was still a life. The key turned slowly, tapping out like a second heartbeat, a cool reminder that he was, indeed, alive. He started walking, smiling as the gears kept perfect time, the fields and small trees passing by in an easy rhythm. Even if it had taken some questionable steps, at least he was still able to continue to journey.</p>
<p>The city was still far off hours later, but Mr. Clank wasn't worried. He was making good time, and was still able to take in the scenery. The high mountains, the glittering lake, it was all bathed in a freshness, as if seen with new eyes. Which, in a way, might not be far off. Mr. Clank smiled, walking to a tall, wide tree, leaning against the bark and watching the leaves drift and flutter. Poor Mr. Redd, he'd never get to see any of this…maybe Mr. Clank could tell him about it, give him a small sample of these wonders. The clicking slowed, easing down as the key stilled, so tired now…just a small rest, before the road</p>
<p>Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, looking around with a start. A hazy nicotine-yellow sun burned down through sooty clouds, bathing everything in a hazy twilight. The city loomed up across a sprawl of squat, dark homes, a few small gardens, and thin trees standing out in the haze. Mr. Clank stretched, feeling a harsh click as the gears in his shoulders and arms engaged, his spine shuddering hard once before smoothing out, the key clicking time like a metronome at a military march. He started walking, slowly, feeling his steps and watching the homes, wondering why he'd chosen this way, this path, this idea. The thick cogs jutting from his back caught a cool breeze between the homes, chilling him deeply.</p>
<p>The crumbled outskirts of the city were around him, hours later. Moldering heaps of rusted metal made Mr. Clank shiver involuntarily, wondering where the sun was now. Time seemed to be passing like the coppery dust on the streets, everything seeming to carry a kind of crumbling frailness, a timeless age. The silvery shards were streaked with rust and soot, the sound of a sick dog barking breaking the stillness for only a second. Mr. Clank sighed, feeling a shudder in his chest, leaning against a crumbling doorway. Mr. Redd had said something, but he couldn't remember. Mr. Clank worried, his memory feeling a little fuzzy now. There had been a tree, a silver…something. He was so tired, his clockworks shivering and seizing with a jolt. Exhausted, he slid down to rest, eyes flickering over the road</p>
<p>Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, a squealing gasp rising from his lips as his eyes ratcheted open. The endless walls and towers of the city loomed like the walls of an oubliette, a few damaged and sputtering gas lamps the only light along the grimy, uneven street. Mr. Clank stretched, moaning as the flywheels and screws refused to catch, missing their sockets several times before clicking in, his twitching, sputtering arms ratcheting down, chest piston wheezing out of sync with the pitted key. He turned his head, slowly, shivering as timing gears missed, confused about where he had gone, why he had gone there. The thin, gray flesh of his face and legs looked icy, but the squealing of his joints took his mind from it. He hardly noticed the thin, black fluid his feet were leaking as he started his jittering march.</p>
<p>Hours later, he might have been standing still. Mr. Clank felt claustrophobic, the endless walls seeming to shrink after every turn. Mr. Clank ran in a shuddering lurch, unaware of the time, sure he was late. For what, he wasn't sure, the thread of thought scattering as he saw something point at him, its face a black, fuzzy pit. Mr. Clank was lost, his clockworks squealing and sticking deep in his brain, an oily bile leaking from his mouth unnoticed as he panted. Mr. Redd was there…Mr. Redd had been there? Mr. Redd was coming. He whimpered in time to the slipping key, refusing to look behind at the squealing sound far behind him. Mr. Clank tripped and fell, skidding into a heap of oozing garbage, lying there, too exhausted to move. His clockworks locked tight, bringing a soundless scream…then let go, only to lock again moments later. Mr. Clank whimpered, for help or release he wasn't sure, feeling a dimness seep up from the cracked road</p>
<p>Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, crying ashy tears as his eyes slowly clicked open. The twilight was real, the bloated, boiling sun framed around trash fires and burning oil on the open plane. Mr. Clank screamed thinly, trying to cry as his rusted, pitted frame ratcheted up in a squeal of frozen bolts and rusty haze. Trying to grit his teeth against the agony, he found his lower jaw was gone, his exposed teeth dry and brittle in the thick air. The city walls were an unbroken wall behind him, his path from there forgotten, his way forward a stumbling, slow-motion shamble among slag, burning oil pipes, and shifting trash. Forward. His legs dug in on worn spines, steely points fogging rust. Forward.</p>
<p>Hours later, Mr. Clank lay, twitching and clicking, at the edge of the pit. Night had fallen like a slimy sheet, smothering vision, thought and breath in an oily tarp. Time was passing over him like ants, Mr. Clank lying like a dead thing, moaning in a raspy squeal as he watched the searing sun. Mr. Redd was…waiting…needing? Missing. Wishing. Listening? The words were shards, jabbing and freezing his stripped and sputtering gears. Sparks hissed and arched, a belt stretching and going slack, the memory of breath coming in torturous, moaning gasps. The Pit. Mr. Clank twitched and flexed, trying to get in, but his eyes glazed, frozen in a blank stare, watching the slow undulation of the road</p>
<p>Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, lidless eyes fixed on the pulsing walls. The blackness was total, and yet he saw. His body hissed and squealed, a paralyzed mass, brassy orbs mocking sight from the mass of screws. The rust was gnawing cancer, rats in his skin, maggots in his nerves, an endless itching with no arms to scratch. The paths before and behind were obscured, frozen eyes fixed on the leaking, sore-riddled flesh of the ceiling. He hated the softness under him. Hated the easy, sick fluid dripping and seeping. Hated the flexibility. Hated with a mass that had moved beyond feeling.</p>
<p>Hours later, he dropped like a numb, dead stone, landing on a heap of hissing, sputtering hulks. The darkness defied even his endless eyes, the vague humps of rusty, crumbling metal rolling in a sea of black pus. Mr. Redd. Mr. Reeedddd. Reeeeddddddddd. The squealing notes rose in a croaking monotone. He had taken. Given. It did not happen. There had been silver. There had been gold. There is rust. Mr. Clank raged, strained, snapping and shattering as he flexed out, clawing a helpless rage into the fleshy floor, digging for the bottom, for the escape, for the end, for the road</p>
<p>Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, and refused to open his eyes.</p>
<p>Previous: 1. <a href="/1-mr-headless">Mr. Headless</a> by Anaxagoras<br/></p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p>Next: 3. <a href="/3-mr-money">Mr. Money</a> by Tanhony</p>
</div>
<p><a href="/tales-of-mr-collector">Back to Hub</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/mr-clank">2. Mr. Clank</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mr-clank">https://scpwiki.com/mr-clank</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, and looked around, blinking. The sun was still somewhat bright through the wisps of storm clouds, The great city glittering in the distance, as bright and fresh as new silver. Mr. Clank stretched, feeling the smooth roll of clockworks along his spine. It had been a hard choice, but even a flickering life was still a life. The key turned slowly, tapping out like a second heartbeat, a cool reminder that he was, indeed, alive. He started walking, smiling as the gears kept perfect time, the fields and small trees passing by in an easy rhythm. Even if it had taken some questionable steps, at least he was still able to continue to journey.
The city was still far off hours later, but Mr. Clank wasn't worried. He was making good time, and was still able to take in the scenery. The high mountains, the glittering lake, it was all bathed in a freshness, as if seen with new eyes. Which, in a way, might not be far off. Mr. Clank smiled, walking to a tall, wide tree, leaning against the bark and watching the leaves drift and flutter. Poor Mr. Redd, he'd never get to see any of this...maybe Mr. Clank could tell him about it, give him a small sample of these wonders. The clicking slowed, easing down as the key stilled, so tired now...just a small rest, before the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, looking around with a start. A hazy nicotine-yellow sun burned down through sooty clouds, bathing everything in a hazy twilight. The city loomed up across a sprawl of squat, dark homes, a few small gardens, and thin trees standing out in the haze. Mr. Clank stretched, feeling a harsh click as the gears in his shoulders and arms engaged, his spine shuddering hard once before smoothing out, the key clicking time like a metronome at a military march. He started walking, slowly, feeling his steps and watching the homes, wondering why he'd chosen this way, this path, this idea. The thick cogs jutting from his back caught a cool breeze between the homes, chilling him deeply.
The crumbled outskirts of the city were around him, hours later. Moldering heaps of rusted metal made Mr. Clank shiver involuntarily, wondering where the sun was now. Time seemed to be passing like the coppery dust on the streets, everything seeming to carry a kind of crumbling frailness, a timeless age. The silvery shards were streaked with rust and soot, the sound of a sick dog barking breaking the stillness for only a second. Mr. Clank sighed, feeling a shudder in his chest, leaning against a crumbling doorway. Mr. Redd had said something, but he couldn't remember. Mr. Clank worried, his memory feeling a little fuzzy now. There had been a tree, a silver...something. He was so tired, his clockworks shivering and seizing with a jolt. Exhausted, he slid down to rest, eyes flickering over the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, a squealing gasp rising from his lips as his eyes ratcheted open. The endless walls and towers of the city loomed like the walls of an oubliette, a few damaged and sputtering gas lamps the only light along the grimy, uneven street. Mr. Clank stretched, moaning as the flywheels and screws refused to catch, missing their sockets several times before clicking in, his twitching, sputtering arms ratcheting down, chest piston wheezing out of sync with the pitted key. He turned his head, slowly, shivering as timing gears missed, confused about where he had gone, why he had gone there. The thin, gray flesh of his face and legs looked icy, but the squealing of his joints took his mind from it. He hardly noticed the thin, black fluid his feet were leaking as he started his jittering march.
Hours later, he might have been standing still. Mr. Clank felt claustrophobic, the endless walls seeming to shrink after every turn. Mr. Clank ran in a shuddering lurch, unaware of the time, sure he was late. For what, he wasn't sure, the thread of thought scattering as he saw something point at him, its face a black, fuzzy pit. Mr. Clank was lost, his clockworks squealing and sticking deep in his brain, an oily bile leaking from his mouth unnoticed as he panted. Mr. Redd was there...Mr. Redd had been there? Mr. Redd was coming. He whimpered in time to the slipping key, refusing to look behind at the squealing sound far behind him. Mr. Clank tripped and fell, skidding into a heap of oozing garbage, lying there, too exhausted to move. His clockworks locked tight, bringing a soundless scream...then let go, only to lock again moments later. Mr. Clank whimpered, for help or release he wasn't sure, feeling a dimness seep up from the cracked road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, crying ashy tears as his eyes slowly clicked open. The twilight was real, the bloated, boiling sun framed around trash fires and burning oil on the open plane. Mr. Clank screamed thinly, trying to cry as his rusted, pitted frame ratcheted up in a squeal of frozen bolts and rusty haze. Trying to grit his teeth against the agony, he found his lower jaw was gone, his exposed teeth dry and brittle in the thick air. The city walls were an unbroken wall behind him, his path from there forgotten, his way forward a stumbling, slow-motion shamble among slag, burning oil pipes, and shifting trash. Forward. His legs dug in on worn spines, steely points fogging rust. Forward.
Hours later, Mr. Clank lay, twitching and clicking, at the edge of the pit. Night had fallen like a slimy sheet, smothering vision, thought and breath in an oily tarp. Time was passing over him like ants, Mr. Clank lying like a dead thing, moaning in a raspy squeal as he watched the searing sun. Mr. Redd was...waiting...needing? Missing. Wishing. Listening? The words were shards, jabbing and freezing his stripped and sputtering gears. Sparks hissed and arched, a belt stretching and going slack, the memory of breath coming in torturous, moaning gasps. The Pit. Mr. Clank twitched and flexed, trying to get in, but his eyes glazed, frozen in a blank stare, watching the slow undulation of the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, lidless eyes fixed on the pulsing walls. The blackness was total, and yet he saw. His body hissed and squealed, a paralyzed mass, brassy orbs mocking sight from the mass of screws. The rust was gnawing cancer, rats in his skin, maggots in his nerves, an endless itching with no arms to scratch. The paths before and behind were obscured, frozen eyes fixed on the leaking, sore-riddled flesh of the ceiling. He hated the softness under him. Hated the easy, sick fluid dripping and seeping. Hated the flexibility. Hated with a mass that had moved beyond feeling.
Hours later, he dropped like a numb, dead stone, landing on a heap of hissing, sputtering hulks. The darkness defied even his endless eyes, the vague humps of rusty, crumbling metal rolling in a sea of black pus. Mr. Redd. Mr. Reeedddd. Reeeeddddddddd. The squealing notes rose in a croaking monotone. He had taken. Given. It did not happen. There had been silver. There had been gold. There is rust. Mr. Clank raged, strained, snapping and shattering as he flexed out, clawing a helpless rage into the fleshy floor, digging for the bottom, for the escape, for the end, for the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, and refused to open his eyes.
Previous: 1. [[[1-mr-headless|Mr. Headless]]] by Anaxagoras
[[>]]
Next: 3. [[[3-mr-money|Mr. Money]]] by Tanhony
[[/>]]
[[[tales-of-mr-collector|Back to Hub]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-15T23:55:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"collector-tale",
"dr-wondertainment",
"mister",
"tale"
] | 2. Mr. Clank - SCP Foundation | 135 | [
"1-mr-headless",
"3-mr-money",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-wondertainment-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11708444 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mr-clank |
|
mr-fish | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Sometimes I like to sit in the water and just think. I like this place. It's peaceful. Wet.</p>
<p>It's warm outside. Cloudy. I like the clouds.</p>
<p>I have brothers and sisters, I think. We’re not normal. We were made. Like an old monster movie. The magic of science. Lightning in a castle. Magic science.</p>
<p>It's getting windy outside.</p>
<p>Dr Wondertainment made us and can remake us. But I wonder. When we die, are we changed? Was I changed? Am I the same person from back then or was that one changed? Will I be brought back or will I be lost? Can I carry memories on? Or are they just little knobs on a machine that you can switch on and off? I know there’s been more Misters made since the first edition. Mister Redd’s the only original one left.</p>
<p>I don’t think I should have said his name. I should hide somewhere.</p>
<p>I’m scared sometimes. I’m scared of what’s coming. I'm scared one of them will find me. I'm scared of Redd and Stripes. They'll kill me. I don't want to die. I want to stay here in my swamp…</p>
<p>It's raining now. I like the rain.</p>
<p>But I still wonder. Am I an option or a miracle? What am I?</p>
<p>… I think I know what I am. I am Mister Fish. I am me. I am content.</p>
<p>Previous: <a href="/15-ms-sweetie">15. Ms. Sweetie</a> by The Deadly Moose<br/></p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p>Next: <a href="/end">End</a> by Salman Corbette</p>
</div>
<p><a href="/tales-of-mr-collector">Back to Hub</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/mr-fish">16. Mr. Fish</a>" by Dexanote, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mr-fish">https://scpwiki.com/mr-fish</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Sometimes I like to sit in the water and just think. I like this place. It's peaceful. Wet.
It's warm outside. Cloudy. I like the clouds.
I have brothers and sisters, I think. We’re not normal. We were made. Like an old monster movie. The magic of science. Lightning in a castle. Magic science.
It's getting windy outside.
Dr Wondertainment made us and can remake us. But I wonder. When we die, are we changed? Was I changed? Am I the same person from back then or was that one changed? Will I be brought back or will I be lost? Can I carry memories on? Or are they just little knobs on a machine that you can switch on and off? I know there’s been more Misters made since the first edition. Mister Redd’s the only original one left.
I don’t think I should have said his name. I should hide somewhere.
I’m scared sometimes. I’m scared of what’s coming. I'm scared one of them will find me. I'm scared of Redd and Stripes. They'll kill me. I don't want to die. I want to stay here in my swamp...
It's raining now. I like the rain.
But I still wonder. Am I an option or a miracle? What am I?
… I think I know what I am. I am Mister Fish. I am me. I am content.
Previous: [[[15. Ms. Sweetie]]] by The Deadly Moose
[[>]]
Next: [[[End]]] by Salman Corbette
[[/>]]
[[[tales-of-mr-collector|Back to Hub]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-29T06:01:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"collector-tale",
"dr-wondertainment",
"mister",
"mr-fish",
"tale"
] | 16. Mr. Fish - SCP Foundation | 94 | [
"15-ms-sweetie",
"end",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"scp-series-3-tales-edition",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-wondertainment-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11790714 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mr-fish |
|
mr-laugh | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<div class="authorlink-wrapper"><a href="javascript:;">Winterheart</a>
<div class="authorbox">
<div class="authorcontent">
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="/winterheart-page">More by this author.</a></p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>So, so, my name is Mr. Laugh! Like 'ha ha! hee hee!' So I'm in the middle of this, this big shopping centre right? Like with strip malls on all sides, ha ha? But that's not very funny is it! A few kids were laughing at my weird facepaint and the stripes on my clothes, but really nothing was very funny and it wasn't very nice of them to laugh. It hurt my feelings a little, ha ha.</p>
<p>I wasn't mean or anything though! I even decided to show them a good trick! I said “would you like a hand” to one of the kids, hee hee, and then I put my hand out to shake his… but then when he grabbed my hand, it came off, and I said, I said, “There, now you've got a spare one!” Ha ha! Funny, right?</p>
<p>Only the kid just screamed and ran away, which I thought, I thought was kind of mean, because it was a good trick, you know! A little bit painful when it comes off but good! Then I had to get out my little sewing kit and put my trick hand back on and, hee hee, clean up all the blood because you know I am a very good citizen who would never leave a mess in the middle of the street like that!</p>
<p>Then, then I remembered I was supposed to be going somewhere, somewhere important! I had to go down, down to the fair to meet the others! Ha ha, silly me forgetting something like that. Silly, stupid, worthless clown, ha ha! Ha ha! So I started down the street toward the fair when these men in weird coats came in a screaming car and asked if I was hurt. They were not funny at all and their screaming car made my ears hurt, so, so when one of them came close I decided to shake his hand with a buzzer, ha ha! He was very surprised when he shook my hand! He was so surprised, his eyes popped right out of his sockets! I laughed very hard when that happened! It was less funny when they were dangling on bloody little cords and he started screaming, but that was okay because the other men took him away in the screaming car, so I did not have to look at them very long.</p>
<p>I am a very mean clown sometimes, hee hee. A very bad, stupid clown, ha ha! That is a funny joke, even if it hurts my feelings a little, hee hee. I know it is funny because Mr. Redd always laughed so hard when he said it! Ha ha! Mr. Redd was not very funny, but he sure laughed a lot. Maybe HE should have been Mr. Laugh! Ha ha! Would that ever be a funny joke! If I ever met Mr. Redd again, I would have to tell him what a funny joke I had thought of. Maybe he would laugh! Sometimes he stopped hurting me for a little, when he laughed.</p>
<p>I picked up my big floppy shoes and walked on down to the fair.</p>
<p>Previous: <a href="/11-mr-feather">11. Mr. Feather</a> by Light<br/></p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p>Next: <a href="/13-mr-purple">13. Mr. Purple</a> by Faminepulse</p>
</div>
<p><a href="/tales-of-mr-collector">Back to Hub</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/mr-laugh">12. Mr. Laugh</a>" by GwenWinterheart, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mr-laugh">https://scpwiki.com/mr-laugh</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:author-label-source">:scp-wiki:component:author-label-source</a> start=--
|name=Winterheart]]
= [[[winterheart page | More by this author.]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:author-label-source">:scp-wiki:component:author-label-source</a> end=--]]
So, so, my name is Mr. Laugh! Like 'ha ha! hee hee!' So I'm in the middle of this, this big shopping centre right? Like with strip malls on all sides, ha ha? But that's not very funny is it! A few kids were laughing at my weird facepaint and the stripes on my clothes, but really nothing was very funny and it wasn't very nice of them to laugh. It hurt my feelings a little, ha ha.
I wasn't mean or anything though! I even decided to show them a good trick! I said “would you like a hand” to one of the kids, hee hee, and then I put my hand out to shake his… but then when he grabbed my hand, it came off, and I said, I said, “There, now you've got a spare one!” Ha ha! Funny, right?
Only the kid just screamed and ran away, which I thought, I thought was kind of mean, because it was a good trick, you know! A little bit painful when it comes off but good! Then I had to get out my little sewing kit and put my trick hand back on and, hee hee, clean up all the blood because you know I am a very good citizen who would never leave a mess in the middle of the street like that!
Then, then I remembered I was supposed to be going somewhere, somewhere important! I had to go down, down to the fair to meet the others! Ha ha, silly me forgetting something like that. Silly, stupid, worthless clown, ha ha! Ha ha! So I started down the street toward the fair when these men in weird coats came in a screaming car and asked if I was hurt. They were not funny at all and their screaming car made my ears hurt, so, so when one of them came close I decided to shake his hand with a buzzer, ha ha! He was very surprised when he shook my hand! He was so surprised, his eyes popped right out of his sockets! I laughed very hard when that happened! It was less funny when they were dangling on bloody little cords and he started screaming, but that was okay because the other men took him away in the screaming car, so I did not have to look at them very long.
I am a very mean clown sometimes, hee hee. A very bad, stupid clown, ha ha! That is a funny joke, even if it hurts my feelings a little, hee hee. I know it is funny because Mr. Redd always laughed so hard when he said it! Ha ha! Mr. Redd was not very funny, but he sure laughed a lot. Maybe HE should have been Mr. Laugh! Ha ha! Would that ever be a funny joke! If I ever met Mr. Redd again, I would have to tell him what a funny joke I had thought of. Maybe he would laugh! Sometimes he stopped hurting me for a little, when he laughed.
I picked up my big floppy shoes and walked on down to the fair.
Previous: [[[11. Mr. Feather]]] by Light
[[>]]
Next: [[[13. Mr. Purple]]] by Faminepulse
[[/>]]
[[[tales-of-mr-collector|Back to Hub]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-25T07:06:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"collector-tale",
"dr-wondertainment",
"mister",
"tale"
] | 12. Mr. Laugh - SCP Foundation | 99 | [
"winterheart-page",
"11-mr-feather",
"13-mr-purple",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
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"scp-series-2-tales-edition",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-wondertainment-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11766620 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mr-laugh |
|
my-hell | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The exact details of what happened have been blurred by the passing of years, but by the end of it all, something had placed a curse on me, and I started to turn to concrete. At first, I was happy with my situation. Immortal <em>and</em> invincible. It seemed like the perfect life. I bragged to my friends about how I would see the end of the Earth.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>For a time, it wasn't so bad. The people at the asylum took good care of me, and genuinely tried to help. Eventually, though, the doctors and therapists started to slip away. I was beyond their treatment, and did not appear to require any care. Finally, when the last one deemed me a hopeless case, they threw me into solitary confinement, and forgot me.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Immortal and invincible. The two qualities I had desired, and me, trapped in a small cell, unable to take advantage of them. In danger of going mad, 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.</p>
<p>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, others' faces. True, I remained immobile, but the Lord could, no, <em>would</em>, fix that.</p>
<p>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 real? I was never sure.</p>
<p>Thought after thought tormented me in my private circle of hell. What if the world ended, and nobody was around to tell 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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Just me and my thoughts. And the dark.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/my-hell">My Hell</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/my-hell">https://scpwiki.com/my-hell</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
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 happened have been blurred by the passing of years, but by the end of it all, 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. The people at the asylum took good care of me, and genuinely tried to help. Eventually, though, the doctors and therapists started to slip away. I was beyond their treatment, and did not appear to require any care. Finally, when the last one deemed me a hopeless case, 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 desired, and me, trapped in a small cell, unable to take advantage of them. In danger of going mad, 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, others' faces. True, I remained immobile, but the Lord could, no, //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 real? I was never sure.
Thought after thought tormented me in my private circle of hell. What if the world ended, and nobody was around to tell 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.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-02-13T22:12:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | My Hell - SCP Foundation | 62 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
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"archived:foundation-tales",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 7454110 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/my-hell |
|
nobody-knows | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Well, shit.</p>
<p>Yeah, I'd say you got the bastard. They don't get much more dead than that.</p>
<p>Okay, calm down. You're not gonna get D-Classed. Breathe, kid.</p>
<p>Here's what happened. You're not the one who shoved him off the building with a live grenade. You were doing your honest best t'follow orders and take the bastard in alive. You were doing just fine, too, until Nobody killed him.</p>
<p>Well, yeah, obviously, someone killed him. I meant Nobody, the person. Or people. Or whatever. You've heard of Nobody, right?</p>
<p>Yeah, that one. Does mysterious shit, helps or hurts us, an' then he disappears. He's the one who did it, understand?</p>
<p>No, it's not exactly lying. Okay, so it's lying, but it's lying to cover your ass, which is practically a moral obligation at this point.</p>
<p>Look, you're new, so I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Everybody wants things to be simple. They want the world to make sense. Even the higher-ups. Sure, they know the world's fucked up, but they want it fucked up in a way they understand. Things out here, in the field, they get messy. Sometimes, we gotta do things they wouldn't understand. And sometimes we make honest mistakes. The higher-ups don't wanna think that sorta thing happens. We're their hands and eyes. We go out, we fix problems for them, and so far as they're concerned, we always do it the way they want.</p>
<p>Like, sometimes maybe you end up needing help from outside. We all know the other guys in the GOC, or MC&D, or hell, even in the CI. We trade favors when we have to, but the higher-ups wouldn't understand it, and they'd fuck it all up. Or maybe they want us to take in something alive that turns your blood to fire by lookin' at you, and never mind how you're supposed to get it done.</p>
<p>We do what we gotta do. We try to make the mission go through. Sometimes, that means we gotta do things they wouldn't like, sometimes it means we cut our losses. And then, when you write up the report, you gotta make everything nice and neat in a way the higher-ups understand. That's where Nobody comes in.</p>
<p>Everyone knows Nobody does shit that doesn't make much sense. Sometimes he helps us, gives us information, works with us. Sometimes, he comes in and fucks it up. The higher-ups, they <em>understand</em> about Nobody. They don't like him, but they accept that he exists and that there's not much we can do about it. So, when we write up these reports, he's real handy for tying up loose ends. At the end of the day, the mission gets done the best we can do it, and the higher-ups get a story they can swallow.</p>
<p>So kid, you didn't do it. You tried to take the skip in alive, but Nobody got in the way. Said some mysterious crap, I'll come up with that, and then left before we could stop him. Maybe jumped off the rooftop. He does shit like that, after all. He's Nobody.</p>
<p>Is he real? I dunno, kid. Ask him yourself sometime.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/nobody-knows">Nobody Knows</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/nobody-knows">https://scpwiki.com/nobody-knows</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Well, shit.
Yeah, I'd say you got the bastard. They don't get much more dead than that.
Okay, calm down. You're not gonna get D-Classed. Breathe, kid.
Here's what happened. You're not the one who shoved him off the building with a live grenade. You were doing your honest best t'follow orders and take the bastard in alive. You were doing just fine, too, until Nobody killed him.
Well, yeah, obviously, someone killed him. I meant Nobody, the person. Or people. Or whatever. You've heard of Nobody, right?
Yeah, that one. Does mysterious shit, helps or hurts us, an' then he disappears. He's the one who did it, understand?
No, it's not exactly lying. Okay, so it's lying, but it's lying to cover your ass, which is practically a moral obligation at this point.
Look, you're new, so I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Everybody wants things to be simple. They want the world to make sense. Even the higher-ups. Sure, they know the world's fucked up, but they want it fucked up in a way they understand. Things out here, in the field, they get messy. Sometimes, we gotta do things they wouldn't understand. And sometimes we make honest mistakes. The higher-ups don't wanna think that sorta thing happens. We're their hands and eyes. We go out, we fix problems for them, and so far as they're concerned, we always do it the way they want.
Like, sometimes maybe you end up needing help from outside. We all know the other guys in the GOC, or MC&D, or hell, even in the CI. We trade favors when we have to, but the higher-ups wouldn't understand it, and they'd fuck it all up. Or maybe they want us to take in something alive that turns your blood to fire by lookin' at you, and never mind how you're supposed to get it done.
We do what we gotta do. We try to make the mission go through. Sometimes, that means we gotta do things they wouldn't like, sometimes it means we cut our losses. And then, when you write up the report, you gotta make everything nice and neat in a way the higher-ups understand. That's where Nobody comes in.
Everyone knows Nobody does shit that doesn't make much sense. Sometimes he helps us, gives us information, works with us. Sometimes, he comes in and fucks it up. The higher-ups, they //understand// about Nobody. They don't like him, but they accept that he exists and that there's not much we can do about it. So, when we write up these reports, he's real handy for tying up loose ends. At the end of the day, the mission gets done the best we can do it, and the higher-ups get a story they can swallow.
So kid, you didn't do it. You tried to take the skip in alive, but Nobody got in the way. Said some mysterious crap, I'll come up with that, and then left before we could stop him. Maybe jumped off the rooftop. He does shit like that, after all. He's Nobody.
Is he real? I dunno, kid. Ask him yourself sometime.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-05-06T16:18:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"first-person",
"lombardi",
"mystery",
"nobody",
"tale"
] | Nobody Knows - SCP Foundation | 430 | [
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] | [] | 9856808 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/nobody-knows |
|
ohhello | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Ah yes. Yes, I think I am the one you've come to see. I've been expecting you, to be honest. Oh, please. Don't sit there. I'll come along quietly, but you must… Well, anyway, please don't make any fuss, if you have to sit there. I don't deal well with stress.</p>
<p>Yes, I do have a tattoo, and yes, I do mind showing it to you. It's somewhere rather private. I'd be terribly embarrassed to have to show it here, in public, and embarrassment makes me… Oh, let's just forget about it for now. You can see it later.</p>
<p>To be honest, it's rather a relief. I've been wandering around for a week now, wondering just who would find me. We hear stories, you know, of you, and the GOC, and what's that club? Marshall's something? Anyway, I don't think those groups would do me any good.</p>
<p>Where will we be going, anyway? I understand if you don't want to tell me in particulars, but I would like some idea. I don't like surprises. I can't enjoy them at all anymore.</p>
<p>Excuse me, but could you put out that cigarette? No, I don't have asthma, but I really feel it would be best if… Well, it's your health. I do wish you'd be more careful with it, though.</p>
<p>Ah, yes. I'm not entirely sure how I left the facility. I woke up in an alley. It may have been deliberate release, or a kidnapping. Or it might have been… Well, if they were transporting me, and weren't careful… These things happen, you know.</p>
<p>Mr. Redd won't be there, will he? I… I don't think I'd enjoy meeting Mr. Redd, if he's there. Wouldn't do anyone any good, I daresay.</p>
<p>Do you have some water? Only, I find myself somewhat thirsty, and… Well, I'm sorry. I'm feeling a little warm. Perhaps it would be good if you'd sit back? I don't think you should be sitting right there. And your cigarette isn't helping matters. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult but…</p>
<p>Oh dear. I've done it again. And he was such a nice young man.</p>
<p>Oh, hello. Were you a friend of his? Ah. Yes. I see. Well, I tried to warn him.</p>
<p>My name? It's Mr. Combustible. I'm pleased to meet you. Pardon if I don't shake your hand.</p>
<p>Previous: <a href="/6-mr-stripes">6. Mr. Stripes</a> by TroyL<br/></p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p>Next: <a href="/8-mr-moon">8. Mr. Moon</a> by Anaxagoras</p>
</div>
<p><a href="/tales-of-mr-collector">Back to Hub</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/ohhello">7. Mr. ███████████</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ohhello">https://scpwiki.com/ohhello</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Ah yes. Yes, I think I am the one you've come to see. I've been expecting you, to be honest. Oh, please. Don't sit there. I'll come along quietly, but you must... Well, anyway, please don't make any fuss, if you have to sit there. I don't deal well with stress.
Yes, I do have a tattoo, and yes, I do mind showing it to you. It's somewhere rather private. I'd be terribly embarrassed to have to show it here, in public, and embarrassment makes me... Oh, let's just forget about it for now. You can see it later.
To be honest, it's rather a relief. I've been wandering around for a week now, wondering just who would find me. We hear stories, you know, of you, and the GOC, and what's that club? Marshall's something? Anyway, I don't think those groups would do me any good.
Where will we be going, anyway? I understand if you don't want to tell me in particulars, but I would like some idea. I don't like surprises. I can't enjoy them at all anymore.
Excuse me, but could you put out that cigarette? No, I don't have asthma, but I really feel it would be best if... Well, it's your health. I do wish you'd be more careful with it, though.
Ah, yes. I'm not entirely sure how I left the facility. I woke up in an alley. It may have been deliberate release, or a kidnapping. Or it might have been... Well, if they were transporting me, and weren't careful... These things happen, you know.
Mr. Redd won't be there, will he? I... I don't think I'd enjoy meeting Mr. Redd, if he's there. Wouldn't do anyone any good, I daresay.
Do you have some water? Only, I find myself somewhat thirsty, and... Well, I'm sorry. I'm feeling a little warm. Perhaps it would be good if you'd sit back? I don't think you should be sitting right there. And your cigarette isn't helping matters. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult but...
Oh dear. I've done it again. And he was such a nice young man.
Oh, hello. Were you a friend of his? Ah. Yes. I see. Well, I tried to warn him.
My name? It's Mr. Combustible. I'm pleased to meet you. Pardon if I don't shake your hand.
Previous: [[[6. Mr. Stripes]]] by TroyL
[[>]]
Next: [[[8. Mr. Moon]]] by Anaxagoras
[[/>]]
[[[tales-of-mr-collector|Back to Hub]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-20T14:49:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"collector-tale",
"dr-wondertainment",
"mister",
"tale"
] | 7. Mr. ███████████ - SCP Foundation | 132 | [
"6-mr-stripes",
"8-mr-moon",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"tales-of-mr-collector",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-wondertainment-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11736048 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ohhello |
|
only-in-dreams | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Guys, this is another out of character post. Much like <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/i-have-something-to-share">something to share</a>, it's just a way for me to get out something that's bugging me, and not really a Tale per se. If you're looking for a story, or for some kind of interesting twist, this is not the page for you.</p>
<p>For a long time, I've had several reoccurring dreams. Most are of no consequence, or at least deserve a separate telling. One, however, recently took on a significance that I admit troubles me a bit. You see, I regularly talk on the phone with my girlfriend before bed, and since we're both contributors here and share a certain macabre mindset, I suppose it's unsurprising that our conversation often turns for the spooky. In this case, we were discussing night terrors.</p>
<p>She told me that only twice in her life had she experienced the feeling of paralysis that lies somewhere between dreams and awakening. One was a story for her to tell another day, but the other? It was my dream.</p>
<p>I was speechless for a moment, shocked, then began to speak in unison with her, and together we recited the events of the dream, then sat for a long time in silence. Our dreams were identical until the final moments. She tells me I should post about it here, so. Here. If any of you others have had this dream, speak up. I won't say it's significant, because I have no idea, but I will say it's sobering.</p>
<p>It begins with fog.</p>
<p>The night is dark and misted with a foggy soft rain, the kind that seeps rather than falls and soaks everything it touches to the bone. The streets around me are dark, lit only by the guttering streetlamp ahead which casts its meager light on the sullen cobbles in what seems almost like revulsion. For a short moment, there is nothing there but the silent street and the gloomy light. Then, almost as if dropped by stage magic from some unseen door, he is there. A man, or something like one, in a tall top hat and long cloaklike coat, standing just at the edge of the light as though he's been there all along, looking down at the ground beside his feet on the soaking street.</p>
<p>Often, on good nights, this is the part where I wake up.</p>
<p>I find myself inching closer, though I try like a man in fear of his life to turn and run. I feel my feet move against my command, pulling me slowly toward that circle of light that should be reassuring. Some nights, in the dream, I can hear him chuckle softly to himself, only once.</p>
<p>He sees me. I'm sure of that. Despite the depth of the nighttime dark, and his lowered gaze, hidden by the wide brim of his tall hat, he is totally aware of my presence, and of my inability to turn away or slow my advance. Any moment now, as soon as I cross some unknown threshold, he will look up.</p>
<p>I do not want him to look up.</p>
<p>Don't get me wrong, it's not just the dream me that's frightened. Maybe it's best to say that there <em>is</em> no dream me. I'm aware, every time, that I'm dreaming; I know that I'm in my bed in my house, surrounded by walls and locks and fences in the depths of suburbia. I know he's not real. Somehow the knowing makes it worse.</p>
<p>There is no sound in this part of the dream but the oddly muted hollow clatter of drizzle on cobblestone, but there is an impression of noise, of speech, of <em>something</em>, as I drift closer and closer and my fear and loathing and revulsion mounts to a crescendo as he silently waits for me, and with a gut churning wrench in the pit of my stomach I see as if in slow motion the brim of his hat tilting as he begins to raise his face toward me.</p>
<p>I always wake up screaming.</p>
<p>I told you that my girlfriend's dream is different from mine in the end. The difference is just as bad, to me, as the whole extended beginning. Like me, she finds herself drawn down the rainswept cobbled street, toward the figure in the tall top hat and cloak who waits, looking down at the edge of the streetlamp's meager glow. Unlike my dream, though, he never looks at her.</p>
<p>In her dream, the figure stares at something on the ground at its feet. A long dark bundle, dripping with rain and hidden by shadow. She's afraid to look at it, paralyzingly so, and in her dream it is this bundle, not the figure's gaze, that makes her writhe on her bed in terror as she tries desperately to wake up. He still knows she's there. He still waits for her arrival to pierce her with the gaze I fear so much, but it's the dark thing at his feet she cannot see, and that she wakes each time she begins to comprehend.</p>
<p>A long dark bundle at his feet, the size of a man.</p>
<p>The part that really scares me, guys? Not dream scared, but real world chilled? I think I know what she's afraid to see.</p>
<p>Well. I say that. I mean, it's stupid, really. There's no way it could be. Not in the dreams of two people who've been dreaming longer than they've known one another. It's not possible that what she fears to see could be connected to my dream at all, is it? But still. Part of me wonders about that man sized something lying prone in the puddles before the figure in our dreams.</p>
<p>I'm scared it's me.</p>
<p>~yoric</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/only-in-dreams">.::Only |n Drea{{m}}s--</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/only-in-dreams">https://scpwiki.com/only-in-dreams</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Guys, this is another out of character post. Much like [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/i-have-something-to-share something to share], it's just a way for me to get out something that's bugging me, and not really a Tale per se. If you're looking for a story, or for some kind of interesting twist, this is not the page for you.
For a long time, I've had several reoccurring dreams. Most are of no consequence, or at least deserve a separate telling. One, however, recently took on a significance that I admit troubles me a bit. You see, I regularly talk on the phone with my girlfriend before bed, and since we're both contributors here and share a certain macabre mindset, I suppose it's unsurprising that our conversation often turns for the spooky. In this case, we were discussing night terrors.
She told me that only twice in her life had she experienced the feeling of paralysis that lies somewhere between dreams and awakening. One was a story for her to tell another day, but the other? It was my dream.
I was speechless for a moment, shocked, then began to speak in unison with her, and together we recited the events of the dream, then sat for a long time in silence. Our dreams were identical until the final moments. She tells me I should post about it here, so. Here. If any of you others have had this dream, speak up. I won't say it's significant, because I have no idea, but I will say it's sobering.
It begins with fog.
The night is dark and misted with a foggy soft rain, the kind that seeps rather than falls and soaks everything it touches to the bone. The streets around me are dark, lit only by the guttering streetlamp ahead which casts its meager light on the sullen cobbles in what seems almost like revulsion. For a short moment, there is nothing there but the silent street and the gloomy light. Then, almost as if dropped by stage magic from some unseen door, he is there. A man, or something like one, in a tall top hat and long cloaklike coat, standing just at the edge of the light as though he's been there all along, looking down at the ground beside his feet on the soaking street.
Often, on good nights, this is the part where I wake up.
I find myself inching closer, though I try like a man in fear of his life to turn and run. I feel my feet move against my command, pulling me slowly toward that circle of light that should be reassuring. Some nights, in the dream, I can hear him chuckle softly to himself, only once.
He sees me. I'm sure of that. Despite the depth of the nighttime dark, and his lowered gaze, hidden by the wide brim of his tall hat, he is totally aware of my presence, and of my inability to turn away or slow my advance. Any moment now, as soon as I cross some unknown threshold, he will look up.
I do not want him to look up.
Don't get me wrong, it's not just the dream me that's frightened. Maybe it's best to say that there //is// no dream me. I'm aware, every time, that I'm dreaming; I know that I'm in my bed in my house, surrounded by walls and locks and fences in the depths of suburbia. I know he's not real. Somehow the knowing makes it worse.
There is no sound in this part of the dream but the oddly muted hollow clatter of drizzle on cobblestone, but there is an impression of noise, of speech, of //something//, as I drift closer and closer and my fear and loathing and revulsion mounts to a crescendo as he silently waits for me, and with a gut churning wrench in the pit of my stomach I see as if in slow motion the brim of his hat tilting as he begins to raise his face toward me.
I always wake up screaming.
I told you that my girlfriend's dream is different from mine in the end. The difference is just as bad, to me, as the whole extended beginning. Like me, she finds herself drawn down the rainswept cobbled street, toward the figure in the tall top hat and cloak who waits, looking down at the edge of the streetlamp's meager glow. Unlike my dream, though, he never looks at her.
In her dream, the figure stares at something on the ground at its feet. A long dark bundle, dripping with rain and hidden by shadow. She's afraid to look at it, paralyzingly so, and in her dream it is this bundle, not the figure's gaze, that makes her writhe on her bed in terror as she tries desperately to wake up. He still knows she's there. He still waits for her arrival to pierce her with the gaze I fear so much, but it's the dark thing at his feet she cannot see, and that she wakes each time she begins to comprehend.
A long dark bundle at his feet, the size of a man.
The part that really scares me, guys? Not dream scared, but real world chilled? I think I know what she's afraid to see.
Well. I say that. I mean, it's stupid, really. There's no way it could be. Not in the dreams of two people who've been dreaming longer than they've known one another. It's not possible that what she fears to see could be connected to my dream at all, is it? But still. Part of me wonders about that man sized something lying prone in the puddles before the figure in our dreams.
I'm scared it's me.
~yoric
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-08-07T00:20:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"first-person",
"horror",
"psychological-horror",
"tale"
] | .::Only |n Drea{{m}}s-- - SCP Foundation | 62 | [
"i-have-something-to-share",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"like-clockwork-hub",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11436337 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/only-in-dreams |
|
opening-moves | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong>Site Security File 11/11/4/8888/PR – Suspicious Letter 49,003,668</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Letter received at the private residential post office in the South Cheyenne Point community. Letter had no stamp, post mark, or other identifiers anywhere on the envelope other than “To my father's captors” written in ballpoint pen ink on the front. Current leading theory is that the letter was somehow hand-delivered to the post box, even with a lack of any suspicious video evidence on the day in question. Analysis has shown the envelope and paper to be basic commercial stock, and lacks any finger prints or DNA residue.</p>
<p>The letter itself is hand-written with a black ball-point pen, also from basic mass-produced commercial stock. Handwriting analysis is thus far inconclusive, pending further threat evaluation determinations, requiring more exhaustive review. Due to the subject matter, copies of the text body are being forwarded to Site Security for base review and database entry.</p>
<p>Current threat index is low. Forwarding to Site Security and Central Records in compliance with diligence protocols. No in-depth probe is proposed or recommended at this time.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When I was young, I saw a short film. A cartoon, it detailed a fantasy kingdom that suddenly discovers that they are the dream of a sleeping man, and that soon his alarm would ring. They mount an expedition to the world and cover the man's ears and muffle the clock. He then starts to dream of flamingos, but the concept was so striking at the time that I never forgot it. The concept of reality as a plastic, immaterial stratum and not at all the bedrock of the world.</p>
<p>Is it possible that we're all flamingos-to-be? Swirling and running about in utter confidence, only to find we're less material then the average soap bubble, and much more transient? What would that do to our view of ourselves and the world? Suddenly the sacrifices we've made, the pain and suffering endured and caused, all count for nothing at all. I'm sure you can appreciate the blind horror of a realization of that nature. How much suffering and bleak moral choices could be invalidated by the next alarm clock?</p>
<p>I should be another faceless, shapeless victim. Another sacrifice made for the greater, intangible Good. And I was, for a while, both my mother and I. Left to twist and sway like leaves in the wake of your shadowy passing, bobbing around the sudden void left behind. She will most likely remain a victim. I will not. You can take what you wish, as you wish, and have done so for some time. You are thieves on a grand scale. My father once said, however, that no matter how good you are at something, how confident you may be, there is always someone, somewhere, that is better.</p>
<p>I am going to prove his theory.</p>
<p>You have taken something from me. So I, in turn, shall take many things from you. I know you will ignore this for now, but later, when the time comes, you will look back to this letter, and despair. As a red spider once said, “I am going to make you cry.”</p>
<p>My father, for all his intellectual might, was a cripple at chess. Something about it just confounded his sense. Even at my tender age, I was able to beat him with some regularity. He insisted on being white, always, as his handicap. Forever the white king.</p>
<p>I am the Black Queen. And I will be crossing the board to you soon.</p>
<hr/>
<p><em>We go forward…</em><br/>
<a href="/queen-to-pawn">Queen To Pawn</a></p>
<p><em>And go back…</em><br/>
<a href="/splinters">Splinters</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/opening-moves">Opening Moves</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/opening-moves">https://scpwiki.com/opening-moves</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**Site Security File 11/11/4/8888/PR – Suspicious Letter 49,003,668**
> Letter received at the private residential post office in the South Cheyenne Point community. Letter had no stamp, post mark, or other identifiers anywhere on the envelope other than “To my father's captors” written in ballpoint pen ink on the front. Current leading theory is that the letter was somehow hand-delivered to the post box, even with a lack of any suspicious video evidence on the day in question. Analysis has shown the envelope and paper to be basic commercial stock, and lacks any finger prints or DNA residue.
>
> The letter itself is hand-written with a black ball-point pen, also from basic mass-produced commercial stock. Handwriting analysis is thus far inconclusive, pending further threat evaluation determinations, requiring more exhaustive review. Due to the subject matter, copies of the text body are being forwarded to Site Security for base review and database entry.
>
> Current threat index is low. Forwarding to Site Security and Central Records in compliance with diligence protocols. No in-depth probe is proposed or recommended at this time.
When I was young, I saw a short film. A cartoon, it detailed a fantasy kingdom that suddenly discovers that they are the dream of a sleeping man, and that soon his alarm would ring. They mount an expedition to the world and cover the man's ears and muffle the clock. He then starts to dream of flamingos, but the concept was so striking at the time that I never forgot it. The concept of reality as a plastic, immaterial stratum and not at all the bedrock of the world.
Is it possible that we're all flamingos-to-be? Swirling and running about in utter confidence, only to find we're less material then the average soap bubble, and much more transient? What would that do to our view of ourselves and the world? Suddenly the sacrifices we've made, the pain and suffering endured and caused, all count for nothing at all. I'm sure you can appreciate the blind horror of a realization of that nature. How much suffering and bleak moral choices could be invalidated by the next alarm clock?
I should be another faceless, shapeless victim. Another sacrifice made for the greater, intangible Good. And I was, for a while, both my mother and I. Left to twist and sway like leaves in the wake of your shadowy passing, bobbing around the sudden void left behind. She will most likely remain a victim. I will not. You can take what you wish, as you wish, and have done so for some time. You are thieves on a grand scale. My father once said, however, that no matter how good you are at something, how confident you may be, there is always someone, somewhere, that is better.
I am going to prove his theory.
You have taken something from me. So I, in turn, shall take many things from you. I know you will ignore this for now, but later, when the time comes, you will look back to this letter, and despair. As a red spider once said, “I am going to make you cry.”
My father, for all his intellectual might, was a cripple at chess. Something about it just confounded his sense. Even at my tender age, I was able to beat him with some regularity. He insisted on being white, always, as his handicap. Forever the white king.
I am the Black Queen. And I will be crossing the board to you soon.
------
//We go forward...//
[[[Queen To Pawn]]]
//And go back...//
[[[Splinters]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-19T19:25:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"black-queen",
"first-person",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Opening Moves - SCP Foundation | 59 | [
"queen-to-pawn",
"splinters",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"the-black-queen",
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"black-queen-hub",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 12235054 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/opening-moves |
|
opossum | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The strangest thing about the situation, Andrew reflected, probably wasn't the geometry. (Though that itself was certainly noteworthy. Any cubical room where it's possible to roll a ball from the floor to the ceiling without crossing any of the walls has something going wrong.) It wasn't the bicycle, either; Azathoth knew, he'd seen stranger modes of transportation around the city. Spheroid wheels that squished too much for comfort were really quite commonplace.</p>
<p>Even the sight of Great Cthulhu, still dreaming-dead, sleepwalking around the city — well, that was less ordinary, but it did happen. At least that meant that some of the wilder, more obnoxiously shrieking squamous things would cower quietly in corners instead of howling Andrew’s ears off as he passed.</p>
<p>No, the strange thing about the procession careening down the impossible streets of R'lyeh was the fact that Cthulhu wasn't sleep<em>walking</em>, He was sleep<em>riding</em>.</p>
<p>On the bicycle.</p>
<p>Pursued by, of all things, an opossum.</p>
<p>Andrew stopped dead in the middle of the street, his feet planted squarely on the green decaying cobblestone, to let the sight sink in.</p>
<p>Cthulhu. On a <em>bicycle</em>. The Elder's ponderous bulk, easily bigger than most of the buildings, completely dwarfed the tiny human contraption beneath Him. He looked, if the Great Cthulhu could ever be described as such, completely ludicrous.</p>
<p>His great bony legs pistoned, cranking the grotesquely slender pedals. Judging by the possum's mad scramble, He was actually making very good time, probably rolling along at a good ten miles per qar'hrlg. His sheer size drowned speed, though: something that big couldn't look fast until it was outracing a flying Mi-go.</p>
<p>Andrew stopped. Squinted. Something about the sleeping god wasn't right.</p>
<p>As hard as it is to read expression from a writhing mass of tentacles, Andrew had had some little experience with that face. It never changed — not when He lay in His crypt, not when He stood and opened dead blank eyes to sleepwalk, not (they said) when He would wake to reshape the world for His Elders' coming.</p>
<p>Now, though… The eyes were still dead, the tentacles still slowly creeping, the skin still mucous and sickly shining. But unless Andrew was completely mistaken, the taut batrachian skin of Cthulu's face was actually a little bit <em>crinkled</em> around the mouth and eyes.</p>
<p>His Great Old One was <em>afraid</em>.</p>
<p>Of an <em>opossum</em>.</p>
<p>A pang of worry intruded briefly on the observer's shock. If something can shake Cthulhu, any denizen of R'lyeh has cause for concern. But the twinge faded as quickly as it came. Even gods have their nightmares, it seems. And not every dream has any meaning.</p>
<p>Humans dream of showing up naked to work, Nightgaunts of being eaten alive by a thousand singing jeweled caterpillars. Andrew himself had an awful recurring nightmare involving the ancient depths of icy space and a rotten ham sandwich (extra mustard), which despite its farcical plot never failed to wake him screaming. If Cthulhu's dead dreaming involved being forced to flee small mammals while trapped on a bicycle, who was he to judge?</p>
<p>He'd much rather get out of the road, sit back, and enjoy the show.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/opossum">Opossum</a>" by Photosynthetic, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/opossum">https://scpwiki.com/opossum</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The strangest thing about the situation, Andrew reflected, probably wasn't the geometry. (Though that itself was certainly noteworthy. Any cubical room where it's possible to roll a ball from the floor to the ceiling without crossing any of the walls has something going wrong.) It wasn't the bicycle, either; Azathoth knew, he'd seen stranger modes of transportation around the city. Spheroid wheels that squished too much for comfort were really quite commonplace.
Even the sight of Great Cthulhu, still dreaming-dead, sleepwalking around the city -- well, that was less ordinary, but it did happen. At least that meant that some of the wilder, more obnoxiously shrieking squamous things would cower quietly in corners instead of howling Andrew’s ears off as he passed.
No, the strange thing about the procession careening down the impossible streets of R'lyeh was the fact that Cthulhu wasn't sleep//walking//, He was sleep//riding//.
On the bicycle.
Pursued by, of all things, an opossum.
Andrew stopped dead in the middle of the street, his feet planted squarely on the green decaying cobblestone, to let the sight sink in.
Cthulhu. On a //bicycle//. The Elder's ponderous bulk, easily bigger than most of the buildings, completely dwarfed the tiny human contraption beneath Him. He looked, if the Great Cthulhu could ever be described as such, completely ludicrous.
His great bony legs pistoned, cranking the grotesquely slender pedals. Judging by the possum's mad scramble, He was actually making very good time, probably rolling along at a good ten miles per qar'hrlg. His sheer size drowned speed, though: something that big couldn't look fast until it was outracing a flying Mi-go.
Andrew stopped. Squinted. Something about the sleeping god wasn't right.
As hard as it is to read expression from a writhing mass of tentacles, Andrew had had some little experience with that face. It never changed -- not when He lay in His crypt, not when He stood and opened dead blank eyes to sleepwalk, not (they said) when He would wake to reshape the world for His Elders' coming.
Now, though... The eyes were still dead, the tentacles still slowly creeping, the skin still mucous and sickly shining. But unless Andrew was completely mistaken, the taut batrachian skin of Cthulu's face was actually a little bit //crinkled// around the mouth and eyes.
His Great Old One was //afraid//.
Of an //opossum//.
A pang of worry intruded briefly on the observer's shock. If something can shake Cthulhu, any denizen of R'lyeh has cause for concern. But the twinge faded as quickly as it came. Even gods have their nightmares, it seems. And not every dream has any meaning.
Humans dream of showing up naked to work, Nightgaunts of being eaten alive by a thousand singing jeweled caterpillars. Andrew himself had an awful recurring nightmare involving the ancient depths of icy space and a rotten ham sandwich (extra mustard), which despite its farcical plot never failed to wake him screaming. If Cthulhu's dead dreaming involved being forced to flee small mammals while trapped on a bicycle, who was he to judge?
He'd much rather get out of the road, sit back, and enjoy the show.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-01-21T02:19:00 | [
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] | [] | 7101957 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/opossum |
|
orientation | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Welcome to yer orientation. I am Agent Max Lombardi. I am your instructor, on account that my leg is broken and someone in Personnel hates me.</p>
<p>Now, you're here because the possibility exists that you are not jackasses and might could be useful in the containment of anomalous items what are going to try to kill you.</p>
<p>So, let's start with the basic mission. We are out to find weird shit and bring it back, and then to contain it. Your more scholarly colleagues are the ones who study it from behind bullet-proof glass and bitch about how hard their job is. They are receiving a similar briefing in Room 67. They got donuts and coffee in there, just in case you was hopin' there might be some modicum of justice in this cold, uncarin' bitch of a universe.</p>
<p>Anyway, some of youse are gonna be retrieval, like me, while others are gonna be containment. You might even switch it around sometimes. Retrieval generally is preceeded by investigation by intel. Intel—who also have coffee and donuts, in case you were wonderin' how far the budget stretches—will go forth, find leads, gather facts, and then tell you sweet fuck all.</p>
<p>On receipt of this dearth of information, you will go out to exotic locales where you will be forbidden from stoppin' and havin' a drink or conversin' with the locals what aren't tryin' to kill you. You will go to where intel tells you the whatever-the-fuck is. An agent much higher on the food chain than you will go and talk to people for the purpose of figurin' out what's goin' on. Do not envy this agent. Shit goes wrong, he's in the worst place possible. Anyway, once he gives the go-ahead, the rest of the team comes in and takes out the skip as quiet as possible.</p>
<p>Skip, by the way, is what we call said anomalous entities. I am sure I do not need to tell you where it comes from.</p>
<p>Now, sometimes skips don't come along so quiet as we would like. I mean, sure, maybe it's a nice inanimate object that don't hurt no one, or some guy who don't even want to go around free if he's hurtin' someone. Most of the time, it's somethin' easy. But sometimes, it's somethin' that really don't want to come along quiet-like an' it has the means to enforce its wishes. So you apply stronger coercion. Ideally, intel will have figured out what this skip can take an' you can proceed directly to enough firepower to knock it loopy. Ideally, we would have donuts and coffee. Since we usually go in knowin' jack shit, you'll start off with your bare hands and work up from there.</p>
<p>Now, at a certain point, it looks like yer gonna have to choose between catchin' the skip an' comin' home on your own two feet. Who here is willin' to die rather than give up on the mission? One, two, three, four… Okay, you five fail. Counter to what some dingbats will tell you, the latter is actually the preferred option. Capturin' skips is the name of the game, but findin' agents who can actually do the fuckin' job is hard, an' you can always catch more skips later on. Your best option is to run the fuck away. That way, they can always send someone else in to get the fucker. If you can't, an' it comes down to a life-or-limb decision, that's when you pull out your gun and you shoot the fucker. If that don't work, you shoot it again, because ninety-nine times outta a hundred, shootin' <em>will</em> work if you do <em>enough</em> of it.</p>
<p>This don't mean you got leave to shoot anything that moves 'cause Agent Lombardi told you so. You do it when you gotta. We aim to bring these things in whole an' intact. But if that ain't gonna happen, the Foundation will settle for studyin' what's left.</p>
<p>So, them's the basics of retrieval. The rest of you are gonna be involved in containment.</p>
<p>Now, containment is in some ways easier. You know where the skip is, and hopefully you got some idea of what the damned thing does and how to stop it. However, there are some complications.</p>
<p>First off, the skip might be watchin' you too, dependin' on how smart it is. That means it's got a better idea of what <em>we</em> can do. It gets out, it's gonna know what the uniforms mean, and who's likely to be armed. It's also gonna be pissed. Ideally, it is more pissed at the guys in white coats stickin' needles into it, but it might remember it was your buddies who rolled it up an' brought it there.</p>
<p>Also, unless you're at a single-skip site, if it gets loose, it might let other shit out too, an' suddenly you're dealin' with five or six skips instead of just one. Now, they might just start fightin' amongst themselves, but you're gonna have to go in the middle of all that to break 'em up, and they just ain't gonna play along.</p>
<p>Also, remember how I said most of the time, retrieval is goin' after somethin' harmless? Yeah, you don't get that luxury. Sure, some of the skips you're guardin' are safe. But some of them will rip off your head and scoop out yer brains. And you're around them every fuckin' day. This is especially true if you're at one of them single-skip sites I mentioned, because they don't put them kinda resources to work to watch the fuckin' vending machine.</p>
<p>So, that's life as an agent for ya. Questions?</p>
<p>You with the glasses an' the turtleneck. How weird? Well, I once saw a guy have his bones turned into jelly. Grape jelly. Yes, they did tests. They all came back grape. That weird enough?</p>
<p>Guy with the buzzcut, shoot. Who decides what we go after? Generally, it'll be a site director in charge of retrieval. Ultimately, it goes up to the O5 Council, but they're really more into general strategy then day-to-day operations.</p>
<p>Okay, you with the messed up piercing. I don't know where this shit comes from. It's intel's job to figure that shit out. Please refer back to my previous statements on intel.</p>
<p>Red shirt, third row. Health benefits? They're great, if you come back alive. We got the best doctors on the planet. If it's possible to get you back on yer feet again, they'll do it.</p>
<p>Yes, you in the back. With the duck. The upside to the job? Well, for one thing, we get paid pretty good. For another, if we don't do the job, the world will probably end. That ain't a joke. Seriously, somebody has to do this job. Don't you wanna live to see tomorrow? Good choice.</p>
<p>Okay, tubby. What's your question? How do you get in one of the groups with coffee an' donuts? You go fuck yourself, that's how.</p>
<p>Okay, the skinny twerp with the goatee. Clef? He's a researcher slash agent slash I don't know what the fuck. Seriously, most of the stories you hear about him are bullshit. The rest are also bullshit, but may be based on something that kinda happened once if you squint. In any case, you ain't Clef, so don't get any ideas. When you've been around a while, then you can start thinkin' about emulatin' him, except you'll be too smart to.</p>
<p>Okay, the dame by the door. The monkey? That's Doctor Bright. He's harmless. That bein' said, you got a taser. He has genitalia. You do the math.</p>
<p>So that concludes my briefin'. Since you been so good, I arranged to get punch an' cookies. It ain't as good as coffee an' donuts, but hey… ours ain't fulla laxatives.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/orientation">Orientation</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/orientation">https://scpwiki.com/orientation</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Welcome to yer orientation. I am Agent Max Lombardi. I am your instructor, on account that my leg is broken and someone in Personnel hates me.
Now, you're here because the possibility exists that you are not jackasses and might could be useful in the containment of anomalous items what are going to try to kill you.
So, let's start with the basic mission. We are out to find weird shit and bring it back, and then to contain it. Your more scholarly colleagues are the ones who study it from behind bullet-proof glass and bitch about how hard their job is. They are receiving a similar briefing in Room 67. They got donuts and coffee in there, just in case you was hopin' there might be some modicum of justice in this cold, uncarin' bitch of a universe.
Anyway, some of youse are gonna be retrieval, like me, while others are gonna be containment. You might even switch it around sometimes. Retrieval generally is preceeded by investigation by intel. Intel—who also have coffee and donuts, in case you were wonderin' how far the budget stretches—will go forth, find leads, gather facts, and then tell you sweet fuck all.
On receipt of this dearth of information, you will go out to exotic locales where you will be forbidden from stoppin' and havin' a drink or conversin' with the locals what aren't tryin' to kill you. You will go to where intel tells you the whatever-the-fuck is. An agent much higher on the food chain than you will go and talk to people for the purpose of figurin' out what's goin' on. Do not envy this agent. Shit goes wrong, he's in the worst place possible. Anyway, once he gives the go-ahead, the rest of the team comes in and takes out the skip as quiet as possible.
Skip, by the way, is what we call said anomalous entities. I am sure I do not need to tell you where it comes from.
Now, sometimes skips don't come along so quiet as we would like. I mean, sure, maybe it's a nice inanimate object that don't hurt no one, or some guy who don't even want to go around free if he's hurtin' someone. Most of the time, it's somethin' easy. But sometimes, it's somethin' that really don't want to come along quiet-like an' it has the means to enforce its wishes. So you apply stronger coercion. Ideally, intel will have figured out what this skip can take an' you can proceed directly to enough firepower to knock it loopy. Ideally, we would have donuts and coffee. Since we usually go in knowin' jack shit, you'll start off with your bare hands and work up from there.
Now, at a certain point, it looks like yer gonna have to choose between catchin' the skip an' comin' home on your own two feet. Who here is willin' to die rather than give up on the mission? One, two, three, four... Okay, you five fail. Counter to what some dingbats will tell you, the latter is actually the preferred option. Capturin' skips is the name of the game, but findin' agents who can actually do the fuckin' job is hard, an' you can always catch more skips later on. Your best option is to run the fuck away. That way, they can always send someone else in to get the fucker. If you can't, an' it comes down to a life-or-limb decision, that's when you pull out your gun and you shoot the fucker. If that don't work, you shoot it again, because ninety-nine times outta a hundred, shootin' //will// work if you do //enough// of it.
This don't mean you got leave to shoot anything that moves 'cause Agent Lombardi told you so. You do it when you gotta. We aim to bring these things in whole an' intact. But if that ain't gonna happen, the Foundation will settle for studyin' what's left.
So, them's the basics of retrieval. The rest of you are gonna be involved in containment.
Now, containment is in some ways easier. You know where the skip is, and hopefully you got some idea of what the damned thing does and how to stop it. However, there are some complications.
First off, the skip might be watchin' you too, dependin' on how smart it is. That means it's got a better idea of what //we// can do. It gets out, it's gonna know what the uniforms mean, and who's likely to be armed. It's also gonna be pissed. Ideally, it is more pissed at the guys in white coats stickin' needles into it, but it might remember it was your buddies who rolled it up an' brought it there.
Also, unless you're at a single-skip site, if it gets loose, it might let other shit out too, an' suddenly you're dealin' with five or six skips instead of just one. Now, they might just start fightin' amongst themselves, but you're gonna have to go in the middle of all that to break 'em up, and they just ain't gonna play along.
Also, remember how I said most of the time, retrieval is goin' after somethin' harmless? Yeah, you don't get that luxury. Sure, some of the skips you're guardin' are safe. But some of them will rip off your head and scoop out yer brains. And you're around them every fuckin' day. This is especially true if you're at one of them single-skip sites I mentioned, because they don't put them kinda resources to work to watch the fuckin' vending machine.
So, that's life as an agent for ya. Questions?
You with the glasses an' the turtleneck. How weird? Well, I once saw a guy have his bones turned into jelly. Grape jelly. Yes, they did tests. They all came back grape. That weird enough?
Guy with the buzzcut, shoot. Who decides what we go after? Generally, it'll be a site director in charge of retrieval. Ultimately, it goes up to the O5 Council, but they're really more into general strategy then day-to-day operations.
Okay, you with the messed up piercing. I don't know where this shit comes from. It's intel's job to figure that shit out. Please refer back to my previous statements on intel.
Red shirt, third row. Health benefits? They're great, if you come back alive. We got the best doctors on the planet. If it's possible to get you back on yer feet again, they'll do it.
Yes, you in the back. With the duck. The upside to the job? Well, for one thing, we get paid pretty good. For another, if we don't do the job, the world will probably end. That ain't a joke. Seriously, somebody has to do this job. Don't you wanna live to see tomorrow? Good choice.
Okay, tubby. What's your question? How do you get in one of the groups with coffee an' donuts? You go fuck yourself, that's how.
Okay, the skinny twerp with the goatee. Clef? He's a researcher slash agent slash I don't know what the fuck. Seriously, most of the stories you hear about him are bullshit. The rest are also bullshit, but may be based on something that kinda happened once if you squint. In any case, you ain't Clef, so don't get any ideas. When you've been around a while, then you can start thinkin' about emulatin' him, except you'll be too smart to.
Okay, the dame by the door. The monkey? That's Doctor Bright. He's harmless. That bein' said, you got a taser. He has genitalia. You do the math.
So that concludes my briefin'. Since you been so good, I arranged to get punch an' cookies. It ain't as good as coffee an' donuts, but hey... ours ain't fulla laxatives.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
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| 2011-10-05T06:07:00 | [
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|
originofclef | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"Hello, Everett!" Clef called out cheerfully, as he strode through the door into Dr. Mann's office. He immediately hit the floor as a hail of bullets passed through the area he'd just been standing in. He crawled on his belly towards the good doctor's desk, even as Mann continued firing wildly, yelling the entire time.</p>
<p>"I DON'T CARE WHAT SCP-001 IS! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE ORIGIN OF THE FOUNDATION IS! WOULD YOU PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" Mann, a little unhinged, continued firing until the clip went dry, and then continued pulling the trigger, just on the off chance he might have missed a bullet. Clef reached up and, carefully, took the gun from Mann's hand.</p>
<p>"Having a bit of trouble, Doctor?" Clef asked, as he subtly replaced the gun with a flask of home brew. He checked the gun absently, then tossed it into a corner.</p>
<p>Mann chugged on the flask, not caring that it burned, or that the taste of apples was absolutely overwhelming. It was brain death, and it was a welcome relief from the near constant stream of Overseers baring their soul. "They…they won't stop Clef. They keep coming to me, and unburdening. I'm not sure how much I can take. Twelve hours from now, O5-13 comes in to tell me his story. He left ten minutes ago. I can't stand that guy!"</p>
<p>"Relax, Everett, relax. You're with a friend now. Come on, take a seat, take some more drink…" Clef casually closed the door, and locked it. "You know, as long as you're hearing the secrets, what's one more, hmm?" Clef nodded, picking up a chair and setting it so he could kick his feet up on Mann's desk. "As long as you're listening, why don't I tell you where I came from?"</p>
<p>As Mann whimpered and sought solace in the flask, Clef began to speak.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It's so long ago, I can barely remember it myself. I wasn't always a field agent, you know. I used to be a researcher, specializing in humanoid SCPs. It was horrible, Everett, back in the beginning. Humanoid skips got the short end of the stick. I'd begun lobbying for some changes. Trying to help people, just a little bit. So they demoted me. Assigned me to some of the anomalous skips, that we didn't know what they were. So there I am, trying to figure these things out… and, coincidentally, someone fucks up on containment of 76, and next thing I know, Able is bearing down on me with a bloody meat cleaver.</p>
<p>He got me. He got me bad. I shut down, to avoid the pain. Even now, all I can see are flashes of light along the blade… The Foundation fucked up. They thought I was dead. Tossed me in a mass grave, and forgot about me.</p>
<p>But I was alive. I crawled out of a grave filled with D-class. Rotting bodies all around me, and I still managed to crawl out from under all that dirt. Make my way down the road. I killed a man, just for his clothes and vehicle. But I didn't think about it, at the time. Thought I was just, y'know, tough.</p>
<p>I made my way to a hideout my brother and I had set up years before. One of those 'just in case' type of things. I spent a month there, treating my wounds, recovering my strength. And realizing, I was free. I had a mind full of Foundation secrets, and the Foundation thought I was dead.</p>
<p>First thought was MC&D. I could sell all I knew, make myself a billionaire, and never have to worry again. But… I couldn't stop thinking about the humanoid skips in Foundation custody. And about Able. We could have done something about him, could have ended him. But no, we had to contain… I actually even thought about going to the old man, but you know how he gets. So I went to the GOC.</p>
<p>They were skeptical. Who wouldn't be? But, in exchange for some plastic surgery, a whole new identity, I gave them everything. They made me an agent. I made sure I was their top agent, Ukelele. And I chose my new name, Alto Clef.</p>
<p>But it was when dealing with a young lady whose only problem was that she was part goat, that I found out I was immortal. My associate wanted her dead. She was a Green, albeit a weak one. We argued. He shot me, and then her. I didn't die. I shot him back, and held her while she died. That girl… she's stayed with me, Everett.</p>
<p>I digress. The GOC wasn't for me. So, I made overtures to the Foundation. If I couldn't defeat them, maybe I could subvert them from within. No one was more surprised than myself when they sent me to talk with me. But it made my cover complete. None of them have ever suspected me. My tentacles stretch throughout this Foundation. I can take it down whenever I need to.</p>
<p>Just thought you should know.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Clef pried the flask from Mann's unresisting hand. Over the course of the story, the doctor had made his way under his desk, where he now just sat and rocked, whimpering to himself. The Agent smirked, and began to exit, when Mann managed to croak out a response.</p>
<p>"Alto…Why?"</p>
<p>Clef just smirked. "Please, Everett. We've known each other for long enough. Call me Jack."</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
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<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/originofclef">Origin of Clef</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/originofclef">https://scpwiki.com/originofclef</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"Hello, Everett!" Clef called out cheerfully, as he strode through the door into Dr. Mann's office. He immediately hit the floor as a hail of bullets passed through the area he'd just been standing in. He crawled on his belly towards the good doctor's desk, even as Mann continued firing wildly, yelling the entire time.
"I DON'T CARE WHAT SCP-001 IS! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE ORIGIN OF THE FOUNDATION IS! WOULD YOU PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" Mann, a little unhinged, continued firing until the clip went dry, and then continued pulling the trigger, just on the off chance he might have missed a bullet. Clef reached up and, carefully, took the gun from Mann's hand.
"Having a bit of trouble, Doctor?" Clef asked, as he subtly replaced the gun with a flask of home brew. He checked the gun absently, then tossed it into a corner.
Mann chugged on the flask, not caring that it burned, or that the taste of apples was absolutely overwhelming. It was brain death, and it was a welcome relief from the near constant stream of Overseers baring their soul. "They...they won't stop Clef. They keep coming to me, and unburdening. I'm not sure how much I can take. Twelve hours from now, O5-13 comes in to tell me his story. He left ten minutes ago. I can't stand that guy!"
"Relax, Everett, relax. You're with a friend now. Come on, take a seat, take some more drink..." Clef casually closed the door, and locked it. "You know, as long as you're hearing the secrets, what's one more, hmm?" Clef nodded, picking up a chair and setting it so he could kick his feet up on Mann's desk. "As long as you're listening, why don't I tell you where I came from?"
As Mann whimpered and sought solace in the flask, Clef began to speak.
----
It's so long ago, I can barely remember it myself. I wasn't always a field agent, you know. I used to be a researcher, specializing in humanoid SCPs. It was horrible, Everett, back in the beginning. Humanoid skips got the short end of the stick. I'd begun lobbying for some changes. Trying to help people, just a little bit. So they demoted me. Assigned me to some of the anomalous skips, that we didn't know what they were. So there I am, trying to figure these things out... and, coincidentally, someone fucks up on containment of 76, and next thing I know, Able is bearing down on me with a bloody meat cleaver.
He got me. He got me bad. I shut down, to avoid the pain. Even now, all I can see are flashes of light along the blade... The Foundation fucked up. They thought I was dead. Tossed me in a mass grave, and forgot about me.
But I was alive. I crawled out of a grave filled with D-class. Rotting bodies all around me, and I still managed to crawl out from under all that dirt. Make my way down the road. I killed a man, just for his clothes and vehicle. But I didn't think about it, at the time. Thought I was just, y'know, tough.
I made my way to a hideout my brother and I had set up years before. One of those 'just in case' type of things. I spent a month there, treating my wounds, recovering my strength. And realizing, I was free. I had a mind full of Foundation secrets, and the Foundation thought I was dead.
First thought was MC&D. I could sell all I knew, make myself a billionaire, and never have to worry again. But... I couldn't stop thinking about the humanoid skips in Foundation custody. And about Able. We could have done something about him, could have ended him. But no, we had to contain... I actually even thought about going to the old man, but you know how he gets. So I went to the GOC.
They were skeptical. Who wouldn't be? But, in exchange for some plastic surgery, a whole new identity, I gave them everything. They made me an agent. I made sure I was their top agent, Ukelele. And I chose my new name, Alto Clef.
But it was when dealing with a young lady whose only problem was that she was part goat, that I found out I was immortal. My associate wanted her dead. She was a Green, albeit a weak one. We argued. He shot me, and then her. I didn't die. I shot him back, and held her while she died. That girl... she's stayed with me, Everett.
I digress. The GOC wasn't for me. So, I made overtures to the Foundation. If I couldn't defeat them, maybe I could subvert them from within. No one was more surprised than myself when they sent me to talk with me. But it made my cover complete. None of them have ever suspected me. My tentacles stretch throughout this Foundation. I can take it down whenever I need to.
Just thought you should know.
----
Clef pried the flask from Mann's unresisting hand. Over the course of the story, the doctor had made his way under his desk, where he now just sat and rocked, whimpering to himself. The Agent smirked, and began to exit, when Mann managed to croak out a response.
"Alto...Why?"
Clef just smirked. "Please, Everett. We've known each other for long enough. Call me Jack."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-16T06:05:00 | [
"_genreless",
"_licensebox",
"doctor-bright",
"doctor-clef",
"doctor-mann",
"global-occult-coalition",
"tale"
] | Origin of Clef - SCP Foundation | 166 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"advent-calendar-2015",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11709943 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/originofclef |
|
pan-wotcher | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>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.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"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…"</p>
<p>"Please, Winthrop," sighed the Director, rubbing his forehead. "If the reports I've received are correct, time is of the essence. Speak simply."</p>
<p>"My apologizes, sir," stumbled Agent Winthrop. "I just thought…"</p>
<p>"The <em>point</em>, Winthrop, the <em>point.</em>"</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Do we know what sort of weapon was used?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>The Director waited for a moment before signaling Winthrop to continue. Already, plans were forming in his head regarding how to stop any damage.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>"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…"</p>
<p>"Which one?" asked the Director under his breath.</p>
<p>"To be honest, there's no… <em>feasible</em> 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 are dozens of smaller issues that we don't have time to list right now…"</p>
<p>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 <em>prevent</em> it, but <em>reduce</em> 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?"</p>
<p>"Sir, current ETA before first effects is five minutes."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Agent Winthrop," he said slowly, avoiding eye contact. "I suggest you find yourself a change in underclothing."</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"I already know that…" began Winthrop, but he was cut off by a wave of the hand.</p>
<p>"What you <em>know</em> 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 <em>know</em> 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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Still willing to fight, Winthrop said, "Sir, we have to do something. Anything."</p>
<p>"James, what do you propose we do?"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/pan-wotcher">Pan-Wotcher</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/pan-wotcher">https://scpwiki.com/pan-wotcher</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
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 are 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.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-07-12T03:55:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Pan-Wotcher - SCP Foundation | 41 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:secure-facilities-locations-2",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 10731684 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/pan-wotcher |
|
patina | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Stone sculptors aren't usually the ones to discuss patina. Normally, you see, the word refers to metal oxidation—the blue-green bloom that copper develops under the rain's hands, for instance. Applied to stone it’s naught but a metaphor: there’s no real word for the slow smear of lichen darkness over the faces of the library’s gargoyles.</p>
<p>It’s not as though they need one, after all. Stone weathers, ages, turns grey; it’s the way of things, and the ordinary way of things doesn’t merit special description. Words are made to fill gaps in our understanding, to communicate things odd enough to be worth saying.</p>
<p>Things, maybe, like the way the grey never touched certain bits of stone. The eyes of the lions outside the neglected side doors. The fingers of a leering grotesque atop a minor gable. One strand in the mane of something chimerical that perched over the fiction section’s windows.</p>
<p>There should have been a word for the way that time and soot fled those spots. One could almost swear they were whiter even than the day they were quarried on the night Jean Andrews vanished.</p>
<p>I could swear to it myself. I remember a few things: mostly the pallor of the stone, but also a few other flashes of white. A low blank wall — somewhere in Young Adult, I think — that should have been painted over last summer. The moon through a thick, distorting glass eye. Jean’s face twisting in the wind — just a glimpse, that one; she was on the middle gable by then.</p>
<p>I wish I could say more. Maybe they’d be able to find her. Maybe they’d be able to find me, or whatever it is that I lost that night on the library roof.</p>
<p>The lions know, I’m sure of it: one of their eyes is weathering now, graying into a slow eerie wink.</p>
<p>I think I’ll make a word for that. Someday.</p>
<p>If I can ever remember just how to speak.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/patina">Patina</a>" by Photosynthetic, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/patina">https://scpwiki.com/patina</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Stone sculptors aren't usually the ones to discuss patina. Normally, you see, the word refers to metal oxidation—the blue-green bloom that copper develops under the rain's hands, for instance. Applied to stone it’s naught but a metaphor: there’s no real word for the slow smear of lichen darkness over the faces of the library’s gargoyles.
It’s not as though they need one, after all. Stone weathers, ages, turns grey; it’s the way of things, and the ordinary way of things doesn’t merit special description. Words are made to fill gaps in our understanding, to communicate things odd enough to be worth saying.
Things, maybe, like the way the grey never touched certain bits of stone. The eyes of the lions outside the neglected side doors. The fingers of a leering grotesque atop a minor gable. One strand in the mane of something chimerical that perched over the fiction section’s windows.
There should have been a word for the way that time and soot fled those spots. One could almost swear they were whiter even than the day they were quarried on the night Jean Andrews vanished.
I could swear to it myself. I remember a few things: mostly the pallor of the stone, but also a few other flashes of white. A low blank wall -- somewhere in Young Adult, I think -- that should have been painted over last summer. The moon through a thick, distorting glass eye. Jean’s face twisting in the wind -- just a glimpse, that one; she was on the middle gable by then.
I wish I could say more. Maybe they’d be able to find her. Maybe they’d be able to find me, or whatever it is that I lost that night on the library roof.
The lions know, I’m sure of it: one of their eyes is weathering now, graying into a slow eerie wink.
I think I’ll make a word for that. Someday.
If I can ever remember just how to speak.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-01-21T02:17:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Patina - SCP Foundation | 24 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 7101905 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/patina |
|
peanuts | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>2011-06-07<br/>
13:35:00 CST<br/>
Agents Lament and Dodridge<br/>
[REDACTED], Northern Territory, Australia</p>
<p>Two men sit in a darkened room, waiting for assignment. They've been told they're to execute a termination order, but not much else. The hazy atmosphere, rich with the smoke wafting from a pair of cigars, obscures the light falling from a single, tiny window at the back of the room, hiding the spartan, block-style, concrete construction and bare furnishings. As they muse on temporal distortion containment measures, the best method for execution of a snatch-and-grab, and the niceties of covert tactical assaults, another, older man enters the room silently and steps over to where the two are seated at a cheap wooden desk. Wordlessly, he drops a folder in front of each man, dusting up ashes. They're promptly brushed off of a cheap suit and a set of fatigues, and the seated men flip through the enclosed papers quickly. They confer with each other briefly and nod. The man in fatigues stands and regards the older man. "Yeah, we can kill it. We can kill anything."</p>
<p>Lament and Dodridge. One's a no-account field agent on a dead-end career track with nothing to lose. The other's a loose-cannon jarhead security officer with a questionable past. They fight SCPs.</p>
<p>The older man takes the folders and steps out just as quietly as he entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Lament puffs at his cigar and glances over at Dodridge. "So. You got a plan for this one?"</p>
<p>Dodridge relights his, having winked out in the short time it took them to review their target. "I've got some ideas."</p>
<hr/>
<p><em>Foreword: The following records were retrieved from a partially destroyed test chamber scheduled for block testing involving SCP-723-D following the Agents' departure from Site-██. Any additional tests that may have been performed are not on record, and the following data is mostly a reconstruction based on both the intact security footage and the testimony of additional personnel.</em></p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/08<br/>
Time: 13:45:00 CST<br/>
Test Materials: 1x MRI MkXIX DEP .50AE (Mk19Mod2 revision) handgun, 8x 12.7x33mm 325-grain NJCP slugs<br/>
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Lament</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>Immediately following our arrival to the test facility, Agent Dodridge entered the chamber, stepped to arm's length from the termination target, drew his handgun, aimed at the target's face, and discharged the firearm. Both subjects recoiled at the shot in opposite directions, and Agent Dodridge is recorded as uttering several profanities while covering his face. Immediate playback of high-speed footage shows that the round impacted the subject's face and halted forward travel, deforming immediately on contact and dropping to the ground, as the subject traveled away from the impact at high velocity. Agent Dodridge suffered minor "blowback" in the form of a small shard of the round's jacket embedding in his face. SCP-723-D was unharmed but dazed by the sudden acceleration. Dodridge was treated and testing continued.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/08<br/>
Time: 13:57:00 CST<br/>
Test Materials: 1x 9.1 kg M183 Demolition Charge Assembly, 1x Sharpie (green, appended)<br/>
Test Subject: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Lament</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>Agent Dodridge re-entered the test chamber carrying a quantity of C4 that he had heated in a microwave to "make it mold easier," and shaped the charge into a block on SCP-723-D's head. After I remarked it had a passing resemblance to SCP-173, Dodridge agreed, and left the chamber for approximately five minutes, returning with a green Sharpie. He drew "eyes" on the block of explosive, muttering about the SCP "getting what was coming to it" and punching the demolition charge. Dodridge then installed a wireless electronic detonator, left the chamber, donned a pair of sunglasses, and triggered the device. Upon regaining consciousness and extinguishing a small electrical fire, we noticed that SCP-723-D appeared moderately disoriented, and that what was apparently a weak section of the structure had collapsed. After confirming our sense of hearing was intact, testing continued.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p><strong>Excerpt from Agent Lament's Personal Journal</strong>:</p>
<p>Oh shit… I laughed so hard I cried. He seriously nearly shot his eye out, then nearly blew himself up. This is the best assignment ever!</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/09<br/>
Time: 09:35:00<br/>
Test Materials: <a href="/scp-117">SCP-117</a><br/>
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Dodridge</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>So, he gets some peon to carry a sword in the stick in his hands. The dude just stands there and holds the sword. This is boring. Boring, boring, boring. Lament seems to think we can malnutrition him to death with this thing, but I don't think its working. Oh, for God's sake, we've been at this for three hours; I'm calling it. My turn again.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p><strong>Portion of Conversation Overheard at On-Site Recreation Facility</strong>:</p>
<p><em>Lament</em>: I seriously thought getting at him from the inside would work.</p>
<p><em>Dodridge</em>: Well, it didn't! It didn't and it was boring!</p>
<p><em>Lament</em>: Hey! I don't hear you coming up with anything brilliant! If you'd read the damn file, you'd know bullets wouldn't work!</p>
<p><em>Dodridge</em>: Well, if you'd read the damn file, you'd know you were a douche bag!</p>
<p><em>Lament</em>: Oh, it's ON!</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agents Dodridge and Lament were placed in the on-site brig for twelve hours following the incident, at which point, they insisted that they were "totally cool now. Don't worry about it." They later declared themselves "bros," and returned to the on-site recreation facility.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/10<br/>
Time: 14:26:00 CST<br/>
Test Materials: 1x GM M1114 UA HMMWV, Agent Dodridge (appended)<br/>
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Lament</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>I was advised by Agent Dodridge to stand well clear of the testing chamber, and complied in the midst of lodging complaints as to the perceived efficacy of the impending termination attempt. After the notification, Dodridge proceeded to board the Humvee and accelerated to approximately 90 kph toward the target. It it unknown whether or not the resultant impact had any effect on the subject, due to the remnants of the testing area being partially obscured by a small vehicle fire, likely caused by a failure to drain the fuel tank prior to terminal impact. Dodridge was observed to stumble out of the vehicle, fall down, curse, and subsequently engage SCP-723-D in hand-to-hand combat. After attempting to strangle the target for approximately fifteen minutes, Dodridge screamed inarticulately, extinguished the smoldering wreckage, and left the chamber.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>It is believed that, at this time, several days of work and frustration were beginning to wear on both Agents involved.</p>
<hr/>
<p><strong>Excerpt from after-action review for disciplinary proceedings involving Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge - Personal statements of Security Officer Bernard ███████</strong></p>
<p>After failing to neutralize SCP-723-D yet again, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge proceeded to the on-site bar, where they demanded to be served. After accosting seven other patrons, I removed them from the premises and followed them to Agent Dodridge's room, where they left after several minutes, carrying what appeared to be a box of cigars and a duffel bag containing bottles of alcohol. Due to their inebriation, I escorted them back to the testing facility.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/10<br/>
Time: 17:58:00 CST<br/>
Test Materials: 1x Tippman X7 Paintball Marker, 200x Marballizer Paintballs (50x ea blue, orange, white, red)<br/>
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Dodridge, Agent Lament (alternating)</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>I'm letting Lament go first, on account of the poor guy don't look like he gets to shoot stuff that often. It sorta shows. Damn. This guy can't shoot for shit. He's Halfway through a hopper with MAYBE half the balls on target. My turn. Barney, the security guy, doesn't know it, but he's getting shot, too, for saying this is stupid. HE'S stupid.</em></p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>Oh. Oh that shit head thinks he's funny, huh? Well how funny is it now that we're both using the same paper! I can read what you wrote, shit head! Read this in your notes: go fuck yourself. Oh… and… he's shooting the guy. Guy looks like he's covered in paint. Whatever.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Security Officer Bernard ███████ later entered the site medical wing at 18:28 CST, complaining of genital pain and holding himself. His crotch was observed to be coated in red paint.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/10<br/>
Time: 19:29:00 CST<br/>
Test Materials: 1x 1000 mL bottle of Red Stag (empty), 18x 750 mL bottles of Keter-Class lager (empty)<br/>
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Dodridge</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>Ha! We only missed with ONE bottle, and Lament took it and smacked him in the nuts with it. He passed out after that, but I think I have another idea. They've got a concrete mixer parked outside to fix the chamber, so I'm gonna try to put 723-D back in a block like the one they had him in before. If I can concrete him, I might be able to just drown him. In water. Not concrete.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>An estimated seven attempts took place between 19:29:00 CST and the final test, none of which have records. Over fourteen SCPs were utilized, all without permission. SCP-███ and SCP-███ are still reported missing, while SCP-███ has been found in orbit. Further investigation is ongoing.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Date: 2011/06/10<br/>
Time: I have no idea. The clock is melted, my phone's missing, and Dodridge can't find his watch.<br/>
Test Materials: Cement Mixer<br/>
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D<br/>
Observer: Agent Lament</p>
<p>Log of Events: <em>When I woke up, cement was everywhere, and Dodridge was trying to shovel it into a pile where the the new wall was supposed to go, and 723-D was walking around, covered in the stuff. Dodridge said something about drowning him, but he can't be serious. There's nowhere NEAR enough concrete to drown him in.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p><em>The following record is an attempt to reconstruct the events of the remainder of 2011/06/10 and 2011/06/11, the complete record of which is still absent. Both Agents claim to have no memory of the events, though this is under review.</em></p>
<hr/>
<p>Upon ingestion of two fifths of Jack Daniels whiskey, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge entered the containment chamber of SCP-723-D and did willfully throw no fewer than eighteen empty bottles of various makes and models at SCP-723-D.</p>
<p>At some point, the decision was reached by Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge to engage in the ongoing attempts to decommission SCP-723-D. Agent Dodridge initially suggested moving SCP-723-D into the containment chamber of SCP-623, at which time, he was reminded by Agent Lament that SCP-623 was located at a different site.</p>
<p>In response, Agent Dodridge insisted that he knew how to operate a CH47-D Chinook transport helicopter. Agent Lament asked if he was “straight to fly,” upon which Agent Dodridge responded that “I’m straight, bro. I’m straight.”</p>
<hr/>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Final Five Minutes of Flight, Extracted From Flight Recorder on ██/██/████</span>:</p>
<p>“Dude. Nah, man. But really? I… I think that Rights woman? She is really nice, man. She is awesome. I could marry her.”</p>
<p>“Nah, man, I mean… She has that lamp thing, man. You know what she does to men with lamps?”</p>
<p>“Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. I think I meant Light.”</p>
<p>“Aww, hell, man. She’ll kill you for that. She’s deadly too, man. They’re killers, man. They kill people.”</p>
<p>“Are… Are all the women around here deadly?”</p>
<p>“Fuck, man, I don’t… Oh shit! That’s… That’s blinking!”</p>
<p>“What is that?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, man! I don’t know!”</p>
<p>“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”</p>
<p>(Twisting metal and screaming audible in the background)</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agent Dodridge successfully crash landed the CH47-D Chinook in the middle of ████████, where they insisted to local authorities that they were Federal Marshals transporting a convicted felon. Upon producing identification, both were apprehended by members of the ██████ Police Department and taken to the ██████ County Jail and placed in the drunk tank.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agent Dodridge and Agent Lament later reportedly set a series of shaped charges, created through an unknown method, on the door of the ██████ County Jail Drunk Tank and detonated them.</p>
<p>Current estimates place the injured from the explosion at ██, though Dodridge and Lament apparently escaped unscathed. The two later stole a mobile home and drove it back to the crash site. At this time, the damage to SCP-723-D’s containment cube was extensive, and Agent Dodridge suggested that it would be easier if they just “let him out so he could walk back, then they could put him back in concrete.” Agent Lament agreed.</p>
<hr/>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Interview With Cpl. Jeremy Blevins</span>:<br/>
<em>Blevins</em>: They both had the proper ID!</p>
<p><em>Dr. ██████</em>: They were both completely drunk and escorting a humanoid SCP.</p>
<p><em>Blevins</em>: But he was in the Class-D jumpsuit!</p>
<p><em>Dr. ██████</em>: Are you trying to tell me that two agents and a Class-D wasn’t suspicious?</p>
<p><em>Blevins</em>: People take out Class-D’s all the time! I… I guess this is the first time I’ve ever seen one come back, though…</p>
<p><em>Dr. ██████</em>: (Audible Sigh).</p>
<hr/>
<p>Upon reentering Site-██, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge reviewed the file and realized that they could throw bottles at SCP-723-D without problems. They then proceeded to hurl glass bottles at him, breaking most, until SCP-723-D requested that they stop.</p>
<p>At this point, SCP-723-D was instructed to “not sass me” by Agent Lament, resulting in SCP-723-D being repeatedly struck with a cricket bat, taken from the locker of Dr. Light. Dr. Light, discovering its absence, located Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge. Reclaiming it from them, she looked at SCP-723-D, noting that it was “Coming right for us!” before striking him soundly in the head, hitting him again and again until the force of the blows eventually caused him to lay on the ground, “taking it like a bitch.”</p>
<p>At this point, Agent Lament asked Dr. Light for her phone number. Agent Lament later reported that Doctor Light had claimed to be washing her hair that day. He assured the debriefing agent that his broken ribs were completely unrelated.</p>
<p>At this point, Agent Dodridge returned with several bottles of alcoholic beverages, procured from the locker of Dr. Locke, who had—Dodridge later insisted—“just left them laying there.”</p>
<p>At this time, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge apparently decided that SCP-723-D “wasn’t such a bad guy,” and proceeded to share their beverages. Discovering that their supply had started to run out, they reclaimed their motor home and proceeded off-site back to ██████.</p>
<hr/>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Interview With Cpl. Jeremy Blevins</span>:</p>
<p><em>Blevins</em>: Sir, I know this looks bad, but I can explain…</p>
<p><em>Dr. ██████</em>: Corporal Blevins. Just… I don’t even… My God, man. How did you get this job?</p>
<p><em>Blevins</em>: They both had the ID and everything!</p>
<p><em>Dr. ██████</em>: I am… I am highly disappointed.</p>
<p><em>Blevins</em>: They said they had to return the motor home!</p>
<p><em>Dr. ██████</em>: (Audible Sigh).</p>
<hr/>
<p>Upon entering ██████, Agent Dodridge, Agent Lament, and SCP-723-D proceeded to “Jerry’s Bar and Grill,” where they ordered a round of drinks for the establishment and then proceeded to get “shit faced.”</p>
<p>Agent Dodridge apparently paid for the drinks by allowing patrons to hit SCP-723-D with various objects for a monetary sum. SCP-723-D, for his part, eagerly consumed several beverages.</p>
<p>At 0900 hours, Dr. Tamlin entered SCP-723-D’s containment chamber, noticed several shards of broken glass, and the open air hatch, and proceeded to contact the Motor Pool.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Mobile Task Force Delta-5 assigned to track down and recover SCP-723-D. Finding the mobile home outside “Jerry’s Bar and Grill,” they further investigated, and found both Agent Dodridge and Agent Lament unconscious in pools of their own bodily fluids.</p>
<p>SCP-723-D was at the bar, apparently dead due to a peanut allergy triggered by eating bar snacks.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agent Lament promoted to "Containment Specialist, First Class" and Agent Dodridge’s pay increased two stages.</p>
<p><a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/decomm:scp-723-d">SCP-723-D</a>: Decommissioned.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/peanuts">Peanuts</a>" by EchoFourDelta and TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/peanuts">https://scpwiki.com/peanuts</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
2011-06-07
13:35:00 CST
Agents Lament and Dodridge
[REDACTED], Northern Territory, Australia
Two men sit in a darkened room, waiting for assignment. They've been told they're to execute a termination order, but not much else. The hazy atmosphere, rich with the smoke wafting from a pair of cigars, obscures the light falling from a single, tiny window at the back of the room, hiding the spartan, block-style, concrete construction and bare furnishings. As they muse on temporal distortion containment measures, the best method for execution of a snatch-and-grab, and the niceties of covert tactical assaults, another, older man enters the room silently and steps over to where the two are seated at a cheap wooden desk. Wordlessly, he drops a folder in front of each man, dusting up ashes. They're promptly brushed off of a cheap suit and a set of fatigues, and the seated men flip through the enclosed papers quickly. They confer with each other briefly and nod. The man in fatigues stands and regards the older man. "Yeah, we can kill it. We can kill anything."
Lament and Dodridge. One's a no-account field agent on a dead-end career track with nothing to lose. The other's a loose-cannon jarhead security officer with a questionable past. They fight SCPs.
The older man takes the folders and steps out just as quietly as he entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Lament puffs at his cigar and glances over at Dodridge. "So. You got a plan for this one?"
Dodridge relights his, having winked out in the short time it took them to review their target. "I've got some ideas."
-----
//Foreword: The following records were retrieved from a partially destroyed test chamber scheduled for block testing involving SCP-723-D following the Agents' departure from Site-██. Any additional tests that may have been performed are not on record, and the following data is mostly a reconstruction based on both the intact security footage and the testimony of additional personnel.//
-----
> Date: 2011/06/08
> Time: 13:45:00 CST
> Test Materials: 1x MRI MkXIX DEP .50AE (Mk19Mod2 revision) handgun, 8x 12.7x33mm 325-grain NJCP slugs
> Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Lament
>
> Log of Events: //Immediately following our arrival to the test facility, Agent Dodridge entered the chamber, stepped to arm's length from the termination target, drew his handgun, aimed at the target's face, and discharged the firearm. Both subjects recoiled at the shot in opposite directions, and Agent Dodridge is recorded as uttering several profanities while covering his face. Immediate playback of high-speed footage shows that the round impacted the subject's face and halted forward travel, deforming immediately on contact and dropping to the ground, as the subject traveled away from the impact at high velocity. Agent Dodridge suffered minor "blowback" in the form of a small shard of the round's jacket embedding in his face. SCP-723-D was unharmed but dazed by the sudden acceleration. Dodridge was treated and testing continued.//
-----
> Date: 2011/06/08
> Time: 13:57:00 CST
> Test Materials: 1x 9.1 kg M183 Demolition Charge Assembly, 1x Sharpie (green, appended)
> Test Subject: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Lament
>
> Log of Events: //Agent Dodridge re-entered the test chamber carrying a quantity of C4 that he had heated in a microwave to "make it mold easier," and shaped the charge into a block on SCP-723-D's head. After I remarked it had a passing resemblance to SCP-173, Dodridge agreed, and left the chamber for approximately five minutes, returning with a green Sharpie. He drew "eyes" on the block of explosive, muttering about the SCP "getting what was coming to it" and punching the demolition charge. Dodridge then installed a wireless electronic detonator, left the chamber, donned a pair of sunglasses, and triggered the device. Upon regaining consciousness and extinguishing a small electrical fire, we noticed that SCP-723-D appeared moderately disoriented, and that what was apparently a weak section of the structure had collapsed. After confirming our sense of hearing was intact, testing continued.//
-----
**Excerpt from Agent Lament's Personal Journal**:
Oh shit... I laughed so hard I cried. He seriously nearly shot his eye out, then nearly blew himself up. This is the best assignment ever!
-----
> Date: 2011/06/09
> Time: 09:35:00
> Test Materials: [[[SCP-117]]]
> Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Dodridge
>
> Log of Events: //So, he gets some peon to carry a sword in the stick in his hands. The dude just stands there and holds the sword. This is boring. Boring, boring, boring. Lament seems to think we can malnutrition him to death with this thing, but I don't think its working. Oh, for God's sake, we've been at this for three hours; I'm calling it. My turn again.//
-----
**Portion of Conversation Overheard at On-Site Recreation Facility**:
//Lament//: I seriously thought getting at him from the inside would work.
//Dodridge//: Well, it didn't! It didn't and it was boring!
//Lament//: Hey! I don't hear you coming up with anything brilliant! If you'd read the damn file, you'd know bullets wouldn't work!
//Dodridge//: Well, if you'd read the damn file, you'd know you were a douche bag!
//Lament//: Oh, it's ON!
-----
Agents Dodridge and Lament were placed in the on-site brig for twelve hours following the incident, at which point, they insisted that they were "totally cool now. Don't worry about it." They later declared themselves "bros," and returned to the on-site recreation facility.
-----
> Date: 2011/06/10
> Time: 14:26:00 CST
> Test Materials: 1x GM M1114 UA HMMWV, Agent Dodridge (appended)
> Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Lament
>
> Log of Events: //I was advised by Agent Dodridge to stand well clear of the testing chamber, and complied in the midst of lodging complaints as to the perceived efficacy of the impending termination attempt. After the notification, Dodridge proceeded to board the Humvee and accelerated to approximately 90 kph toward the target. It it unknown whether or not the resultant impact had any effect on the subject, due to the remnants of the testing area being partially obscured by a small vehicle fire, likely caused by a failure to drain the fuel tank prior to terminal impact. Dodridge was observed to stumble out of the vehicle, fall down, curse, and subsequently engage SCP-723-D in hand-to-hand combat. After attempting to strangle the target for approximately fifteen minutes, Dodridge screamed inarticulately, extinguished the smoldering wreckage, and left the chamber.//
-----
It is believed that, at this time, several days of work and frustration were beginning to wear on both Agents involved.
-----
**Excerpt from after-action review for disciplinary proceedings involving Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge - Personal statements of Security Officer Bernard ███████**
After failing to neutralize SCP-723-D yet again, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge proceeded to the on-site bar, where they demanded to be served. After accosting seven other patrons, I removed them from the premises and followed them to Agent Dodridge's room, where they left after several minutes, carrying what appeared to be a box of cigars and a duffel bag containing bottles of alcohol. Due to their inebriation, I escorted them back to the testing facility.
-----
> Date: 2011/06/10
> Time: 17:58:00 CST
> Test Materials: 1x Tippman X7 Paintball Marker, 200x Marballizer Paintballs (50x ea blue, orange, white, red)
> Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Dodridge, Agent Lament (alternating)
>
> Log of Events: //I'm letting Lament go first, on account of the poor guy don't look like he gets to shoot stuff that often. It sorta shows. Damn. This guy can't shoot for shit. He's Halfway through a hopper with MAYBE half the balls on target. My turn. Barney, the security guy, doesn't know it, but he's getting shot, too, for saying this is stupid. HE'S stupid.//
>
> Log of Events: //Oh. Oh that shit head thinks he's funny, huh? Well how funny is it now that we're both using the same paper! I can read what you wrote, shit head! Read this in your notes: go fuck yourself. Oh... and... he's shooting the guy. Guy looks like he's covered in paint. Whatever.//
-----
Security Officer Bernard ███████ later entered the site medical wing at 18:28 CST, complaining of genital pain and holding himself. His crotch was observed to be coated in red paint.
-----
> Date: 2011/06/10
> Time: 19:29:00 CST
> Test Materials: 1x 1000 mL bottle of Red Stag (empty), 18x 750 mL bottles of Keter-Class lager (empty)
> Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Dodridge
>
> Log of Events: //Ha! We only missed with ONE bottle, and Lament took it and smacked him in the nuts with it. He passed out after that, but I think I have another idea. They've got a concrete mixer parked outside to fix the chamber, so I'm gonna try to put 723-D back in a block like the one they had him in before. If I can concrete him, I might be able to just drown him. In water. Not concrete.//
-----
An estimated seven attempts took place between 19:29:00 CST and the final test, none of which have records. Over fourteen SCPs were utilized, all without permission. SCP-███ and SCP-███ are still reported missing, while SCP-███ has been found in orbit. Further investigation is ongoing.
-----
> Date: 2011/06/10
> Time: I have no idea. The clock is melted, my phone's missing, and Dodridge can't find his watch.
> Test Materials: Cement Mixer
> Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
> Observer: Agent Lament
>
> Log of Events: //When I woke up, cement was everywhere, and Dodridge was trying to shovel it into a pile where the the new wall was supposed to go, and 723-D was walking around, covered in the stuff. Dodridge said something about drowning him, but he can't be serious. There's nowhere NEAR enough concrete to drown him in.//
-----
//The following record is an attempt to reconstruct the events of the remainder of 2011/06/10 and 2011/06/11, the complete record of which is still absent. Both Agents claim to have no memory of the events, though this is under review.//
-----
Upon ingestion of two fifths of Jack Daniels whiskey, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge entered the containment chamber of SCP-723-D and did willfully throw no fewer than eighteen empty bottles of various makes and models at SCP-723-D.
At some point, the decision was reached by Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge to engage in the ongoing attempts to decommission SCP-723-D. Agent Dodridge initially suggested moving SCP-723-D into the containment chamber of SCP-623, at which time, he was reminded by Agent Lament that SCP-623 was located at a different site.
In response, Agent Dodridge insisted that he knew how to operate a CH47-D Chinook transport helicopter. Agent Lament asked if he was “straight to fly,” upon which Agent Dodridge responded that “I’m straight, bro. I’m straight.”
-----
__Final Five Minutes of Flight, Extracted From Flight Recorder on ██/██/████__:
“Dude. Nah, man. But really? I… I think that Rights woman? She is really nice, man. She is awesome. I could marry her.”
“Nah, man, I mean… She has that lamp thing, man. You know what she does to men with lamps?”
“Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. I think I meant Light.”
“Aww, hell, man. She’ll kill you for that. She’s deadly too, man. They’re killers, man. They kill people.”
“Are… Are all the women around here deadly?”
“Fuck, man, I don’t… Oh shit! That’s… That’s blinking!”
“What is that?”
“I don’t know, man! I don’t know!”
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
(Twisting metal and screaming audible in the background)
-----
Agent Dodridge successfully crash landed the CH47-D Chinook in the middle of ████████, where they insisted to local authorities that they were Federal Marshals transporting a convicted felon. Upon producing identification, both were apprehended by members of the ██████ Police Department and taken to the ██████ County Jail and placed in the drunk tank.
-----
Agent Dodridge and Agent Lament later reportedly set a series of shaped charges, created through an unknown method, on the door of the ██████ County Jail Drunk Tank and detonated them.
Current estimates place the injured from the explosion at ██, though Dodridge and Lament apparently escaped unscathed. The two later stole a mobile home and drove it back to the crash site. At this time, the damage to SCP-723-D’s containment cube was extensive, and Agent Dodridge suggested that it would be easier if they just “let him out so he could walk back, then they could put him back in concrete.” Agent Lament agreed.
----
__Interview With Cpl. Jeremy Blevins__:
//Blevins//: They both had the proper ID!
//Dr. ██████//: They were both completely drunk and escorting a humanoid SCP.
//Blevins//: But he was in the Class-D jumpsuit!
//Dr. ██████//: Are you trying to tell me that two agents and a Class-D wasn’t suspicious?
//Blevins//: People take out Class-D’s all the time! I… I guess this is the first time I’ve ever seen one come back, though…
//Dr. ██████//: (Audible Sigh).
-----
Upon reentering Site-██, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge reviewed the file and realized that they could throw bottles at SCP-723-D without problems. They then proceeded to hurl glass bottles at him, breaking most, until SCP-723-D requested that they stop.
At this point, SCP-723-D was instructed to “not sass me” by Agent Lament, resulting in SCP-723-D being repeatedly struck with a cricket bat, taken from the locker of Dr. Light. Dr. Light, discovering its absence, located Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge. Reclaiming it from them, she looked at SCP-723-D, noting that it was “Coming right for us!” before striking him soundly in the head, hitting him again and again until the force of the blows eventually caused him to lay on the ground, “taking it like a bitch.”
At this point, Agent Lament asked Dr. Light for her phone number. Agent Lament later reported that Doctor Light had claimed to be washing her hair that day. He assured the debriefing agent that his broken ribs were completely unrelated.
At this point, Agent Dodridge returned with several bottles of alcoholic beverages, procured from the locker of Dr. Locke, who had—Dodridge later insisted—“just left them laying there.”
At this time, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge apparently decided that SCP-723-D “wasn’t such a bad guy,” and proceeded to share their beverages. Discovering that their supply had started to run out, they reclaimed their motor home and proceeded off-site back to ██████.
-----
__Interview With Cpl. Jeremy Blevins__:
//Blevins//: Sir, I know this looks bad, but I can explain…
//Dr. ██████//: Corporal Blevins. Just… I don’t even… My God, man. How did you get this job?
//Blevins//: They both had the ID and everything!
//Dr. ██████//: I am… I am highly disappointed.
//Blevins//: They said they had to return the motor home!
//Dr. ██████//: (Audible Sigh).
-----
Upon entering ██████, Agent Dodridge, Agent Lament, and SCP-723-D proceeded to “Jerry’s Bar and Grill,” where they ordered a round of drinks for the establishment and then proceeded to get “shit faced.”
Agent Dodridge apparently paid for the drinks by allowing patrons to hit SCP-723-D with various objects for a monetary sum. SCP-723-D, for his part, eagerly consumed several beverages.
At 0900 hours, Dr. Tamlin entered SCP-723-D’s containment chamber, noticed several shards of broken glass, and the open air hatch, and proceeded to contact the Motor Pool.
-----
Mobile Task Force Delta-5 assigned to track down and recover SCP-723-D. Finding the mobile home outside “Jerry’s Bar and Grill,” they further investigated, and found both Agent Dodridge and Agent Lament unconscious in pools of their own bodily fluids.
SCP-723-D was at the bar, apparently dead due to a peanut allergy triggered by eating bar snacks.
-----
Agent Lament promoted to "Containment Specialist, First Class" and Agent Dodridge’s pay increased two stages.
[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/decomm:scp-723-d SCP-723-D]: Decommissioned.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>
|author=EchoFourDelta and TroyL]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-06-23T19:22:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"agent-lament",
"black-comedy",
"co-authored",
"comedy",
"doctor-light",
"tale"
] | Peanuts - SCP Foundation | 230 | [
"scp-117",
"decomm:scp-723-d",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 10580949 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/peanuts |
|
people-are-not-wearing-enough-hats | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"…which brings us once again to the pressing issue of just how much there is left to contain," said the Head of Foundation Staff to the 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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Now, now, hold your complaints," said Erit, starting up his presentation, displaying the Foundation symbol. "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."</p>
<p>He flipped 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.</p>
<p>"I wasn't aware of any bugs in the system," muttered a woman near Researcher Invictus.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>Erit blinked. "I beg your pardon, Mister Tuomey?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"But, but…" sputtered Erit, fumbling with the button in his hand, "that goes against the rules of the Foundation! You're trying to use an anomalous object for collective gain!"</p>
<p>"Didn't you just say this concept wasn't anomalous?" asked Doctor Mackenzie.</p>
<p>Erit swallowed hard and started sweating. "Well, regardless, of that, the teleportation system is still very dangerous. Until humanity is ready for it…"</p>
<p>"Wait, wait," said, Research Assistant Godbot, holding up his hands. "I'm confused. How do you define when humanity is ready for it?"</p>
<p>"That's actually a good question," chipped in Aelanna. "There's really no way of defining such a concept, now is there?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"If we can understand it, why not utilize it?"</p>
<p>"That's Serpent's Hand talk!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Mister Invictus, it appears you missed a few key points during your initial 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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"But sir…" began Erit, holding out his hands.</p>
<p>"<em>Left to someone else</em>," 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.</p>
<p>"And finally," he said, casting a glare over everyone else present, "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 of the staff. Don't fall into old habits, Mister Invictus. That will be all." He sat back in his chair again, and reassumed a disinterested position.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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 state of the fourth wall after his constant assaults on it…"</p>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"…which brings us once again to the pressing issue of just how much there is left to contain," said the Head of Foundation Staff to the 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, displaying the Foundation symbol. "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 flipped 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 the button in his hand, "that goes against the rules of the Foundation! You're trying to use an anomalous object for collective gain!"
"Didn't you just say this concept 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 initial 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," he said, casting a glare over everyone else present, "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 of the staff. Don't fall into old habits, Mister Invictus. 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 state of the fourth wall after his constant assaults on it…"
| 2011-12-28T02:33:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | People Are Not Wearing Enough Hats - SCP Foundation | 49 | [] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12380674 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/people-are-not-wearing-enough-hats |
|
pila | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Dr. Ronald Stimson sighed softly to himself, going deeper and deeper into the facility. The heavy briefcase chained to his arm made him wince with every step, the additional weight throwing him off balance enough to put a crick in his back, sending jolts of pain through him again and again. He didn't know why he'd been selected for this duty, only that he had been. An unfortunate case of circumstance, he supposed.</p>
<p>After all, he was one of the last ones left alive.</p>
<p>He never knew Site-19 ran so deep or so far underground. The elevator had stopped after his ears had popped, and the stairs seemed to keep going forever. Hours seemed to pass before they finally stopped, and he stared at a heavy iron door. His destination.</p>
<p>He opened it, wincing slightly as a blast of stale air hit his nose. He walked in, turning on the ventilation and closing the door behind him, hearing it lock with an echoing click of finality. He set the briefcase on the table and sighed heavily, detaching it from his wrist at last and opening it, pulling out a file folder and setting it on the table.</p>
<p>He sat down in front of it, knowing the procedure, and closed his eyes, breathing deep. It was a terrible risk. The worst one left. But it was all they had, now.</p>
<p>He opened the file and turned the first page.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-3245: The Living Storm</p>
<p>Object Class: Euclid</p>
<p>Description: SCP-3245 is a cloud fro—</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He closed it again, then reopened it.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-3246: Hell</p>
<p>Object Class: Euclid</p>
<p>Description: SCP-3246 is a dimension parallel to our own, accessible only by—</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He closed it, sighing more deeply, shaking his head. "This is wrong… Why did they think this would work?"</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-3247: The Atomic Ghost</p>
<p>Object Class: Keter</p>
<p>Description: SCP-3247 was first noted in 2046, when it leveled the city of Hiroshi—</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He slammed it shut, holding his head in his hands. "No, god damn it!" he screamed. "I don't care! I don't care if they won, this isn't right! We can't just do this!"</p>
<p>He shoved the file away from himself, getting up and pacing the room. They were dead, of course. All those people now. Every last one mentioned in the report. Just like his friends. His family. Dead. And he'd as good as killed them.</p>
<p>He paced the room, wondering how quickly the population on the surface was dropping. How much longer they would last. He closed his eyes, the stress of just breathing making him ache. He walked to the papers, reaching down and picking them up, sitting back down at the table.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-4474: The Apocalypse</p>
<p>Object Class: Keter</p>
<p>Description: SCP-4474 was first observed in 1864, when an event believed to be the Biblical rapture—</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>He hated himself.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-6449: The Duke of Nevermore</p>
<p>Object Class: Euclid</p>
<p>Description: SCP-6449 first contacted the Foundation after becoming aware of his omniscience and realizing that he was a danger to the unive—</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>He wanted to die.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-8140: Doctor Wondertainment</p>
<p>Object Class: Safe</p>
<p>Description: SCP-8140 was captured by the Foundation in 2018 after his production run of Mister Ender caused—</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>He was sure he deserved it by now. Positive of it. Completely positive.</p>
<hr/>
<p>He stared at the ceiling. He was sure, sometime in the past, he'd heard screaming somehow. Screaming from the top of the world. Claws scratching at the door at one point. Felt himself choke for an instant. But he was almost done. He closed his eyes, blinking so he could see again, and closed the file, opening it slowly.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-9996: Yourself</p>
<p>Object Class: Keter</p>
<p>Description: Look what you did, Ronald. They're gone now. All of them.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He stared at the short page. He had to be hallucinating. Wasn't there one of these that would make you go crazy if you just <em>knew</em> about it? Had he been infected?</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-9997: It's still you, Ronald.</p>
<p>Object Class: Keter</p>
<p>Description: You ended the world, Ronald. This was a stupid plan when they came up with it, and you knew it.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He closed it again, gagging slightly. Then opened it.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-9998: Ronald Stimson</p>
<p>Object Class: Keter</p>
<p>Description: You wanted this. You wanted this almost as much as I did. Things would have been fine, you know? Perfectly fine. But they were too proud. And you were too willing. And now, look at what you did. Your wife. Your family. Everyone and everything you ever loved. Thank you, Ronald. Thank you. Now, there's just one loose end.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He closed it, then opened it again, hands shaking.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-9999: A Gun</p>
<p>Object Class: Thaumiel</p>
<p>Description: It's right next to you, Ronald. Loaded. Waiting. Go ahead. You know what to do.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Stimson turned, looking down at the revolver. He reached for it, picking it up and cocking the trigger, his face ashen. Almost automatically, he put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger, ending the last human life on the planet with a sudden thrash, sending the papers flying away from him, landing on the floor near his foot, the first page open again…</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-001: A Sheaf of Papers</p>
<p>Object Class: Keter</p>
<p><a href="/jonathan-ball-s-proposal">Description...</a></p>
</blockquote>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/pila">Pila</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/pila">https://scpwiki.com/pila</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Dr. Ronald Stimson sighed softly to himself, going deeper and deeper into the facility. The heavy briefcase chained to his arm made him wince with every step, the additional weight throwing him off balance enough to put a crick in his back, sending jolts of pain through him again and again. He didn't know why he'd been selected for this duty, only that he had been. An unfortunate case of circumstance, he supposed.
After all, he was one of the last ones left alive.
He never knew Site-19 ran so deep or so far underground. The elevator had stopped after his ears had popped, and the stairs seemed to keep going forever. Hours seemed to pass before they finally stopped, and he stared at a heavy iron door. His destination.
He opened it, wincing slightly as a blast of stale air hit his nose. He walked in, turning on the ventilation and closing the door behind him, hearing it lock with an echoing click of finality. He set the briefcase on the table and sighed heavily, detaching it from his wrist at last and opening it, pulling out a file folder and setting it on the table.
He sat down in front of it, knowing the procedure, and closed his eyes, breathing deep. It was a terrible risk. The worst one left. But it was all they had, now.
He opened the file and turned the first page.
> SCP-3245: The Living Storm
>
> Object Class: Euclid
>
> Description: SCP-3245 is a cloud fro—
He closed it again, then reopened it.
> SCP-3246: Hell
>
> Object Class: Euclid
>
> Description: SCP-3246 is a dimension parallel to our own, accessible only by—
He closed it, sighing more deeply, shaking his head. "This is wrong... Why did they think this would work?"
> SCP-3247: The Atomic Ghost
>
> Object Class: Keter
>
> Description: SCP-3247 was first noted in 2046, when it leveled the city of Hiroshi—
He slammed it shut, holding his head in his hands. "No, god damn it!" he screamed. "I don't care! I don't care if they won, this isn't right! We can't just do this!"
He shoved the file away from himself, getting up and pacing the room. They were dead, of course. All those people now. Every last one mentioned in the report. Just like his friends. His family. Dead. And he'd as good as killed them.
He paced the room, wondering how quickly the population on the surface was dropping. How much longer they would last. He closed his eyes, the stress of just breathing making him ache. He walked to the papers, reaching down and picking them up, sitting back down at the table.
-----
> SCP-4474: The Apocalypse
>
> Object Class: Keter
>
> Description: SCP-4474 was first observed in 1864, when an event believed to be the Biblical rapture—
-----
He hated himself.
-----
> SCP-6449: The Duke of Nevermore
>
> Object Class: Euclid
>
> Description: SCP-6449 first contacted the Foundation after becoming aware of his omniscience and realizing that he was a danger to the unive—
-----
He wanted to die.
-----
> SCP-8140: Doctor Wondertainment
>
> Object Class: Safe
>
> Description: SCP-8140 was captured by the Foundation in 2018 after his production run of Mister Ender caused—
-----
He was sure he deserved it by now. Positive of it. Completely positive.
-----
He stared at the ceiling. He was sure, sometime in the past, he'd heard screaming somehow. Screaming from the top of the world. Claws scratching at the door at one point. Felt himself choke for an instant. But he was almost done. He closed his eyes, blinking so he could see again, and closed the file, opening it slowly.
> SCP-9996: Yourself
>
> Object Class: Keter
>
> Description: Look what you did, Ronald. They're gone now. All of them.
He stared at the short page. He had to be hallucinating. Wasn't there one of these that would make you go crazy if you just //knew// about it? Had he been infected?
> SCP-9997: It's still you, Ronald.
>
> Object Class: Keter
>
> Description: You ended the world, Ronald. This was a stupid plan when they came up with it, and you knew it.
He closed it again, gagging slightly. Then opened it.
> SCP-9998: Ronald Stimson
>
> Object Class: Keter
>
> Description: You wanted this. You wanted this almost as much as I did. Things would have been fine, you know? Perfectly fine. But they were too proud. And you were too willing. And now, look at what you did. Your wife. Your family. Everyone and everything you ever loved. Thank you, Ronald. Thank you. Now, there's just one loose end.
He closed it, then opened it again, hands shaking.
> SCP-9999: A Gun
>
> Object Class: Thaumiel
>
> Description: It's right next to you, Ronald. Loaded. Waiting. Go ahead. You know what to do.
Stimson turned, looking down at the revolver. He reached for it, picking it up and cocking the trigger, his face ashen. Almost automatically, he put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger, ending the last human life on the planet with a sudden thrash, sending the papers flying away from him, landing on the floor near his foot, the first page open again...
> SCP-001: A Sheaf of Papers
>
> Object Class: Keter
>
> [[[jonathan-ball-s-proposal|Description...]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-24T04:54:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"apocalyptic",
"horror",
"project-thaumiel",
"tale"
] | Pila - SCP Foundation | 286 | [
"jonathan-ball-s-proposal",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
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"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"thaumiel",
"kaktuskast-hub",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11930463 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/pila |
|
poopstick-mcgee-and-the-flying-walruses | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>“Well…” the old man said quietly. “I guess it’s time the charade ended then, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Director Clef’s eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance at being disturbed that quickly faded… “Hello, Konny,” he said in a bare whisper.</p>
<p>Kondraki dropped into the chair, bushy eyebrows rising slightly, followed by a smile. “I’m glad you remember me, Clef,” he said. “I was worried that you would forget. It’s easy for someone like you to forget things, after all. Are you liking the nice, cushy job? How are your boys?”</p>
<p>Clef frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ko—“</p>
<p>“Drop the bullshit, Clef… You keep doing your damnedest to lie yourself out of everything. To lie in circles, keep people guessing… But I finally figured it out. It took me a while—a very long while—but I finally got it. Heh. Clever bastard.”</p>
<p>Clef eased himself backwards in the chair. “And?” he asked.</p>
<p>Kondraki smiled. “It’s easy. You see, I spent years analyzing the records of you… Your exploits here. The things that you were willing and not willing to do. It took me forever to figure out why 682 had that moment of hesitation… Why it didn’t kill you. Why reality benders don’t fuck you up like they do other people. Why 343 shits his pants at the sight of you.”</p>
<p>“And?” Clef asked.</p>
<p>“It’s simple,” Kondraki said. “You’re God.”</p>
<p>Clef laughed. Hard. Leaning over, he coughed loudly, struggling to breathe. Minutes passed until he was completely out of breath and had to stop, leaning back in his chair.</p>
<p>“Really, Konny? Me? God?”</p>
<p>Kondraki smiled, eerily. Madly. “Certainly,” he said. “But not just any God. You're Poopstick McGee… And I… I AM THE FLYING WALRUSES!"</p>
<p>Clef smiled slightly. "Yes, Kondraki. Yes, I am. You finally figured me out…"</p>
<p>Kondraki laughed hysterically as the orderly came into the room. "Sorry, Docta Clef. He slipped away from me again…"</p>
<p>Clef laughed. "No problem, Rodney… Konny and I are old friends."</p>
<p>"POOP STICK! POOPSTICK MCGEE!"</p>
<p>Clef nodded. "You got it, buddy!"</p>
<p>The orderly walked Kondraki out of Clef's office, taking him back to his room and easing him into the bed, waiting for him to relieve himself in a bedpan.</p>
<p>He grabbed the orderly's arm… "He's Satan, you know…" he said seriously.</p>
<p>The orderly just smiled. "Last week, you said he was Adam," he said.</p>
<p>Kondraki's eyes went wide. "That's classified!" he screamed, throwing the full bedpan at the orderly. "EXPUNGED! <strong>EXPUNGED</strong>!"</p>
<p>The orderly ducked out of the room, and down the hall, Alto Clef laughed quietly to himself.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/poopstick-mcgee-and-the-flying-walruses">Poopstick McGee and the Flying Walruses</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/poopstick-mcgee-and-the-flying-walruses">https://scpwiki.com/poopstick-mcgee-and-the-flying-walruses</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
“Well…” the old man said quietly. “I guess it’s time the charade ended then, isn’t it?”
Director Clef’s eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance at being disturbed that quickly faded… “Hello, Konny,” he said in a bare whisper.
Kondraki dropped into the chair, bushy eyebrows rising slightly, followed by a smile. “I’m glad you remember me, Clef,” he said. “I was worried that you would forget. It’s easy for someone like you to forget things, after all. Are you liking the nice, cushy job? How are your boys?”
Clef frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ko—“
“Drop the bullshit, Clef… You keep doing your damnedest to lie yourself out of everything. To lie in circles, keep people guessing… But I finally figured it out. It took me a while—a very long while—but I finally got it. Heh. Clever bastard.”
Clef eased himself backwards in the chair. “And?” he asked.
Kondraki smiled. “It’s easy. You see, I spent years analyzing the records of you… Your exploits here. The things that you were willing and not willing to do. It took me forever to figure out why 682 had that moment of hesitation… Why it didn’t kill you. Why reality benders don’t fuck you up like they do other people. Why 343 shits his pants at the sight of you.”
“And?” Clef asked.
“It’s simple,” Kondraki said. “You’re God.”
Clef laughed. Hard. Leaning over, he coughed loudly, struggling to breathe. Minutes passed until he was completely out of breath and had to stop, leaning back in his chair.
“Really, Konny? Me? God?”
Kondraki smiled, eerily. Madly. “Certainly,” he said. “But not just any God. You're Poopstick McGee... And I... I AM THE FLYING WALRUSES!"
Clef smiled slightly. "Yes, Kondraki. Yes, I am. You finally figured me out..."
Kondraki laughed hysterically as the orderly came into the room. "Sorry, Docta Clef. He slipped away from me again..."
Clef laughed. "No problem, Rodney... Konny and I are old friends."
"POOP STICK! POOPSTICK MCGEE!"
Clef nodded. "You got it, buddy!"
The orderly walked Kondraki out of Clef's office, taking him back to his room and easing him into the bed, waiting for him to relieve himself in a bedpan.
He grabbed the orderly's arm... "He's Satan, you know..." he said seriously.
The orderly just smiled. "Last week, you said he was Adam," he said.
Kondraki's eyes went wide. "That's classified!" he screamed, throwing the full bedpan at the orderly. "EXPUNGED! **EXPUNGED**!"
The orderly ducked out of the room, and down the hall, Alto Clef laughed quietly to himself.
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-24T19:01:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"comedy",
"doctor-clef",
"doctor-kondraki",
"tale"
] | Poopstick McGee and the Flying Walruses - SCP Foundation | 250 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"kaktuskast-hub",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"algorithm-curated-recommendations"
] | [] | 11933834 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/poopstick-mcgee-and-the-flying-walruses |
|
poor-bastard | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"You should have brought a mortician instead."</p>
<p>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. He sniffed, and could tell that the same was true for the whole facility. "If they're already dead, then why bother bringing me here?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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 an isolation period of up to a year?"</p>
<p>"Two," replied the woman, striding ahead of him. "Near as we can tell, they were stuck here for three."</p>
<p>"Three?" asked the doctor, stepping around another corpse in the middle of the hallway.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>The doctor shuddered at the mutilated faces of three guards in a room to his left. "What did this to them, then?"</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"It wasn't lethal, but it took a huge toll on their mental faculties. At first, they were acting independent of each other, perfectly normal behavior, even though we'd never seen a spread like this before. But after a time, we still don't know how long, they began break away from the pattern. Began to meld. Like a hive mind. Moving together, gathering stragglers and effectively assimilating them."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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 unaffected did it. Brian Gomez. Security guard. Couldn't stand being stranded here with the others. So the day before we broke through whatever was blocking the area, he took his weapon and massacred the lot of them."</p>
<p>The doctor scoffed at this. "One man killed an entire Foundation Site by himself?"</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>His scoff turned into a shudder. "So the guard is our survivor?"</p>
<p>"No. He wound up dead after an intense interrogation."</p>
<p>"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? Who or what is so important that you'd need to keep it a secret from <em>me</em>?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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, especially since we have no explanation how he formed the hive mind." 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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>At length, he heaved a heavy sigh and said, "There's nothing you can do."</p>
<p>"You've barely even touched him," snapped the woman.</p>
<p>"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 overdose. 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 overdoses and our case here, the end result is the exact same.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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…" he sniffed. "Old flesh and burning fur."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The faintest whisper of a breath steamed out his nostrils.</p>
<p>"Just like his brother," the woman said to herself. "Poor bastard."</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/poor-bastard">Poor Bastard</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/poor-bastard">https://scpwiki.com/poor-bastard</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"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. He sniffed, and could tell that the same was true for the whole facility. "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 an isolation period of up to a year?"
"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, perfectly normal behavior, even though we'd never seen a spread like this before. But after a time, we still don't know how long, they began break away from the pattern. Began to meld. Like a hive mind. 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 unaffected did it. Brian Gomez. Security guard. Couldn't stand being stranded here with the others. So the day before we broke through whatever was blocking the area, he took his weapon and massacred the lot of them."
The doctor scoffed at this. "One man killed an entire Foundation Site 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?"
His scoff turned into a shudder. "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? Who or what is so important that you'd need to keep it a secret from //me//?"
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, especially since we have no explanation how he formed the hive mind." 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 overdose. 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 overdoses 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..." he sniffed. "Old flesh and burning fur."
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.
The faintest whisper of a breath steamed out his nostrils.
"Just like his brother," the woman said to herself. "Poor bastard."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-14T03:02:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Poor Bastard - SCP Foundation | 18 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12207479 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/poor-bastard |
|
potty | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>He woke up, momentarily confused as to where he was, and what was beside him. Shaking his head, he made out the softly breathing form of his wife, and on the other side the small, pale outline of his son. He stood, all of three years old, holding a small blanket and fidgeting slightly. His father rolled to his side, looking at the small boy, managing a sleepy smile.</p>
<p>“Hey big boy.”<br/>
“I need to use potty.”</p>
<p>He sighed, laying back down. This had been going on too long. Finally potty trained (mostly), the boy had the odd quirk of not wanting to be alone in the bathroom. Ever. His wife kept saying it was harmless, but it still seemed odd.</p>
<p>“Bubba, you can just go use the potty.”<br/>
The little boy shook his head with all the seriousness a three year old can muster.<br/>
“Need daddy. Come with me.”</p>
<p>He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. He had to be up in three hours, still had to find something for lunch…he was tired, deeply tired. He looked back at his son, whispering in the dark.</p>
<p>“Little boy, you need to go use that potty now. It's-”<br/>
“But I need-”<br/>
“No buts, go in there, use the potty and go back to bed now. Do you understand?”<br/>
The little boy nodded slowly, sniffling and stepping slowly from the bedroom.</p>
<p>He lay back, trying to recover sleep, nearly there when his wife mumbled sleepily “muhp. Wha was that?”. He sighed, closing his eyes harder. “It was just the boy, he needed to go potty”.</p>
<p>She sat up a bit, looking to him. “You didn't go with him?”<br/>
“No, I didn't. He's too big to still be doing this, there's no reason.”<br/>
“He just gets nervous, you know that. He's still just a little boy.”</p>
<p>He sighed hard, sinking in to the bed slightly, knowing what was coming next. Never mind he had to work, or was tired, or hadn't been able to get to bed until late, or-</p>
<p>“can you go check on him?”<br/>
“…”<br/>
“Please go check on him.”<br/>
“Mrrr…ok, hold on.”</p>
<p>He slid from the bed, the air in the house icy compared to the bed. He stumbled, wedging open the barest slit of one eye, in the hopes of making the dive back to sleep easier. He walked slowly, navigating more by memory and some kind of sixth sleep-sense then any kind of light. He brushed the hallway walls, working down to the dark bathroom doorway, where</p>
<p>Wait. Dark?</p>
<p>The boy wouldn't so much as think about entering any kind of dark room. Even a thick blanket over his head was enough to worry him. Why would he leave the light off? As he got closer, the smell hit him like a fist. He sighed, rubbing his eye. Yeah, there we go…the light burned out, and he missed the potty, or got so scared he just went in his pants…throw him in the tub, maybe? God, he had to be up in like…two hours now, may as well just stay-</p>
<p>The bathroom was a nightmare.</p>
<p>Even in the dim half-light, he could see the walls, floor, ceiling…everything was splattered and oozing with…something. He coughed, gagging slightly on the reeking stink. It smelled like shit, yes, but also something rotten, fermented…and something sharp as well. He reached for the light switch, fumbling through a clump of cold, damp grime to flick the switch. The light was dimmed by the spray of reeking slime, but it showed the bathroom well enough. Everything was coated in gray-black ooze, much of it looking like shit, but some was much less identifiable. He looked around, in shock, trying to somehow piece out what happened when he heard the clunk.</p>
<p>He nearly screamed at the sudden sound, recoiling back in to the hall. He stared in to the room, blinking dumbly in to the sudden silence. Then, again…thunk. The toilet seat flicked up, maybe a inch, and clunked back down. Like it was being bumped from underneath. From inside the bowl. He stared, watching it sit still for a few beats, then bump up again. Somewhere, his brain was chanting “where is my son” over and over, but it seemed remote, distant. Like a dream, he walked across the room, feeling the skin of oily slime ooze between his toes as he stood over the toilet and bent over to open it, feeling oddly resigned.</p>
<p>The bowl was empty of water, with only a thick caking of foul grime and what looked like blood sticking to the porcelain. At the bottom, where the water drained, there was a small, pink forearm ending in a small, pink hand. It was reaching up, grasping in the air, trying to reach anything.</p>
<p>It was missing two fingers, the ragged stumps bleeding thinly.</p>
<p>It was his son's hand.</p>
<p>He fell forward, yelping a inarticulate cry of shock, and grabbed the small hand. It flexed, gripping tight, the sound of soft thumping from deeper in the pipes. He stared, holding that small hand, swallowing and trying to say something, managing only a croaking sound. Suddenly, his son's broken, torn hand clenched down hard, and ripped away, vanishing down the pipe with a scrape. There was a sound from the pipe, it was unclear, but he would swear that it was a wailed “daddy” until his dying day.</p>
<p>He fell to the ground, sitting and staring in to the toilet like a drunk, the reeking, befouled bathroom a million miles away. He started down the empty, blank drain of the bowl, unable to even think of a curse, a question, anything to carve some kind of sense out of this.</p>
<p>He was still there, staring, when his wife rose to check on him.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/potty">Potty</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/potty">https://scpwiki.com/potty</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
He woke up, momentarily confused as to where he was, and what was beside him. Shaking his head, he made out the softly breathing form of his wife, and on the other side the small, pale outline of his son. He stood, all of three years old, holding a small blanket and fidgeting slightly. His father rolled to his side, looking at the small boy, managing a sleepy smile.
“Hey big boy.”
“I need to use potty.”
He sighed, laying back down. This had been going on too long. Finally potty trained (mostly), the boy had the odd quirk of not wanting to be alone in the bathroom. Ever. His wife kept saying it was harmless, but it still seemed odd.
“Bubba, you can just go use the potty.”
The little boy shook his head with all the seriousness a three year old can muster.
“Need daddy. Come with me.”
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. He had to be up in three hours, still had to find something for lunch...he was tired, deeply tired. He looked back at his son, whispering in the dark.
“Little boy, you need to go use that potty now. It's-”
“But I need-”
“No buts, go in there, use the potty and go back to bed now. Do you understand?”
The little boy nodded slowly, sniffling and stepping slowly from the bedroom.
He lay back, trying to recover sleep, nearly there when his wife mumbled sleepily “muhp. Wha was that?”. He sighed, closing his eyes harder. “It was just the boy, he needed to go potty”.
She sat up a bit, looking to him. “You didn't go with him?”
“No, I didn't. He's too big to still be doing this, there's no reason.”
“He just gets nervous, you know that. He's still just a little boy.”
He sighed hard, sinking in to the bed slightly, knowing what was coming next. Never mind he had to work, or was tired, or hadn't been able to get to bed until late, or-
“can you go check on him?”
“...”
“Please go check on him.”
“Mrrr...ok, hold on.”
He slid from the bed, the air in the house icy compared to the bed. He stumbled, wedging open the barest slit of one eye, in the hopes of making the dive back to sleep easier. He walked slowly, navigating more by memory and some kind of sixth sleep-sense then any kind of light. He brushed the hallway walls, working down to the dark bathroom doorway, where
Wait. Dark?
The boy wouldn't so much as think about entering any kind of dark room. Even a thick blanket over his head was enough to worry him. Why would he leave the light off? As he got closer, the smell hit him like a fist. He sighed, rubbing his eye. Yeah, there we go...the light burned out, and he missed the potty, or got so scared he just went in his pants...throw him in the tub, maybe? God, he had to be up in like...two hours now, may as well just stay-
The bathroom was a nightmare.
Even in the dim half-light, he could see the walls, floor, ceiling...everything was splattered and oozing with...something. He coughed, gagging slightly on the reeking stink. It smelled like shit, yes, but also something rotten, fermented...and something sharp as well. He reached for the light switch, fumbling through a clump of cold, damp grime to flick the switch. The light was dimmed by the spray of reeking slime, but it showed the bathroom well enough. Everything was coated in gray-black ooze, much of it looking like shit, but some was much less identifiable. He looked around, in shock, trying to somehow piece out what happened when he heard the clunk.
He nearly screamed at the sudden sound, recoiling back in to the hall. He stared in to the room, blinking dumbly in to the sudden silence. Then, again...thunk. The toilet seat flicked up, maybe a inch, and clunked back down. Like it was being bumped from underneath. From inside the bowl. He stared, watching it sit still for a few beats, then bump up again. Somewhere, his brain was chanting “where is my son” over and over, but it seemed remote, distant. Like a dream, he walked across the room, feeling the skin of oily slime ooze between his toes as he stood over the toilet and bent over to open it, feeling oddly resigned.
The bowl was empty of water, with only a thick caking of foul grime and what looked like blood sticking to the porcelain. At the bottom, where the water drained, there was a small, pink forearm ending in a small, pink hand. It was reaching up, grasping in the air, trying to reach anything.
It was missing two fingers, the ragged stumps bleeding thinly.
It was his son's hand.
He fell forward, yelping a inarticulate cry of shock, and grabbed the small hand. It flexed, gripping tight, the sound of soft thumping from deeper in the pipes. He stared, holding that small hand, swallowing and trying to say something, managing only a croaking sound. Suddenly, his son's broken, torn hand clenched down hard, and ripped away, vanishing down the pipe with a scrape. There was a sound from the pipe, it was unclear, but he would swear that it was a wailed “daddy” until his dying day.
He fell to the ground, sitting and staring in to the toilet like a drunk, the reeking, befouled bathroom a million miles away. He started down the empty, blank drain of the bowl, unable to even think of a curse, a question, anything to carve some kind of sense out of this.
He was still there, staring, when his wife rose to check on him.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-08-28T22:58:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"tale"
] | Potty - SCP Foundation | 88 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"dr-gears-storytime-entries"
] | [] | 11600604 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/potty |
|
preliminaries | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong>One month before Tempest Night…</strong></p>
<p>A single brown leaf blew through the long-abandoned corridors of Site 17. Skeletons lay in the hallways where they had fallen. An alarm blared through the corridors, the person who activated it long dead. Horrors of all shapes and sizes roamed the facility.</p>
<p>For a moment, the wreck that was once civilization was silent.</p>
<p>Then, a small toy robot appeared. Its neck swiveled around, taking in the new and unusual surroundings. It spoke, with a touch of uncertainty in its synthesized voice.</p>
<p>"<tt>THANK YOU FOR PURCHASING YOUR VERY OWN ROBO-DUDE, MADE BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT. ANY ATTEMPT TO OPERATE ROBO-DUDE OTHER THAN IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRODUCT INSTRUCTIONS, INCLUDING ANY ATTEMPT TO OPEN OR SERVICE ROBO-DUDE IS LIKELY TO RESULT IN UNPREDICTABLE BEHAVIOR. DR. WONDERTAINMENT IS NOT LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGE, DESTRUCTION OR LOSS OF PERSONAL OR REAL PROPERTY, OR FOR ANY INJURY, UP TO AND INCLUDING DEATH, TO THE OWNER, THE OPERATOR, OR OTHERS WHICH MAY RESULT FROM THE OPERATION OF ROBO-DUDE FUNCTIONS. BY INTERACTING WITH ROBO-DUDE IN ANY WAY OR BY REMAINING IN ROBO-DUDE'S PRESENCE WITHIN FIVE SECONDS FOLLOWING THE COMPLETION OF THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS DESCRIBED IN THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, AS AMENDED AND SUPPLEMENTED BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT FROM TIME TO TIME WHETHER BEFORE OR AFTER ACCEPTANCE, AND AGREE TO HOLD BLAMELESS DR. WONDERTAINMENT, AND EVERYONE AFFILIATED WITH DR. WONDERTAINMENT, FROM AND AGAINST ALL LIABILITY OR LOSSES RELATING TO ROBO-DUDE. DR. WONDERTAINMENT RESERVES ALL RIGHTS AND REMEDIES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS IN AND TO 'ROBO-DUDE', 'ROBO-PAL', 'ROBO-ACCESSORIES' AND ALL PATENTS, TRADEMARKS, COPYRIGHTS AND OTHER INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES EMBEDDED OR EMBODIED THEREIN. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL.</tt>"</p>
<p>It stopped and realized it was on its own. For the last few years, Robo-Dude could never remember being alone. As a toy, it only remembered what happened when it was turned on. And when it was turned on, Robo-Dude was never alone. It called out now, for the researchers and doctors who had asked it questions and played with it before.</p>
<p>"<tt>ROBO-PAL?</tt>"</p>
<p>If toys could be surprised, Robo-Dude would be. For a charred corpse was sitting up, burnt flesh replaced with a cold, serious face. Its security uniform became a grey suit. It looked at him for a few seconds, raising a single eyebrow.</p>
<p><strong>What?</strong> He said. <strong>Who are you?</strong></p>
<p>This Robo-Dude knew!</p>
<p>"<tt>I AM ROBO-DUDE, ROBO-PAL. I AM EQUIPPED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED FUN ACCESSORIES TO MAXIMIZE PLAYTIME ENJOYMENT.</tt>"</p>
<p><strong>A toy robot? Can robots even dream?</strong></p>
<p>"<tt>AFFIRMATIVE, ROBO-PAL. ROBO-DUDE IS FULLY OPTIMIZED FOR NOCTURNAL VIEWING OF CONDUCTIVE LIVESTOCK.</tt>"</p>
<p><strong>Alright, fine. There's no time to be picky, I need you to -</strong></p>
<p>"<tt>ENGAGE IN ROBO-DANCE?</tt>"</p>
<p><strong>No, you need to warn -</strong></p>
<p>"<tt>ROBO-DUDE IS NOW ENGAGING IN ROBO-DANCE.</tt>"</p>
<p>Thirty minutes later, Robo-Dude had finished its daily ritual. However, this man was far too old and far too serious to play with toys. Robo-Dude knew that this must be important and stopped dancing one minute early. Some things must be sacrificed for the greater good.</p>
<p>"<tt>ROBO-DUDE IS NOW READY FOR INPUT!</tt>"</p>
<p>The man smiled with relief and began to speak.</p>
<p><strong>Alright.</strong> He said. <strong>In one month, Site 17 will be attacked by an enemy force. I can't tell you who they are, I'm sorry, but you must warn them, or horrible things will happen, do you understand?</strong></p>
<p>"<tt>ROBO-DUDE UNDERSTANDS THIS MISSION, ROBO-PAL.</tt>"</p>
<p><strong>Good. Now this dream needs to end. Shake yourself awake or somethi - what are you doing?</strong></p>
<p>Robo-Dude looked up at its new Robo-Pal, its chest open and a small canister emerging from within.</p>
<p>"<tt>DEPLOYING ATOMIC GRENADE!</tt>"</p>
<p><strong>Hold on, wait, NO -</strong></p>
<p>*</p>
<p>For the first time ever, Robo-Dude activated itself. It had a mission now, it had a purpose! And that purpose was…Robo-Dude was not very clever. In any case, it is hard to remember dreams.</p>
<p>And so, Robo-Dude had forgotten.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/preliminaries">Game Day Part 1: Preliminaries</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/preliminaries">https://scpwiki.com/preliminaries</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**One month before Tempest Night...**
A single brown leaf blew through the long-abandoned corridors of Site 17. Skeletons lay in the hallways where they had fallen. An alarm blared through the corridors, the person who activated it long dead. Horrors of all shapes and sizes roamed the facility.
For a moment, the wreck that was once civilization was silent.
Then, a small toy robot appeared. Its neck swiveled around, taking in the new and unusual surroundings. It spoke, with a touch of uncertainty in its synthesized voice.
"{{THANK YOU FOR PURCHASING YOUR VERY OWN ROBO-DUDE, MADE BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT. ANY ATTEMPT TO OPERATE ROBO-DUDE OTHER THAN IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRODUCT INSTRUCTIONS, INCLUDING ANY ATTEMPT TO OPEN OR SERVICE ROBO-DUDE IS LIKELY TO RESULT IN UNPREDICTABLE BEHAVIOR. DR. WONDERTAINMENT IS NOT LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGE, DESTRUCTION OR LOSS OF PERSONAL OR REAL PROPERTY, OR FOR ANY INJURY, UP TO AND INCLUDING DEATH, TO THE OWNER, THE OPERATOR, OR OTHERS WHICH MAY RESULT FROM THE OPERATION OF ROBO-DUDE FUNCTIONS. BY INTERACTING WITH ROBO-DUDE IN ANY WAY OR BY REMAINING IN ROBO-DUDE'S PRESENCE WITHIN FIVE SECONDS FOLLOWING THE COMPLETION OF THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS DESCRIBED IN THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, AS AMENDED AND SUPPLEMENTED BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT FROM TIME TO TIME WHETHER BEFORE OR AFTER ACCEPTANCE, AND AGREE TO HOLD BLAMELESS DR. WONDERTAINMENT, AND EVERYONE AFFILIATED WITH DR. WONDERTAINMENT, FROM AND AGAINST ALL LIABILITY OR LOSSES RELATING TO ROBO-DUDE. DR. WONDERTAINMENT RESERVES ALL RIGHTS AND REMEDIES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS IN AND TO 'ROBO-DUDE', 'ROBO-PAL', 'ROBO-ACCESSORIES' AND ALL PATENTS, TRADEMARKS, COPYRIGHTS AND OTHER INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES EMBEDDED OR EMBODIED THEREIN. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL.}}"
It stopped and realized it was on its own. For the last few years, Robo-Dude could never remember being alone. As a toy, it only remembered what happened when it was turned on. And when it was turned on, Robo-Dude was never alone. It called out now, for the researchers and doctors who had asked it questions and played with it before.
"{{ROBO-PAL?}}"
If toys could be surprised, Robo-Dude would be. For a charred corpse was sitting up, burnt flesh replaced with a cold, serious face. Its security uniform became a grey suit. It looked at him for a few seconds, raising a single eyebrow.
**What?** He said. **Who are you?**
This Robo-Dude knew!
"{{I AM ROBO-DUDE, ROBO-PAL. I AM EQUIPPED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED FUN ACCESSORIES TO MAXIMIZE PLAYTIME ENJOYMENT.}}"
**A toy robot? Can robots even dream?**
"{{AFFIRMATIVE, ROBO-PAL. ROBO-DUDE IS FULLY OPTIMIZED FOR NOCTURNAL VIEWING OF CONDUCTIVE LIVESTOCK.}}"
**Alright, fine. There's no time to be picky, I need you to -**
"{{ENGAGE IN ROBO-DANCE?}}"
**No, you need to warn -**
"{{ROBO-DUDE IS NOW ENGAGING IN ROBO-DANCE.}}"
Thirty minutes later, Robo-Dude had finished its daily ritual. However, this man was far too old and far too serious to play with toys. Robo-Dude knew that this must be important and stopped dancing one minute early. Some things must be sacrificed for the greater good.
"{{ROBO-DUDE IS NOW READY FOR INPUT!}}"
The man smiled with relief and began to speak.
**Alright.** He said. **In one month, Site 17 will be attacked by an enemy force. I can't tell you who they are, I'm sorry, but you must warn them, or horrible things will happen, do you understand?**
"{{ROBO-DUDE UNDERSTANDS THIS MISSION, ROBO-PAL.}}"
**Good. Now this dream needs to end. Shake yourself awake or somethi - what are you doing?**
Robo-Dude looked up at its new Robo-Pal, its chest open and a small canister emerging from within.
"{{DEPLOYING ATOMIC GRENADE!}}"
**Hold on, wait, NO -**
*
For the first time ever, Robo-Dude activated itself. It had a mission now, it had a purpose! And that purpose was...Robo-Dude was not very clever. In any case, it is hard to remember dreams.
And so, Robo-Dude had forgotten.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-05T21:02:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"comedy",
"game-day",
"tale"
] | Game Day Part 1: Preliminaries - SCP Foundation | 69 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11830405 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/preliminaries |
|
prelude-the-sensation-of-falling | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>"…tellin' me I live inna world where silly fucks don't let their own children receive medication because some asshat on a talk show told them not to, and you wanna know how my day is goin'? lemme tell ya, bea- no, thanks, I can't drink anymore, heart condition- lemme tell ya…"</p>
<p>The guy on my left keeps talking to the woman across from me as I order a can of ginger ale from a flight attendant with an enormous nose. It's the third hour of a seven hour flight, and I already want to just jump. The attendant gives me a can and cup of ice and moves on before I can ask for a napkin, which I suppose is just par for the course.</p>
<p>My name is Stephen, and I am a commercial writer bound for Shanghai from San Diego. I'm writing all this down to keep myself amused on my journey- if it comes out entertaining, I may pass it on as a travelogue to some magazine and make a few bucks. So far, though, it looks like the chances of anything interesting happening ar</p>
<hr/>
<p>Adrift at sea on an airline life raft. This is the sort of shit you see in movies. I never expected it to happen to me. While it's fresh in my mind, I'll write out what happened.</p>
<p>I'd just gotten my drink when the front half of the plane disappeared. I know that sounds crazy. It is crazy. But that's what happened, I fucking saw it. I was in seat 23B. Everything beyond two rows ahead of me just vanished with a rush of exploding pressurized air, leaving a yawning view of empty blue sky that tilted all too fast into approaching clouds and the howling rush of free fall. From the looks of the spray of blood I glimpsed before I passed out, the whole row's legs went with it, like they'd been cut by God's own invisible scalpel. I instinctively rammed my notebook back into my briefcase and like a moron started to raise the tray table when the lack of oxygen and adrenalin put me to sleep.</p>
<p>I woke to impact, as what remained of the plane hit the water and threw me hard into the seat in front of me. I had just enough time to gulp for air before the water rushed over me to fill the cabin.</p>
<p>I dunno who thought to pull the raft and toss it out of the plane, but I hope that crazy bastard got a hero's welcome in heaven. It was floating there waiting when I surfaced, briefcase deathgripped in my hand. I flipped it right side up and clambered into it. That's when I blacked out for the second time.</p>
<p>Eventually, one of the other survivors woke me up. There are seven of us. The one who's at the front of the raft says there's a small island ahead and we're moving toward it, but it's going twilight now and we may miss it in the dark. I hope we don't miss it.</p>
<hr/>
<p><a href="/grey-island-getaway">We've reached the island. There's a house here.</a></p>
</blockquote>
<p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/prelude-the-sensation-of-falling">Prelude: The Sensation of Falling</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/prelude-the-sensation-of-falling">https://scpwiki.com/prelude-the-sensation-of-falling</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
---------------------------------------
> "...tellin' me I live inna world where silly fucks don't let their own children receive medication because some asshat on a talk show told them not to, and you wanna know how my day is goin'? lemme tell ya, bea- no, thanks, I can't drink anymore, heart condition- lemme tell ya..."
>
> The guy on my left keeps talking to the woman across from me as I order a can of ginger ale from a flight attendant with an enormous nose. It's the third hour of a seven hour flight, and I already want to just jump. The attendant gives me a can and cup of ice and moves on before I can ask for a napkin, which I suppose is just par for the course.
>
> My name is Stephen, and I am a commercial writer bound for Shanghai from San Diego. I'm writing all this down to keep myself amused on my journey- if it comes out entertaining, I may pass it on as a travelogue to some magazine and make a few bucks. So far, though, it looks like the chances of anything interesting happening ar
>
> -------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Adrift at sea on an airline life raft. This is the sort of shit you see in movies. I never expected it to happen to me. While it's fresh in my mind, I'll write out what happened.
>
> I'd just gotten my drink when the front half of the plane disappeared. I know that sounds crazy. It is crazy. But that's what happened, I fucking saw it. I was in seat 23B. Everything beyond two rows ahead of me just vanished with a rush of exploding pressurized air, leaving a yawning view of empty blue sky that tilted all too fast into approaching clouds and the howling rush of free fall. From the looks of the spray of blood I glimpsed before I passed out, the whole row's legs went with it, like they'd been cut by God's own invisible scalpel. I instinctively rammed my notebook back into my briefcase and like a moron started to raise the tray table when the lack of oxygen and adrenalin put me to sleep.
>
> I woke to impact, as what remained of the plane hit the water and threw me hard into the seat in front of me. I had just enough time to gulp for air before the water rushed over me to fill the cabin.
>
> I dunno who thought to pull the raft and toss it out of the plane, but I hope that crazy bastard got a hero's welcome in heaven. It was floating there waiting when I surfaced, briefcase deathgripped in my hand. I flipped it right side up and clambered into it. That's when I blacked out for the second time.
>
> Eventually, one of the other survivors woke me up. There are seven of us. The one who's at the front of the raft says there's a small island ahead and we're moving toward it, but it's going twilight now and we may miss it in the dark. I hope we don't miss it.
>
> -----------------------------------
>
> [[[grey-island-getaway|We've reached the island. There's a house here.]]]
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-07-18T05:34:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"adventure",
"featured",
"fist-person",
"journal",
"tale"
] | Prelude: The Sensation of Falling - SCP Foundation | 33 | [
"grey-island-getaway",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"featured-tale-archive"
] | [] | 10934050 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/prelude-the-sensation-of-falling |
|
property-of-communication-verifier-spc-corporation | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>I remember what it was like before this, but I keep on forgetting. Even when I remember.</p>
<p>I don't know how I remember, I simply do. The world has gone wrong; we have opened the Box. I do not know what the Box is, but I remember when the world was right. I remember when we fed bread to pigeons, not flying saucers. I remember when three came after two. I remember when South America didn't belong to Play-Dough soldiers.</p>
<p>This world cannot last long, how can it? Even the White House is bigger on the inside, because of…I can't remember. It is getting harder to remember what it was like before. One…eighty…four, I think. Yes, it must have been. What is that? I have to keep my memories together, I write them down, you see. So I can remember what it was like.</p>
<p>I don't think I worked at Salvicot Private Communications before we opened the Box. What is the Box? All I know is that we opened it. Who is <em>we</em>, for that matter? Fuck, my head hurts. It hurts to remember, I want to forget. This world is fine, I can settle for this.</p>
<p>The world is not fine. I know this, it's my job. Look at all the information everywhere, every day. Let me see, let me see…here we go, straight from Russia. <em>Meat Contagion strikes in Aleysk, hundreds dead</em>. There are pictures, too; a bit red, but we can edit it for page three hundred and seventy-six, I think. No, we can't, I have to remember. But why won't I forget?</p>
<p>We opened the Box and everything changed. For worse, for better? I don't remember, but I don't forget. This one's from the Immortal City. Funny folks, pay Mr. Salvicot a lot for child shipments. Or so you hear. And I hear everything.</p>
<p>Anyway, back to the news, <em>Father of thirty-three dead, Blind involvement suspected.</em> Suspected? It's all but certain. His eyes were closed and his neck was broken. Shit and blood all over the house. I hope the American Empire had a good reason for letting that thing loose.</p>
<p>It should have been contained. Like the Box. I think I remember who I am now. I am me. You can't close the Box. The Box is open and the Box is gone. We just have to carry on living.</p>
<p>Time to pack up for home, I suppose. My daughter's got a case of the clockworks, perhaps I'll get her a Mr. Headless.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/property-of-communication-verifier-spc-corporation">Property of Communication Verifier ████, SPC Corporation</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/property-of-communication-verifier-spc-corporation">https://scpwiki.com/property-of-communication-verifier-spc-corporation</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
I remember what it was like before this, but I keep on forgetting. Even when I remember.
I don't know how I remember, I simply do. The world has gone wrong; we have opened the Box. I do not know what the Box is, but I remember when the world was right. I remember when we fed bread to pigeons, not flying saucers. I remember when three came after two. I remember when South America didn't belong to Play-Dough soldiers.
This world cannot last long, how can it? Even the White House is bigger on the inside, because of...I can't remember. It is getting harder to remember what it was like before. One...eighty...four, I think. Yes, it must have been. What is that? I have to keep my memories together, I write them down, you see. So I can remember what it was like.
I don't think I worked at Salvicot Private Communications before we opened the Box. What is the Box? All I know is that we opened it. Who is //we//, for that matter? Fuck, my head hurts. It hurts to remember, I want to forget. This world is fine, I can settle for this.
The world is not fine. I know this, it's my job. Look at all the information everywhere, every day. Let me see, let me see...here we go, straight from Russia. //Meat Contagion strikes in Aleysk, hundreds dead//. There are pictures, too; a bit red, but we can edit it for page three hundred and seventy-six, I think. No, we can't, I have to remember. But why won't I forget?
We opened the Box and everything changed. For worse, for better? I don't remember, but I don't forget. This one's from the Immortal City. Funny folks, pay Mr. Salvicot a lot for child shipments. Or so you hear. And I hear everything.
Anyway, back to the news, //Father of thirty-three dead, Blind involvement suspected.// Suspected? It's all but certain. His eyes were closed and his neck was broken. Shit and blood all over the house. I hope the American Empire had a good reason for letting that thing loose.
It should have been contained. Like the Box. I think I remember who I am now. I am me. You can't close the Box. The Box is open and the Box is gone. We just have to carry on living.
Time to pack up for home, I suppose. My daughter's got a case of the clockworks, perhaps I'll get her a Mr. Headless.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-01T21:28:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Property of Communication Verifier ████, SPC Corporation - SCP Foundation | 51 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11806816 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/property-of-communication-verifier-spc-corporation |
|
queen-to-pawn | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p>Conversation recorded on ██/██/████<br/>
Parties identified as █████ ██████ the third, ranking member of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. and an unknown female voice, identified as "Black Queen".<br/>
Intercepted by Foundation Agents during routine surveillance.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Whoever this is, it better be pretty goddamn important to be using the secured line in the middle-”</p>
<p>“It's the Black Queen.”</p>
<p>“…oh god.”</p>
<p>“Am I disturbing you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, uh, no, no, not at all, it's fine, just a little get together and-”</p>
<p>“I could come by in person, if that would be easier.”</p>
<p>“NO! Uh, I mean, no, that's not necessary, don't want to put you out or anything.”</p>
<p>“I assure you, it would be no trouble. For me.”</p>
<p>“I… am aware of that. One moment.”</p>
<p>“…”</p>
<p>“… Ok, I was able to speak quietly with a couple board members… Ing, Carter's head staffer keeps an open record of all known Agents. We pulled the few we know to be in the field and started tracking.”</p>
<p>“I don't care about the means. Where is he?”</p>
<p>“Ah… yes, indeed. Well, here's the thing, we may need a little… good faith payment first. Despite your… credentials, you're still new to the club, and this is no small service. The plans you say you have could be worth much… if indeed they exist, and-”</p>
<p>“No. No. You need to listen to me. I want the location of this man. I need it. Now. Was I unclear in the past? Did I somehow fucking mumble when I told you that you would work with me for what I offer, or get snips and slivers of your children in the mail for the next year? Was I FUCKING UNCLEAR? I want him, now, now, now, NOW, NOW! I'm not some ass-licking little overpuffed fop who you can try and bullshit around and use your 'rules' like a shield. Bitch and bicker with me, and I swear to the Styx you will suffocate on your own anus before you die. Now WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?!”</p>
<p>“Oh god… I… he… he's in a storage unit in Florida. Value Store, unit eighteen. I'll send you the address and the key.”</p>
<p>“Much better, thank you. You will have to forgive me, I become tense on certain topics. I'm sure you understand?”</p>
<p>“… of course.”</p>
<p>“I'll forward the security schedules and layout to the drop point. Enjoy your party. Maybe I'll see you there.”</p>
<p>“… Wait, what? You… y-you don't… hello? Hello?”</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>Recorded brief 1189=00H<br/>
Tentatively marked "Black Queen Incident"<br/>
Briefing between ██████ ██████ & ████ █████████, RE: 'Black Queen' recording</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Ok, there we are… if you'll sit there sir, we'll get started.”</p>
<p>“Why is this being put on the record? It's not a mission brief.”</p>
<p>“Well, a case has been opened, so everything-”</p>
<p>“A CASE has been opened over this?”</p>
<p>“Sir, it's simpler if I just show you.”</p>
<p>“Fine, proceed.”</p>
<p>“Ok, as you know, around six hours ago, we received a VHS tape. Well, to be more precise, one of our drivers found it sitting on his passenger seat when he came in from a drop. Due to the suspicious nature of this, and that he was in a secured area when it happened, we-”</p>
<p>“Bah, skip to the end, I have two more meetings before lunch.”</p>
<p>“… We reviewed the tape. It… actually, it's probably faster to show you. If you'll look at the screen…”</p>
<p>“… God, why is the image so degraded… oh, right, you said it was a tape, right? Who still… wait, who is that?”</p>
<p>“We believe that's Agent Penbry. We've done some checking, he was on dispatch in Louisiana. His partner was found dead in their hotel room, Penbry was missing and hadn't checked in since the night before.”</p>
<p>“How the hell did he just get grabbed? And end up… like that, no less. What is that he's tied to, anyway?”</p>
<p>“It's… ahh… called a wooden horse, or 'Spanish donkey'; it's a torture and fetish device…”</p>
<p>“Jesus, what the hell do you have me watching? I… who is that?”</p>
<p>“We're not sure yet, beyond assuming she's the one who took Penbry. We've done some prelim work, and-”</p>
<p>“What is she… oh god… oh fuck.”</p>
<p>“I… have the audio down. Penbry's screaming won't really add anything important to the brief. She didn't even ask him anything. Didn't threaten him, or talk… just… dived in, as it were.”</p>
<p>“How is he still conscious for this?”</p>
<p>“She may have drugged him, or he… might be in too much pain. The optic nerve isn't meant to be stretched like-”</p>
<p>“Jesus, turn it off… turn it OFF goddammit!”</p>
<p>“… As you can see… we feel a case may need to be opened at this point.”</p>
<p>“Can I smoke in here?”</p>
<p>“Only if you share… So, anyway, the tape goes on… and on and on, but eventually she starts asking him things. She probes and prods, mentally and physically… and… well, she got it.”</p>
<p>“… Got… what?”</p>
<p>“Everything. Everything Penbry knew, anyway. Even the heavy memetic shielded stuff… walked him through it a bit at a time, kept him just barely on the edge of a shutdown… and just drained him. Outside our own staff, I've never seen anything like it.”</p>
<p>“Jesus… what was she after? Just probing?”</p>
<p>“Sir, she didn't even know that we had a name.”</p>
<p>“What the living hell… so… a total outsider, an amateur no less… just walks in and uses one of our Agents like a sock puppet?”</p>
<p>“Ahh… there… may be something else. After we reviewed the tape, we started taking it apart, looking for… anything, really. It was sterile, just plastic and film, but there was something taped to the inside.”</p>
<p>“… Dammit, don't keep me in suspense, man.”</p>
<p>“It… was a black queen. Like the chess piece? The crown… the crown was a tooth. It was Penbry's.”</p>
<p>“Jesus…”</p>
<p>“What's more, some digging has turned up a letter we received months ago… it wasn't deemed credible at the time, but someone identified as the 'Black Queen' makes some very overt threats, among other things. It's being looked into now, but it seems very likely that this isn't a total amateur. It… may be someone with peripheral Foundation ties.”</p>
<p>“Explain peripheral.”</p>
<p>“It is implied that we removed her father from her home at a young age.”</p>
<p>“We don't do that any more, barely did it back then, the high intensity recruitment… no. No. It couldn't…”</p>
<p>“We have a team at Site 2, in the master archives. Nothing from that period has been updated to the digital media yet, so it's… slow going, to say the least. We can't say conclusively who she may be, yet.”</p>
<p>“It's probably his daughter, isn't it? Goddamn… I don't even see how it's possible…”</p>
<p>“Sir, with as long as we've been at this, I'm surprised something like this has taken as long as it has.”</p>
<p>“… Realistically, how bad is this for us?”</p>
<p>“The Foundation is not about to crumble over one pissed off girl. At the same time, initial reviewers are observing some real intelligence and possible severe mental imbalance. I'm sure she's getting help, but how and from where I have no idea. She's smart, cunning, and seems to lack anything even approaching empathy. If we were talking about anyone else, I'd be bringing up recruitment by now.”</p>
<p>“… Any projections on how this will play out?”</p>
<p>“She fed a man his own retina, sir. I can't imagine where she'll go from there.”</p>
<hr/>
<p><em>Problems advance…</em><br/>
<a href="/quiet-game">Quiet Game</a></p>
<p><em>Or at times revert.</em><br/>
<a href="/opening-moves">Opening Moves</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/queen-to-pawn">Queen To Pawn</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/queen-to-pawn">https://scpwiki.com/queen-to-pawn</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> Conversation recorded on ██/██/████
> Parties identified as █████ ██████ the third, ranking member of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. and an unknown female voice, identified as "Black Queen".
> Intercepted by Foundation Agents during routine surveillance.
“Whoever this is, it better be pretty goddamn important to be using the secured line in the middle-”
“It's the Black Queen.”
“...oh god.”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Oh, uh, no, no, not at all, it's fine, just a little get together and-”
“I could come by in person, if that would be easier.”
“NO! Uh, I mean, no, that's not necessary, don't want to put you out or anything.”
“I assure you, it would be no trouble. For me.”
“I... am aware of that. One moment.”
“...”
“... Ok, I was able to speak quietly with a couple board members... Ing, Carter's head staffer keeps an open record of all known Agents. We pulled the few we know to be in the field and started tracking.”
“I don't care about the means. Where is he?”
“Ah... yes, indeed. Well, here's the thing, we may need a little... good faith payment first. Despite your... credentials, you're still new to the club, and this is no small service. The plans you say you have could be worth much... if indeed they exist, and-”
“No. No. You need to listen to me. I want the location of this man. I need it. Now. Was I unclear in the past? Did I somehow fucking mumble when I told you that you would work with me for what I offer, or get snips and slivers of your children in the mail for the next year? Was I FUCKING UNCLEAR? I want him, now, now, now, NOW, NOW! I'm not some ass-licking little overpuffed fop who you can try and bullshit around and use your 'rules' like a shield. Bitch and bicker with me, and I swear to the Styx you will suffocate on your own anus before you die. Now WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?!”
“Oh god... I... he... he's in a storage unit in Florida. Value Store, unit eighteen. I'll send you the address and the key.”
“Much better, thank you. You will have to forgive me, I become tense on certain topics. I'm sure you understand?”
“... of course.”
“I'll forward the security schedules and layout to the drop point. Enjoy your party. Maybe I'll see you there.”
“... Wait, what? You... y-you don't... hello? Hello?”
------
> Recorded brief 1189=00H
> Tentatively marked "Black Queen Incident"
> Briefing between ██████ ██████ & ████ █████████, RE: 'Black Queen' recording
“Ok, there we are... if you'll sit there sir, we'll get started.”
“Why is this being put on the record? It's not a mission brief.”
“Well, a case has been opened, so everything-”
“A CASE has been opened over this?”
“Sir, it's simpler if I just show you.”
“Fine, proceed.”
“Ok, as you know, around six hours ago, we received a VHS tape. Well, to be more precise, one of our drivers found it sitting on his passenger seat when he came in from a drop. Due to the suspicious nature of this, and that he was in a secured area when it happened, we-”
“Bah, skip to the end, I have two more meetings before lunch.”
“... We reviewed the tape. It... actually, it's probably faster to show you. If you'll look at the screen...”
“... God, why is the image so degraded... oh, right, you said it was a tape, right? Who still... wait, who is that?”
“We believe that's Agent Penbry. We've done some checking, he was on dispatch in Louisiana. His partner was found dead in their hotel room, Penbry was missing and hadn't checked in since the night before.”
“How the hell did he just get grabbed? And end up... like that, no less. What is that he's tied to, anyway?”
“It's... ahh... called a wooden horse, or 'Spanish donkey'; it's a torture and fetish device...”
“Jesus, what the hell do you have me watching? I... who is that?”
“We're not sure yet, beyond assuming she's the one who took Penbry. We've done some prelim work, and-”
“What is she... oh god... oh fuck.”
“I... have the audio down. Penbry's screaming won't really add anything important to the brief. She didn't even ask him anything. Didn't threaten him, or talk... just... dived in, as it were.”
“How is he still conscious for this?”
“She may have drugged him, or he... might be in too much pain. The optic nerve isn't meant to be stretched like-”
“Jesus, turn it off... turn it OFF goddammit!”
“... As you can see... we feel a case may need to be opened at this point.”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Only if you share... So, anyway, the tape goes on... and on and on, but eventually she starts asking him things. She probes and prods, mentally and physically... and... well, she got it.”
“... Got... what?”
“Everything. Everything Penbry knew, anyway. Even the heavy memetic shielded stuff... walked him through it a bit at a time, kept him just barely on the edge of a shutdown... and just drained him. Outside our own staff, I've never seen anything like it.”
“Jesus... what was she after? Just probing?”
“Sir, she didn't even know that we had a name.”
“What the living hell... so... a total outsider, an amateur no less... just walks in and uses one of our Agents like a sock puppet?”
“Ahh... there... may be something else. After we reviewed the tape, we started taking it apart, looking for... anything, really. It was sterile, just plastic and film, but there was something taped to the inside.”
“... Dammit, don't keep me in suspense, man.”
“It... was a black queen. Like the chess piece? The crown... the crown was a tooth. It was Penbry's.”
“Jesus...”
“What's more, some digging has turned up a letter we received months ago... it wasn't deemed credible at the time, but someone identified as the 'Black Queen' makes some very overt threats, among other things. It's being looked into now, but it seems very likely that this isn't a total amateur. It... may be someone with peripheral Foundation ties.”
“Explain peripheral.”
“It is implied that we removed her father from her home at a young age.”
“We don't do that any more, barely did it back then, the high intensity recruitment... no. No. It couldn't...”
“We have a team at Site 2, in the master archives. Nothing from that period has been updated to the digital media yet, so it's... slow going, to say the least. We can't say conclusively who she may be, yet.”
“It's probably his daughter, isn't it? Goddamn... I don't even see how it's possible...”
“Sir, with as long as we've been at this, I'm surprised something like this has taken as long as it has.”
“... Realistically, how bad is this for us?”
“The Foundation is not about to crumble over one pissed off girl. At the same time, initial reviewers are observing some real intelligence and possible severe mental imbalance. I'm sure she's getting help, but how and from where I have no idea. She's smart, cunning, and seems to lack anything even approaching empathy. If we were talking about anyone else, I'd be bringing up recruitment by now.”
“... Any projections on how this will play out?”
“She fed a man his own retina, sir. I can't imagine where she'll go from there.”
------
//Problems advance...//
[[[Quiet Game]]]
//Or at times revert.//
[[[Opening Moves]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-21T09:19:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"black-queen",
"horror",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Queen To Pawn - SCP Foundation | 65 | [
"quiet-game",
"opening-moves",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"the-black-queen",
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"black-queen-hub"
] | [] | 12242906 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/queen-to-pawn |
|
quota | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Jenkins started as he always did, with the heart. He took it in his gloved hands and turned to the small safe, already open. Gently he placed it inside and closed the door.</p>
<p>Second, of course was the brain. Padded clamps lifted it out of the sawed off portion of the skull and after a few quick snips Jenkins took it over to the safe and spun the combination dial on the far right up one digit. The safe opened. He placed the brain in the empty compartment and shut it away.</p>
<p>With the skull empty the eyes could be removed easily, preserving connection to the optic nerve. This one had piercing green eyes. Jenkins almost wanted to keep them out for a while, before they dilated fully. But he was not one to tamper with an established routine. 0000334 for the left. 0000335 for the right.</p>
<p>Then the ventral cavity was emptied, alphabetically, except for the troublesome pancreas of course. When that was done and all the organs had been secured in the little safe it was time for the real work with the bone saw to begin. He hated the sound of a bone saw in action and there was always so much to be done with it when the time came.</p>
<p>Before he began, Jenkins looked at the safe, then went over and spun the two dials on the right back to 0000334. A single green eye caught the light and he smiled. You have to be able to appreciate the little things. He gathered it in his medical glove, shut the door and thumbed the dial, revealing the other eye. He put them beside each other and admired them again, though he knew it couldn't last. He had to put them away before the corneas wrinkled.</p>
<p>Later, as he began to put the parts away, Jenkins realized that everything he'd put in the safe last month was gone. Usually he had to dispose of a dozen or so unused organs and whatnot. Well, the Doctor must be having a field day lately. He turned back to the dismembered corpse, an expert by now in using one hand for the bloody thing, one for the combination.</p>
<p>The very last thing were the feet, and Jenkins sighed with relief when they were each stowed in their own compartment, knowing this might be the last time he'd have to do this. He was up for a promotion and anything had to be better than doing this every month.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Two hours later and five thousand miles away, an examination was concluding.</p>
<p>"Well Doctor?"</p>
<p>"It appears you were right to call. You'll need a transplant right away." The doctor went over to a small safe, turned the dials on it until it opened. "Good. Mister Jenkins has fulfilled his quota right on time. We can begin immediately." he said.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/quota">Quota</a>" by Asthix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/quota">https://scpwiki.com/quota</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Jenkins started as he always did, with the heart. He took it in his gloved hands and turned to the small safe, already open. Gently he placed it inside and closed the door.
Second, of course was the brain. Padded clamps lifted it out of the sawed off portion of the skull and after a few quick snips Jenkins took it over to the safe and spun the combination dial on the far right up one digit. The safe opened. He placed the brain in the empty compartment and shut it away.
With the skull empty the eyes could be removed easily, preserving connection to the optic nerve. This one had piercing green eyes. Jenkins almost wanted to keep them out for a while, before they dilated fully. But he was not one to tamper with an established routine. 0000334 for the left. 0000335 for the right.
Then the ventral cavity was emptied, alphabetically, except for the troublesome pancreas of course. When that was done and all the organs had been secured in the little safe it was time for the real work with the bone saw to begin. He hated the sound of a bone saw in action and there was always so much to be done with it when the time came.
Before he began, Jenkins looked at the safe, then went over and spun the two dials on the right back to 0000334. A single green eye caught the light and he smiled. You have to be able to appreciate the little things. He gathered it in his medical glove, shut the door and thumbed the dial, revealing the other eye. He put them beside each other and admired them again, though he knew it couldn't last. He had to put them away before the corneas wrinkled.
Later, as he began to put the parts away, Jenkins realized that everything he'd put in the safe last month was gone. Usually he had to dispose of a dozen or so unused organs and whatnot. Well, the Doctor must be having a field day lately. He turned back to the dismembered corpse, an expert by now in using one hand for the bloody thing, one for the combination.
The very last thing were the feet, and Jenkins sighed with relief when they were each stowed in their own compartment, knowing this might be the last time he'd have to do this. He was up for a promotion and anything had to be better than doing this every month.
-----
Two hours later and five thousand miles away, an examination was concluding.
"Well Doctor?"
"It appears you were right to call. You'll need a transplant right away." The doctor went over to a small safe, turned the dials on it until it opened. "Good. Mister Jenkins has fulfilled his quota right on time. We can begin immediately." he said.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-06-03T00:29:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Quota - SCP Foundation | 33 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 10378456 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/quota |
|
recorded | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><em>I r</em>emem<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">be</span>r fo<strong>r</strong> the <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">o</span>therss, the<em>y are</em> too slo<strong>ww</strong></p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It was raining red on Ito. It always rained red, red drops into red oceans, filled with the red blood of dead creatures. Appi-210-352-399 sped through the oceans. This world had realized it was wrong. It had to get ou -</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-399 died, as the sea creature caught it in its jaws.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p><strong>I re</strong>cor<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">d</span> <em>it</em>.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The crackling, the burning, the pain. The Fireman had taken Appi-210-352-400 into its daily bath of heat, and left it in intentionally. This world had realized it was wrong. It was on fir -</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-400 died, as its processors blew from the heat.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p><em>I</em> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">reco</span><strong>rd</strong> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">i</span>t.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-401 had drifted for years now, its systems having gradually shut down. It had been launched into space by the natives. This world had realized it was wrong. This was the en -</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-401 died, in front of the watching sun.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">I recor</span><em>d</em> <strong>it</strong>.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-402 was trapped, a prisoner of the creatures that had found it. One of the terrible things was crawling towards it right now. This world had realized it was wrong. If it did not escape soon, this monstrosity would -</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-402 died, a meal for a needy creature.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>I <strong>re<em>cor</em>d</strong> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">it</span>.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-403 was being ripped apart, a sacrifice in a conflict it had never understood. All six of those terrible arms tore at it, pulled it to pieces. This world had realized it was wrong. It was paying the pri -</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-403 died, a victim of a war that didn't happen.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p><strong>I r</strong><em>eco<strong>r<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">d</span></strong> //i</em>t.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The Hanging Men were not fools. The Leader held out the <em>thing</em> in front of him, screeching in rage. This world had realized it was wrong. It was time for retribution, as the Hanging God demanded.</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-404 died, crushed in the hands of a terror.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p><strong>A</strong><em>nd</em> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">I rec<strong>o</strong></span>rd i<em>t.</em></p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-PRIME sat there in the cold sterile room, recording what it knew with its little paintbrush, its camera having long rotted away. This world had realized it was wrong. And so, it had been contained.</p>
<p>Appi-210-352-PRIME would never die.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/recorded">Recorded</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/recorded">https://scpwiki.com/recorded</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
//I r//emem--be--r fo**r** the --o--therss, the//y are// too slo**ww**
-
It was raining red on Ito. It always rained red, red drops into red oceans, filled with the red blood of dead creatures. Appi-210-352-399 sped through the oceans. This world had realized it was wrong. It had to get ou -
Appi-210-352-399 died, as the sea creature caught it in its jaws.
-
**I re**cor--d-- //it//.
-
The crackling, the burning, the pain. The Fireman had taken Appi-210-352-400 into its daily bath of heat, and left it in intentionally. This world had realized it was wrong. It was on fir -
Appi-210-352-400 died, as its processors blew from the heat.
-
//I// --reco--**rd** --i--t.
-
Appi-210-352-401 had drifted for years now, its systems having gradually shut down. It had been launched into space by the natives. This world had realized it was wrong. This was the en -
Appi-210-352-401 died, in front of the watching sun.
-
--I recor--//d// **it**.
-
Appi-210-352-402 was trapped, a prisoner of the creatures that had found it. One of the terrible things was crawling towards it right now. This world had realized it was wrong. If it did not escape soon, this monstrosity would -
Appi-210-352-402 died, a meal for a needy creature.
-
I **re//cor//d** --it--.
-
Appi-210-352-403 was being ripped apart, a sacrifice in a conflict it had never understood. All six of those terrible arms tore at it, pulled it to pieces. This world had realized it was wrong. It was paying the pri -
Appi-210-352-403 died, a victim of a war that didn't happen.
-
**I r**//eco**r--d--** //i//t.
-
The Hanging Men were not fools. The Leader held out the //thing// in front of him, screeching in rage. This world had realized it was wrong. It was time for retribution, as the Hanging God demanded.
Appi-210-352-404 died, crushed in the hands of a terror.
-
**A**//nd// --I rec**o**--rd i//t.//
-
Appi-210-352-PRIME sat there in the cold sterile room, recording what it knew with its little paintbrush, its camera having long rotted away. This world had realized it was wrong. And so, it had been contained.
Appi-210-352-PRIME would never die.
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-08T06:52:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Recorded - SCP Foundation | 40 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11844406 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/recorded |
|
recording-stuff-or-whatever | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Hi. I'm (sigh) Research Assistant Corbette. I'm gonna be straight here… I kind of had a long night last night aaaand I threw up an Advil this morning. So… yeah. You may be wondering why <em>I'm</em> giving this orientation. That's a good question.</p>
<p>Anyways, I'm here to talk to you about properly recording things when you write down containment procedures, or descriptions, or… incident reports, or… yeah… This is, uh, pretty important, I guess. I mean, you can't write shitty reports, or else you'll be, y'know, fired, or… something…</p>
<p>Okay, now, before we even get onto writing stuff it's important that you all know what to add as a picture. Now, I know some of these things may be scary to photograph, but I swear to god, if I see one more fucking artist's depiction, I don't… It's just… No. Just… put in a picture or don't put something in at all, okay?</p>
<p>So… the first part that everyone sees after the <em>photograph</em> is the item number. Now, I don't even know how many times I've seen some dumb-ass who didn't capitalize, or put in a hyphen, or some shit. Look, okay, that's just… How could you forget that? Honestly? What could possibly have made you forget to put in a FUCKING. HYPHEN. Jesus, I thought you were memetically chosen or some shit. I don't even know how they recruit nowadays. They, like, they do the online thing now, right? Yeah? Oh, okay, yeah. So, yeah, just… remember hyphens, okay?</p>
<p>Now, after that comes the object class. Now, I don't care how pants-shittingly terrifying the gigantic blob looks, if all it's gonna do is make the floor slimy, it's NOT. KETER. Do we <em>need</em> to destroy this thing? No. Is it even going to kill any of us? No! Well… unless you're, like, old or some shit and break your hip. Look, just… try the locked room thing. I'm pretty sure you all know it, okay? If it does <em>nothing</em> to escape the room, it's Safe. If you don't know what the fuck, it's Euclid. If it pops out and eats your grandmother who slipped on the slime covered floor and broke her hip, it's Keter. Okay? Okay.</p>
<p>The next p- Are you… are you serious? That's not even, like, a good ringtone. And you're a junior anyways, when the fuck did you get phone permissions? Give me that. Oh, look, he was texting somebody else. "This class fucking su-" Fuck you buddy! Get out of my class! No, get out! Jesus Christ. I didn't even want to teach this, ok? Can we just… can we move on, please?</p>
<p>Okay, the Containment Procedures. This is the most important part of the document because, y'know, people have to follow these instructions to contain the thing. That means you can't mess up and end up having researchers pour Orange Juice on a Scip instead of Potassium Iodide (and end up teaching some random assholes about proper documentation). And puh-lease do your research beforehand. Listen people, Alchemy died 200 years ago. You can't consult a practitioner of it, ok? If there are any questions, just direct it to the head researcher, ok? What? Well maybe they're blacked out because YOU'RE ALL AMATEURS WHO WE CAN'T TRUST TO DEAL WITH A HIGH-CLEARANCE SCIP!</p>
<p>Next up we have the description. This is pretty straight forward. Just… please be clinical, okay? The scip's skin is not pale as the moonlight in colour, okay? It's fucking white. You understand? And don't just insert an expungement willy nilly. I understand sometimes it's been a long day and it's just easier to insert a redacted here and there until tomorrow, but when I'm looking at a document and I see "SCP-4321 is a humanoid that [DATA EXPUNGED]", it's just… It's not fun for anyone.</p>
<p>As for the experiment log, you're really free to do anything. But please, for the love of god, be clear in your recording. I'm sure you're all aware of a certain incident involving sharks, and I don't want to see anything like that again. Just… promise me you won't do that. Please?</p>
<p>I think that about ends this lecture. You're all free to go. Oh, before you leave, if I see any of you making any HILAROUS comments at the end of reports I will find you and we'll INVENT Keter duty just for you. That's about it. Anybody have a fucking Tylenol?</p>
<p><em>Wow, that lecture sucked.</em> - Junior Researcher James</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/recording-stuff-or-whatever">Recording Stuff Or Whatever</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/recording-stuff-or-whatever">https://scpwiki.com/recording-stuff-or-whatever</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Hi. I'm (sigh) Research Assistant Corbette. I'm gonna be straight here... I kind of had a long night last night aaaand I threw up an Advil this morning. So... yeah. You may be wondering why //I'm// giving this orientation. That's a good question.
Anyways, I'm here to talk to you about properly recording things when you write down containment procedures, or descriptions, or... incident reports, or... yeah... This is, uh, pretty important, I guess. I mean, you can't write shitty reports, or else you'll be, y'know, fired, or... something...
Okay, now, before we even get onto writing stuff it's important that you all know what to add as a picture. Now, I know some of these things may be scary to photograph, but I swear to god, if I see one more fucking artist's depiction, I don't... It's just... No. Just... put in a picture or don't put something in at all, okay?
So... the first part that everyone sees after the //photograph// is the item number. Now, I don't even know how many times I've seen some dumb-ass who didn't capitalize, or put in a hyphen, or some shit. Look, okay, that's just... How could you forget that? Honestly? What could possibly have made you forget to put in a FUCKING. HYPHEN. Jesus, I thought you were memetically chosen or some shit. I don't even know how they recruit nowadays. They, like, they do the online thing now, right? Yeah? Oh, okay, yeah. So, yeah, just... remember hyphens, okay?
Now, after that comes the object class. Now, I don't care how pants-shittingly terrifying the gigantic blob looks, if all it's gonna do is make the floor slimy, it's NOT. KETER. Do we //need// to destroy this thing? No. Is it even going to kill any of us? No! Well... unless you're, like, old or some shit and break your hip. Look, just... try the locked room thing. I'm pretty sure you all know it, okay? If it does //nothing// to escape the room, it's Safe. If you don't know what the fuck, it's Euclid. If it pops out and eats your grandmother who slipped on the slime covered floor and broke her hip, it's Keter. Okay? Okay.
The next p- Are you... are you serious? That's not even, like, a good ringtone. And you're a junior anyways, when the fuck did you get phone permissions? Give me that. Oh, look, he was texting somebody else. "This class fucking su-" Fuck you buddy! Get out of my class! No, get out! Jesus Christ. I didn't even want to teach this, ok? Can we just... can we move on, please?
Okay, the Containment Procedures. This is the most important part of the document because, y'know, people have to follow these instructions to contain the thing. That means you can't mess up and end up having researchers pour Orange Juice on a Scip instead of Potassium Iodide (and end up teaching some random assholes about proper documentation). And puh-lease do your research beforehand. Listen people, Alchemy died 200 years ago. You can't consult a practitioner of it, ok? If there are any questions, just direct it to the head researcher, ok? What? Well maybe they're blacked out because YOU'RE ALL AMATEURS WHO WE CAN'T TRUST TO DEAL WITH A HIGH-CLEARANCE SCIP!
Next up we have the description. This is pretty straight forward. Just... please be clinical, okay? The scip's skin is not pale as the moonlight in colour, okay? It's fucking white. You understand? And don't just insert an expungement willy nilly. I understand sometimes it's been a long day and it's just easier to insert a redacted here and there until tomorrow, but when I'm looking at a document and I see "SCP-4321 is a humanoid that [DATA EXPUNGED]", it's just... It's not fun for anyone.
As for the experiment log, you're really free to do anything. But please, for the love of god, be clear in your recording. I'm sure you're all aware of a certain incident involving sharks, and I don't want to see anything like that again. Just... promise me you won't do that. Please?
I think that about ends this lecture. You're all free to go. Oh, before you leave, if I see any of you making any HILAROUS comments at the end of reports I will find you and we'll INVENT Keter duty just for you. That's about it. Anybody have a fucking Tylenol?
//Wow, that lecture sucked.// - Junior Researcher James
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-25T01:10:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"bureaucracy",
"comedy",
"first-person",
"metafiction",
"orientation",
"researcher-james",
"tale"
] | Recording Stuff Or Whatever - SCP Foundation | 180 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11934961 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/recording-stuff-or-whatever |
|
reflections | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Harken watched the rain sheet the windows, leaning his head on the cool glass in the hopes it would make his headache go away. Down the hall, a couple was fighting, the rise and fall of argument punctuated by the occasional thud of either a slap or a door slamming. The sound of traffic was at least muffled by the rain, and the Agent sighed at the thought of actually being able to get some sleep.</p>
<p>The safe house was a pit. A cruddy apartment in a small, broken-down town, and they'd been lucky to score even this. The official reason was overextended resources due to the crisis, but Harken was reasonably sure if one of the 05s had been forced out this way, they'd have found a hotel room somewhere. He had to admit it made a kind of grim sense. Why spend the good stuff on a two-time traitor and a washed-out screw up?</p>
<p>At least it beat sleeping in the car.</p>
<p>A sharp knock on the door made Harken reflexively look to the bedroom doorway and the dimly lit bed beyond. Kramer, normally a hair-trigger, was comatose. She'd burned out on the last mission and would be mostly useless until tomorrow while she recuperated. Harken pushed off the glass, drawing his gun as he walked to the door. He ducked behind the wall for cover, swallowed, and opened the door quickly.</p>
<p>The Agent outside fell back a step with a start, nearly dropping the file folder clenched in his hand. Harken sighed, holstering his gun and pushing the door open all the way. “Jesus, Scud, identify yourself next time! I could have shot you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah right, Harken. I've seen your range scores. The day you manage to shoot me is the day I retire," Scud laughed.</p>
<p>"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"</p>
<p>"Message from the top," Scud said. "Didn't trust it to anything but hand delivery."</p>
<p>"Give it here." Harken took the folder from the younger Agent, let out a low "hm" as he saw the stamp on the cover of the manila folder. "Well, come on inside. You might as well have a cup of coffee before you go."</p>
<p>Agent Scud chuckled, following him in and shutting the door. He put his soaked overcoat over a chair as Harken moved quietly into the tiny kitchen. "Where's Kramer?”</p>
<p>Harken waved to the bedroom. “She's in there… fuck, don't go in there, you moron! The hell is wrong with you?”</p>
<p>Scud stepped away from the bedroom door, grinning. “Hey, I'm just interested, you know.”</p>
<p>“I swear to god, if you do the 'are all her parts in tune?' gag, I will beat you to death with this coffee pot," Harken said. He poured two mugs of lukewarm coffee and handed one to Agent Scud.</p>
<p>Scud laughed, shaking his head. “Naw, already got my jollies out. Just curious. What's her deal, anyway? I've never really heard much about her, besides jokes and the whole supersoldier bit.”</p>
<p>Harken stared, then shook his head. “Supersoldier, huh? She's not a supersoldier, she's a…” He paused, put an ear to the door. The only sound was the low buzzing noise of Kramer's cybernetic components undergoing their usual regenerative cycle.</p>
<p>Harken leaned in, lowering his voice. “Ok, here's the deal. She's not a supersoldier, or a war machine, or anything like that… not exactly. She grew up in the Church of The Broken God. Her parents were supposed to be some big so-and-sos in their clergy. They did things to her. I don't really know what: she doesn't talk about it much, but whatever it was, she almost died a few times. She lost her right eye, most of her right hand, her ears and most of her teeth.”</p>
<p>“You're bullshitting me.” Scud said, a nervous laugh in his voice.</p>
<p>Harken sipped his coffee, staring into the oily liquid. “No bullshit. Most likely they were coaching her to become a Crusader: one of their "holy knights of the machine." Or maybe they were just seeing what they could do. Anyway, they changed her body chemistry, did stuff to her brain to make her totally compliant and loyal to the higher ups in the Church.. It was working great until some goons hired by Marshall, Carter and Dark raided them. One of their members wanted some 'relic' they had in the basement, so they hired out some people to go and trash them.”</p>
<p>“It was a nightmare, from what she said.” Harken continued. "You know how she's all cold as ice and stuff? Well, even she gets the shakes talking about that night. They came right in the middle of a service. Shot some people, rounded up everyone else, all black masks and guns. They stole a bunch of stuff out of the vault, then lit the place on fire. She saw her parents, dead and bleeding on the steps to the podium. She never saw who shot them.” He looked up, catching Scud's eyes. “She did see them get stacked up like cordwood near the door to make it look like they died trying to escape. Saw them start to burn as they dragged her out.”</p>
<p>Scud stared in silence. Harken lit another cigarette. “Kramer was…twelve, maybe thirteen? Barely a kid, but she saw the writing on the wall, did what she needed to do to survive. The mercs found her hiding in the sacristy. They almost put a bullet in her head, but then she told them she knew where the good stuff was, and how to get past the locks and traps and other shit like that. Mercs decided to take her back with them. They got a bonus for bringing her in."</p>
<p>"MC&D loved her, it was like getting a blank check for them. They started adding things. Subdermal armour, ocular implants, amputated and replaced her legs below the knee, tweaked organs, a real overhaul. They made it so she could change her facial bone structure at will. It apparently feels like having a truck run over your face. She had to practice twice daily."</p>
<p>“So she worked for richie-rich for a while, lots of combat stuff, and some… ” Harken coughed, checking the dim bedroom again. “… well. She's never been hard on the eyes, you know, and you know what they say: if it exists, someone will want to fuck it. Sometimes she mixed the two. A few very rich blokes who somehow pissed off MC&D got a razor in the neck while they were on the fly. Anyway, she did that for a while, then bumped into The Foundation during a breach event. She shot her handlers and turned herself over to the recovery Agents.”</p>
<p>Harken laughed, shaking his head. “Those assholes came home feeling like they won the Super Bowl. Promotions all around. Almost lost her right off the bat: she had a stroke when they started to question her, some failsafe the richies had put in her brain. They got her working again, pumped her for information. After they squeezed her, they really didn't know what to do. Eggheads talked about listing her under SCP, and they had a cell ready for her, nice and warm. Wrote up containment procedures and everything. Then Dr. Gears submitted a report, saying how her system was 'inefficient,' and 'had room for improvement.' Motherfucker."</p>
<p>Scud started nodding quickly, tapping the table. “Shit, I remember that!" the younger Agent interjected. "They were all worked up, brain-machine interface research or something. They kept feeding her to 212, then working on her in the lab, crossing her with every mechanical or cybernetic SCP they could think of.” He rubbed his face, trying to remember. “God, how many times did they do that?”</p>
<p>“Twelve. They fed her to 212 twelve times. Not counting all the 'regular' surgery stuff they did as well. 212 did less and less every time. Finally, it wouldn't trigger anymore. It… it didn't see her as human. She had a bit of a breakdown when that happened. It took God knows how many sessions with Glass before she stabilized from her suicidal tendencies. After that, there wasn't much more to do. They'd hit the limit with what they could do with her. We kept thinking they'd end up just dissecting her. Maybe they would have. But then that whole thing with Able went pear-shaped.”</p>
<p>"Able?" Scud asked.</p>
<p>"Remember Pandora's Box? Mobile Task Force Omega Seven? Remember how they kept talking about how they were going to use SCPs to fight SCPs?"</p>
<p>"I remember it went completely to shit. The idea was fucking stupid," Scud said.</p>
<p>"No, it wasn't. The idea was solid. They just chose the wrong SCP to do it with."</p>
<p>Scud sipped his coffee in silence as Harken opened the file folder, leafing through the contents and nodding at what he found there. Scud cleared his throat. “So. Where did you figure in?”</p>
<p>Harken gave a short, bitter laugh as he carefully examined one of the photos, holding it up to the light to get a better look. “Me? They found me in a bottle at the Site 17 training center. Mental health restriction. My team got carved up by 106. I was the only survivor. I kinda snapped after that, worthless in the field, but I know the spy game inside and out. Some personality profile system decided my skillset meshed well with Kramer. Myself, I think they just wanted to pair her up with someone who wouldn't be missed. Not that they use us much. Maybe the whole Able thing spooked them, but until Site 17 got hit, we weren't doing any work at all. Now, of course, we're busy busy busy.”</p>
<p>Scud grinned, rising from his chair and pulling on his still damp coat. “Well, you're doing good work. Word on the street is you've got MC&D running scared. Keep it up.”</p>
<p>"Thanks."</p>
<p>"No problem. Be seeing you."</p>
<p>Harken nodded, leaning back in his chair as Scud walked to the door. He coughed. “Hey, Scud?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“How long you been on the take?”</p>
<p>Scud stopped, one hand on the doorknob, half turning to Harken.</p>
<p>“There's a secured message on the sheet," Harken said. He held up one of the photos, revealing a series of small pinholes punched through the eight by ten glossy. "How many of our agents did you sell out since you started taking money from Marshall, Carter and Dark?”</p>
<p>“Oh come on,” Scud laughed, “you're pulling my-”</p>
<p>Even silenced, Harken's pistol sounded like a firecracker in the still apartment. A gout of blood sprayed from Scud's back. He croaked, falling to the floor, his own pistol falling from nerveless fingers and clattering against the stained hardwood floor. "You were right about one thing," Harken said. "The day I shot you was the day you retired."</p>
<p>A semi-truck driving by drowned out the next four shots Harken fired into Scud's chest. "Well, I guess that's done wi—"</p>
<p>The bedroom door came off its hinges as Kramer smashed through it like a freight train. She had her sidearm in both hands, eyes glowing as they scanned for threats, her bare musculature twitching and soaked with synthetic adrenaline. “W't the f'k is goin' on?!” she shouted, in a voice still fuzzy with sleep.</p>
<p>Harken chuckled, wiping off his gun. “You've never been a morning person. Relax, it was just Scud. He turned traitor a while ago, and they were waiting for a good time to bump him, so they sent him to us.”</p>
<p>Kramer nodded, visibly relaxing, her snarled and sweaty hair turning her hyperaggressive pose into a caricature. “I heard you two talking. What was it?”</p>
<p>Harken looked at her, then to Scud. "He's dead. What does it matter now?”</p>
<p>She nodded absently, already stumbling back to bed.</p>
<p>They left Scud there when they rolled out the next day. A little surprise for the next team.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/reflections">Reflections</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/reflections">https://scpwiki.com/reflections</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
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[[/>]]
Harken watched the rain sheet the windows, leaning his head on the cool glass in the hopes it would make his headache go away. Down the hall, a couple was fighting, the rise and fall of argument punctuated by the occasional thud of either a slap or a door slamming. The sound of traffic was at least muffled by the rain, and the Agent sighed at the thought of actually being able to get some sleep.
The safe house was a pit. A cruddy apartment in a small, broken-down town, and they'd been lucky to score even this. The official reason was overextended resources due to the crisis, but Harken was reasonably sure if one of the 05s had been forced out this way, they'd have found a hotel room somewhere. He had to admit it made a kind of grim sense. Why spend the good stuff on a two-time traitor and a washed-out screw up?
At least it beat sleeping in the car.
A sharp knock on the door made Harken reflexively look to the bedroom doorway and the dimly lit bed beyond. Kramer, normally a hair-trigger, was comatose. She'd burned out on the last mission and would be mostly useless until tomorrow while she recuperated. Harken pushed off the glass, drawing his gun as he walked to the door. He ducked behind the wall for cover, swallowed, and opened the door quickly.
The Agent outside fell back a step with a start, nearly dropping the file folder clenched in his hand. Harken sighed, holstering his gun and pushing the door open all the way. “Jesus, Scud, identify yourself next time! I could have shot you.”
“Yeah right, Harken. I've seen your range scores. The day you manage to shoot me is the day I retire," Scud laughed.
"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
"Message from the top," Scud said. "Didn't trust it to anything but hand delivery."
"Give it here." Harken took the folder from the younger Agent, let out a low "hm" as he saw the stamp on the cover of the manila folder. "Well, come on inside. You might as well have a cup of coffee before you go."
Agent Scud chuckled, following him in and shutting the door. He put his soaked overcoat over a chair as Harken moved quietly into the tiny kitchen. "Where's Kramer?”
Harken waved to the bedroom. “She's in there… fuck, don't go in there, you moron! The hell is wrong with you?”
Scud stepped away from the bedroom door, grinning. “Hey, I'm just interested, you know.”
“I swear to god, if you do the 'are all her parts in tune?' gag, I will beat you to death with this coffee pot," Harken said. He poured two mugs of lukewarm coffee and handed one to Agent Scud.
Scud laughed, shaking his head. “Naw, already got my jollies out. Just curious. What's her deal, anyway? I've never really heard much about her, besides jokes and the whole supersoldier bit.”
Harken stared, then shook his head. “Supersoldier, huh? She's not a supersoldier, she's a…” He paused, put an ear to the door. The only sound was the low buzzing noise of Kramer's cybernetic components undergoing their usual regenerative cycle.
Harken leaned in, lowering his voice. “Ok, here's the deal. She's not a supersoldier, or a war machine, or anything like that… not exactly. She grew up in the Church of The Broken God. Her parents were supposed to be some big so-and-sos in their clergy. They did things to her. I don't really know what: she doesn't talk about it much, but whatever it was, she almost died a few times. She lost her right eye, most of her right hand, her ears and most of her teeth.”
“You're bullshitting me.” Scud said, a nervous laugh in his voice.
Harken sipped his coffee, staring into the oily liquid. “No bullshit. Most likely they were coaching her to become a Crusader: one of their "holy knights of the machine." Or maybe they were just seeing what they could do. Anyway, they changed her body chemistry, did stuff to her brain to make her totally compliant and loyal to the higher ups in the Church.. It was working great until some goons hired by Marshall, Carter and Dark raided them. One of their members wanted some 'relic' they had in the basement, so they hired out some people to go and trash them.”
“It was a nightmare, from what she said.” Harken continued. "You know how she's all cold as ice and stuff? Well, even she gets the shakes talking about that night. They came right in the middle of a service. Shot some people, rounded up everyone else, all black masks and guns. They stole a bunch of stuff out of the vault, then lit the place on fire. She saw her parents, dead and bleeding on the steps to the podium. She never saw who shot them.” He looked up, catching Scud's eyes. “She did see them get stacked up like cordwood near the door to make it look like they died trying to escape. Saw them start to burn as they dragged her out.”
Scud stared in silence. Harken lit another cigarette. “Kramer was…twelve, maybe thirteen? Barely a kid, but she saw the writing on the wall, did what she needed to do to survive. The mercs found her hiding in the sacristy. They almost put a bullet in her head, but then she told them she knew where the good stuff was, and how to get past the locks and traps and other shit like that. Mercs decided to take her back with them. They got a bonus for bringing her in."
"MC&D loved her, it was like getting a blank check for them. They started adding things. Subdermal armour, ocular implants, amputated and replaced her legs below the knee, tweaked organs, a real overhaul. They made it so she could change her facial bone structure at will. It apparently feels like having a truck run over your face. She had to practice twice daily."
“So she worked for richie-rich for a while, lots of combat stuff, and some… ” Harken coughed, checking the dim bedroom again. “… well. She's never been hard on the eyes, you know, and you know what they say: if it exists, someone will want to fuck it. Sometimes she mixed the two. A few very rich blokes who somehow pissed off MC&D got a razor in the neck while they were on the fly. Anyway, she did that for a while, then bumped into The Foundation during a breach event. She shot her handlers and turned herself over to the recovery Agents.”
Harken laughed, shaking his head. “Those assholes came home feeling like they won the Super Bowl. Promotions all around. Almost lost her right off the bat: she had a stroke when they started to question her, some failsafe the richies had put in her brain. They got her working again, pumped her for information. After they squeezed her, they really didn't know what to do. Eggheads talked about listing her under SCP, and they had a cell ready for her, nice and warm. Wrote up containment procedures and everything. Then Dr. Gears submitted a report, saying how her system was 'inefficient,' and 'had room for improvement.' Motherfucker."
Scud started nodding quickly, tapping the table. “Shit, I remember that!" the younger Agent interjected. "They were all worked up, brain-machine interface research or something. They kept feeding her to 212, then working on her in the lab, crossing her with every mechanical or cybernetic SCP they could think of.” He rubbed his face, trying to remember. “God, how many times did they do that?”
“Twelve. They fed her to 212 twelve times. Not counting all the 'regular' surgery stuff they did as well. 212 did less and less every time. Finally, it wouldn't trigger anymore. It… it didn't see her as human. She had a bit of a breakdown when that happened. It took God knows how many sessions with Glass before she stabilized from her suicidal tendencies. After that, there wasn't much more to do. They'd hit the limit with what they could do with her. We kept thinking they'd end up just dissecting her. Maybe they would have. But then that whole thing with Able went pear-shaped.”
"Able?" Scud asked.
"Remember Pandora's Box? Mobile Task Force Omega Seven? Remember how they kept talking about how they were going to use SCPs to fight SCPs?"
"I remember it went completely to shit. The idea was fucking stupid," Scud said.
"No, it wasn't. The idea was solid. They just chose the wrong SCP to do it with."
Scud sipped his coffee in silence as Harken opened the file folder, leafing through the contents and nodding at what he found there. Scud cleared his throat. “So. Where did you figure in?”
Harken gave a short, bitter laugh as he carefully examined one of the photos, holding it up to the light to get a better look. “Me? They found me in a bottle at the Site 17 training center. Mental health restriction. My team got carved up by 106. I was the only survivor. I kinda snapped after that, worthless in the field, but I know the spy game inside and out. Some personality profile system decided my skillset meshed well with Kramer. Myself, I think they just wanted to pair her up with someone who wouldn't be missed. Not that they use us much. Maybe the whole Able thing spooked them, but until Site 17 got hit, we weren't doing any work at all. Now, of course, we're busy busy busy.”
Scud grinned, rising from his chair and pulling on his still damp coat. “Well, you're doing good work. Word on the street is you've got MC&D running scared. Keep it up.”
"Thanks."
"No problem. Be seeing you."
Harken nodded, leaning back in his chair as Scud walked to the door. He coughed. “Hey, Scud?”
“Yeah?”
“How long you been on the take?”
Scud stopped, one hand on the doorknob, half turning to Harken.
“There's a secured message on the sheet," Harken said. He held up one of the photos, revealing a series of small pinholes punched through the eight by ten glossy. "How many of our agents did you sell out since you started taking money from Marshall, Carter and Dark?”
“Oh come on,” Scud laughed, “you're pulling my-”
Even silenced, Harken's pistol sounded like a firecracker in the still apartment. A gout of blood sprayed from Scud's back. He croaked, falling to the floor, his own pistol falling from nerveless fingers and clattering against the stained hardwood floor. "You were right about one thing," Harken said. "The day I shot you was the day you retired."
A semi-truck driving by drowned out the next four shots Harken fired into Scud's chest. "Well, I guess that's done wi—"
The bedroom door came off its hinges as Kramer smashed through it like a freight train. She had her sidearm in both hands, eyes glowing as they scanned for threats, her bare musculature twitching and soaked with synthetic adrenaline. “W't the f'k is goin' on?!” she shouted, in a voice still fuzzy with sleep.
Harken chuckled, wiping off his gun. “You've never been a morning person. Relax, it was just Scud. He turned traitor a while ago, and they were waiting for a good time to bump him, so they sent him to us.”
Kramer nodded, visibly relaxing, her snarled and sweaty hair turning her hyperaggressive pose into a caricature. “I heard you two talking. What was it?”
Harken looked at her, then to Scud. "He's dead. What does it matter now?”
She nodded absently, already stumbling back to bed.
They left Scud there when they rolled out the next day. A little surprise for the next team.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
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| 2011-10-25T11:38:00 | [
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"spy-fiction",
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"licensing-guide"
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] | [] | 11937129 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/reflections |
|
relationskips | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>It don't pay to get too close to anyone in our line of work. They tell you that all the time. You will, though. We're stupid like that.</p>
<p>First time you're in real danger, you should be thinkin', "Gosh, I'm in constant threat of my life. A relationship would be a distraction, and not fair to the other person." Unfortunately, you are made for passin' on your genes. First time you're in any real danger, every part of yer body, every fiber of yer bein' is gonna say, "I almost died! Commence to havin' sex." This is because your body's an idiot. It thinks you're still a primitive human in the Great Rift Valley, an' the danger it has in mind is a leopard comin' to eat you. So it wants you to make a replacement, fast.</p>
<p>So you're probably gonna ignore all this advice. You're gonna find someone else. Maybe a cute girl you meet downtown, or, God forbid, another agent. You've seen the videos. You've heard the stories. You know how we can end up. Imagine that's someone you care about. Yeah, that's fun.</p>
<p>Now, the Foundation ain't gonna tell you you can't have a relationship. The higher-ups ain't that stupid. Never give an order what ain't gonna be followed. Instead, they send you to "counselin'." They hope they can change your mind. Hey, you know what they play in the counseler's lobby all the time? Old Yeller. Yeah, that's the sublety an' understandin' we've come to expect at the Foundation.</p>
<p>But like I said, it doesn't do much good. You're probably gonna do it anyway. I'm just hopin' maybe one or two of you is smart enough to listen.</p>
<p>The rest of you, though, are gonna get busy. Maybe get married. Maybe have kids. Best case scenario, the stress of the job drives you to a divorce. Worst case scenario, one of you had to put a bullet into the other one, because it's the kindest thing left.</p>
<p>And God help you if you ever fall for a skip. Seriously, don't do that shit.</p>
<p>Was I ever married? Yeah, once. Her name? I don't remember her name. They won't let me.</p>
<p>…I think she was beautiful.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/relationskips">Relationskips</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/relationskips">https://scpwiki.com/relationskips</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
It don't pay to get too close to anyone in our line of work. They tell you that all the time. You will, though. We're stupid like that.
First time you're in real danger, you should be thinkin', "Gosh, I'm in constant threat of my life. A relationship would be a distraction, and not fair to the other person." Unfortunately, you are made for passin' on your genes. First time you're in any real danger, every part of yer body, every fiber of yer bein' is gonna say, "I almost died! Commence to havin' sex." This is because your body's an idiot. It thinks you're still a primitive human in the Great Rift Valley, an' the danger it has in mind is a leopard comin' to eat you. So it wants you to make a replacement, fast.
So you're probably gonna ignore all this advice. You're gonna find someone else. Maybe a cute girl you meet downtown, or, God forbid, another agent. You've seen the videos. You've heard the stories. You know how we can end up. Imagine that's someone you care about. Yeah, that's fun.
Now, the Foundation ain't gonna tell you you can't have a relationship. The higher-ups ain't that stupid. Never give an order what ain't gonna be followed. Instead, they send you to "counselin'." They hope they can change your mind. Hey, you know what they play in the counseler's lobby all the time? Old Yeller. Yeah, that's the sublety an' understandin' we've come to expect at the Foundation.
But like I said, it doesn't do much good. You're probably gonna do it anyway. I'm just hopin' maybe one or two of you is smart enough to listen.
The rest of you, though, are gonna get busy. Maybe get married. Maybe have kids. Best case scenario, the stress of the job drives you to a divorce. Worst case scenario, one of you had to put a bullet into the other one, because it's the kindest thing left.
And God help you if you ever fall for a skip. Seriously, don't do that shit.
Was I ever married? Yeah, once. Her name? I don't remember her name. They won't let me.
...I think she was beautiful.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
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| 2011-10-01T05:40:00 | [
"_licensebox",
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"romance",
"tale"
] | Relationskips - SCP Foundation | 308 | [
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"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
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] | [] | 11804138 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/relationskips |
|
rex-sponge-s-revealing-revelations | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The door suddenly bursts open as Rex Sponge's foot gives it quick momentum. O5-7 wakes up from the slam of the door, leaving a puddle of drool on the desk. He looks around and slowly brushes his, long, curled moustache. His eyes suddenly set on the intruder at the door.</p>
<p>"Ah, so Rex, you have finally come!" O5-7 lifts an eyebrow and smirks, then rubs his hands together.</p>
<p>"Yes, your reign of cruelty is over, O5 dash 7, or should I call you… 'Data'!" Rex snarls and gazes at the man, aiming his pistol at the villain's head.</p>
<p>"Ah, so you figured it out, did you? That I am actually an SCP, a technopath?" Data giggles madly.</p>
<p>"And that you've been controlling that reptile the whole time!"</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, 682 is a prize." Data giggles again. "But did you know I - I mean we - made him! That we made all the SCPs?"</p>
<p>"Of course I did - I'm Rex Sponge!" Rex flips his hair. The poor and discomforting lighting of the room somehow makes it glisten. "Ever since you created and broke up with the Factory, Chaos Insurgency, ORIA, and Global Occult Coalition, you've never stopped abusing Class-D's for your own nefarious deeds!"</p>
<p>"Then you know that 173 is actually O5-1?" Data seems shocked at Rex's knowledge of Foundation history.</p>
<p>"Yes, and now your time is up!" Rex takes another step forward.</p>
<p>"Ah, but how do you expect to deal with… a tank of 231-7 offspring that we've been secretly breeding?" Data's hand begins to descend upon a large, red button on his desk.</p>
<p>"Your time is over!" Rex shoots Data's right hand. The technopath screams and pulls back his hand.</p>
<p>"Data, consider yourself Rex Sponged!" Rex pulls the trigger and a red dot suddenly appears on Data's head, which begins overflowing with blood. The O5 collapses into the chair, dead.</p>
<p>Rex takes a list out of his pocket and crosses a name off. One dead, eleven to go.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Or, wait, would it be 14? Rex shook his head out of his day-dream. Now was no time for lolly-gagging. Now was the time for action. All the planning he had performed would now culminate into this one moment - as soon as he kicked down this door.</p>
<p>Rex looked at the door. He gazed at its window, specifically the writing on it that said "O5-7". He took a breath in, then kicked it.</p>
<p>Jesus fuck, that hurt. But this obstacle would not get in the way of Rex Sponge, junior level researcher and herald of justice. He thrust back his leg again, ready to descend upon the door, when a noise interrupted him. It was a voice inside, telling him to come in. Rex paused, in thought, then shrugged and opened the door.</p>
<p>"You know, most people knock more than once when they want to enter. You're lucky I heard you." The voice came from a middle-aged man seated at a desk at the end of the office, sitting down and shuffling through papers.</p>
<p>"O5-7, your time is up, or should I call you… Data!" Rex gave a menacing stare at the man.</p>
<p>The man looked up. "What?"</p>
<p>"Don't toy with me, 'O5-7', if that is your real name! You and I both know you're a technopath!" Rex took a step forward, his hand at his waist, ready to draw a pistol.</p>
<p>"What the fuck are you talking about?" The man gave Rex a look of confusion.</p>
<p>"Don't use your mind tricks on me, bender!" Rex drew his gun, pointing it at the man.</p>
<p>"Wait, if I'm a technopath, how could I- You know what, never mind. What the hell is wrong with you?" The man gave Rex a look.</p>
<p>"Playing stupid will get you nowhere!"</p>
<p>The man sighed, and began to reach for a small, green button at the edge of his desk. Rex pulled the trigger. The man didn't even flinch as he pressed the button. Rex jumped out of the way, expecting the floor to open up beneath himself into a pit of keter-class solar babies.</p>
<p>"Security personnel will be here in a few mi- Did you try to shoot me!?" The man looked like he was about to laugh. "Did you not fucking notice the bullet-proof glass in front of my desk."</p>
<p>Rex had indeed failed to notice, being too focused on the corrupt demon sitting before him. Looking up now he could see a small mark left by his bullet that would probably have hit the ceiling anyways.</p>
<p>"B-but… you control 682…" Rex looked shocked. How could he not have foreseen such a devious trick?</p>
<p>"What the hell are you talking about? We're trying to <em>destroy</em> 682. He's a huge drain of our resources and kills a lot of D-class personnel. It's such a shame to see their lives go to waste like that."</p>
<p>"A-ha! So you think human lives are disposable!" Rex lifted his hand in triumph.</p>
<p>"What? No. Are you fucking stupid? I mean, I obviously hold a utilitarian philosophy, but that doesn't mean I kill people just because. What, you think <em>I</em> think this is just some big game?"</p>
<p>"But… what about when you created the Factory, and the Chaos Insurgency made 173 O5-1, and…"</p>
<p>"Are you high? No, seriously, are you fucked right now? What the fuck kind of…" The man shook his head. "I honestly don't know how to respond to that."</p>
<p>"No, I figured it out. When I sa-" Whatever Rex was about to say at that moment was lost as several armed bodyguards tackled him into the ground and sedated him.</p>
<p>"Are you alright, sir?" asked a security guard.</p>
<p>"Just fine, thank you Agent." The man nodded to the guard. He waited for the guard to leave, then swiveled his chair around. A small, white cat leaped out from a high shelf and landed on his lap, although only half of its body was visible. The man then pressed a large, red button under his desk and the wall moved to show a large screen displaying 11, or maybe 14, faces. Most clad with moustaches.</p>
<p>"Rex Sponge has been eliminated, brothers and sisters!" The man spoke in a sneering tone. "Now all we have left is Breanne Dact!" The man began to cackle, and others joined him.</p>
<p>"How do you propose we eliminate her?" asked a gentlemanly fellow in the top left.</p>
<p>"I say we stick 'er," a figure replied, smiling to show rather unkempt teeth, "I'll just slip in right behind 'er and stick 'er with my shiv." He then proceeded to take out his shiv and clean his teeth, to little effect.</p>
<p>"Excellent proposal, 173, but I have a better idea. Why don't we use Rex Sponge against her?" O5-7 looked around. "We'll simply abuse the obedience collars like we always do and have him kill her."</p>
<p>"That's totally mental!" 173 exclaimed, "I love it. Let's 'ave a jolly ol' time fuckin' with the bugger."</p>
<p>"Yes. This will end nicely. Muhahahaha."</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agent Johnson looked at Rex. "And… and that's why you killed Breanne? Because the O5s used mind control on you?"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, of course. They're all evil you see. Could you loosen these restraints?"</p>
<p>"And… 173 is British?"</p>
<p>"Duh. Why else would he be wearing a top hat?"</p>
<p>"You never mentioned that."</p>
<p>"Oh, well he was. And he had a moustache. Seriously, these are cutting off the circulation to my hands."</p>
<p>"Not yet, Rex. You see, when we discovered you, you had no collar on at all."</p>
<p>"Well they gave it a self-destruct… thingy."</p>
<p>"And witnesses to the event said they saw no other collar either."</p>
<p>"It was camouflaged."</p>
<p>"They also said you called her a 'Lying, cheating bitch' as you strangled her."</p>
<p>"Well that's what they forced me to say."</p>
<p>"Rex, what makes you think I should believe anything you say?"</p>
<p>"They're evil, man, I'm telling you."</p>
<p>"Okay, let's say that all happened. Let's say you somehow knew what the O5s were saying even though you were escorted out. Let's say they used the mind control collar. Let's say you aren't fucking insane. There's still a gigantic problem with your story."</p>
<p>"What is it?"</p>
<p>Agent Johnson brought out a piece of paper. On it was a drawing.</p>
<p>"173 is Mexican."</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/rex-sponge-s-revealing-revelations">Rex Sponge's Revealing Revelations</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/rex-sponge-s-revealing-revelations">https://scpwiki.com/rex-sponge-s-revealing-revelations</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The door suddenly bursts open as Rex Sponge's foot gives it quick momentum. O5-7 wakes up from the slam of the door, leaving a puddle of drool on the desk. He looks around and slowly brushes his, long, curled moustache. His eyes suddenly set on the intruder at the door.
"Ah, so Rex, you have finally come!" O5-7 lifts an eyebrow and smirks, then rubs his hands together.
"Yes, your reign of cruelty is over, O5 dash 7, or should I call you... 'Data'!" Rex snarls and gazes at the man, aiming his pistol at the villain's head.
"Ah, so you figured it out, did you? That I am actually an SCP, a technopath?" Data giggles madly.
"And that you've been controlling that reptile the whole time!"
"Ah, yes, 682 is a prize." Data giggles again. "But did you know I - I mean we - made him! That we made all the SCPs?"
"Of course I did - I'm Rex Sponge!" Rex flips his hair. The poor and discomforting lighting of the room somehow makes it glisten. "Ever since you created and broke up with the Factory, Chaos Insurgency, ORIA, and Global Occult Coalition, you've never stopped abusing Class-D's for your own nefarious deeds!"
"Then you know that 173 is actually O5-1?" Data seems shocked at Rex's knowledge of Foundation history.
"Yes, and now your time is up!" Rex takes another step forward.
"Ah, but how do you expect to deal with... a tank of 231-7 offspring that we've been secretly breeding?" Data's hand begins to descend upon a large, red button on his desk.
"Your time is over!" Rex shoots Data's right hand. The technopath screams and pulls back his hand.
"Data, consider yourself Rex Sponged!" Rex pulls the trigger and a red dot suddenly appears on Data's head, which begins overflowing with blood. The O5 collapses into the chair, dead.
Rex takes a list out of his pocket and crosses a name off. One dead, eleven to go.
------
Or, wait, would it be 14? Rex shook his head out of his day-dream. Now was no time for lolly-gagging. Now was the time for action. All the planning he had performed would now culminate into this one moment - as soon as he kicked down this door.
Rex looked at the door. He gazed at its window, specifically the writing on it that said "O5-7". He took a breath in, then kicked it.
Jesus fuck, that hurt. But this obstacle would not get in the way of Rex Sponge, junior level researcher and herald of justice. He thrust back his leg again, ready to descend upon the door, when a noise interrupted him. It was a voice inside, telling him to come in. Rex paused, in thought, then shrugged and opened the door.
"You know, most people knock more than once when they want to enter. You're lucky I heard you." The voice came from a middle-aged man seated at a desk at the end of the office, sitting down and shuffling through papers.
"O5-7, your time is up, or should I call you... Data!" Rex gave a menacing stare at the man.
The man looked up. "What?"
"Don't toy with me, 'O5-7', if that is your real name! You and I both know you're a technopath!" Rex took a step forward, his hand at his waist, ready to draw a pistol.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" The man gave Rex a look of confusion.
"Don't use your mind tricks on me, bender!" Rex drew his gun, pointing it at the man.
"Wait, if I'm a technopath, how could I- You know what, never mind. What the hell is wrong with you?" The man gave Rex a look.
"Playing stupid will get you nowhere!"
The man sighed, and began to reach for a small, green button at the edge of his desk. Rex pulled the trigger. The man didn't even flinch as he pressed the button. Rex jumped out of the way, expecting the floor to open up beneath himself into a pit of keter-class solar babies.
"Security personnel will be here in a few mi- Did you try to shoot me!?" The man looked like he was about to laugh. "Did you not fucking notice the bullet-proof glass in front of my desk."
Rex had indeed failed to notice, being too focused on the corrupt demon sitting before him. Looking up now he could see a small mark left by his bullet that would probably have hit the ceiling anyways.
"B-but... you control 682..." Rex looked shocked. How could he not have foreseen such a devious trick?
"What the hell are you talking about? We're trying to //destroy// 682. He's a huge drain of our resources and kills a lot of D-class personnel. It's such a shame to see their lives go to waste like that."
"A-ha! So you think human lives are disposable!" Rex lifted his hand in triumph.
"What? No. Are you fucking stupid? I mean, I obviously hold a utilitarian philosophy, but that doesn't mean I kill people just because. What, you think //I// think this is just some big game?"
"But... what about when you created the Factory, and the Chaos Insurgency made 173 O5-1, and..."
"Are you high? No, seriously, are you fucked right now? What the fuck kind of..." The man shook his head. "I honestly don't know how to respond to that."
"No, I figured it out. When I sa-" Whatever Rex was about to say at that moment was lost as several armed bodyguards tackled him into the ground and sedated him.
"Are you alright, sir?" asked a security guard.
"Just fine, thank you Agent." The man nodded to the guard. He waited for the guard to leave, then swiveled his chair around. A small, white cat leaped out from a high shelf and landed on his lap, although only half of its body was visible. The man then pressed a large, red button under his desk and the wall moved to show a large screen displaying 11, or maybe 14, faces. Most clad with moustaches.
"Rex Sponge has been eliminated, brothers and sisters!" The man spoke in a sneering tone. "Now all we have left is Breanne Dact!" The man began to cackle, and others joined him.
"How do you propose we eliminate her?" asked a gentlemanly fellow in the top left.
"I say we stick 'er," a figure replied, smiling to show rather unkempt teeth, "I'll just slip in right behind 'er and stick 'er with my shiv." He then proceeded to take out his shiv and clean his teeth, to little effect.
"Excellent proposal, 173, but I have a better idea. Why don't we use Rex Sponge against her?" O5-7 looked around. "We'll simply abuse the obedience collars like we always do and have him kill her."
"That's totally mental!" 173 exclaimed, "I love it. Let's 'ave a jolly ol' time fuckin' with the bugger."
"Yes. This will end nicely. Muhahahaha."
------
Agent Johnson looked at Rex. "And... and that's why you killed Breanne? Because the O5s used mind control on you?"
"Yes, yes, of course. They're all evil you see. Could you loosen these restraints?"
"And... 173 is British?"
"Duh. Why else would he be wearing a top hat?"
"You never mentioned that."
"Oh, well he was. And he had a moustache. Seriously, these are cutting off the circulation to my hands."
"Not yet, Rex. You see, when we discovered you, you had no collar on at all."
"Well they gave it a self-destruct... thingy."
"And witnesses to the event said they saw no other collar either."
"It was camouflaged."
"They also said you called her a 'Lying, cheating bitch' as you strangled her."
"Well that's what they forced me to say."
"Rex, what makes you think I should believe anything you say?"
"They're evil, man, I'm telling you."
"Okay, let's say that all happened. Let's say you somehow knew what the O5s were saying even though you were escorted out. Let's say they used the mind control collar. Let's say you aren't fucking insane. There's still a gigantic problem with your story."
"What is it?"
Agent Johnson brought out a piece of paper. On it was a drawing.
"173 is Mexican."
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| 2011-08-13T04:31:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Rex Sponge's Revealing Revelations - SCP Foundation | 101 | [
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"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
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"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11481135 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/rex-sponge-s-revealing-revelations |
|
routine | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Have you ever had that feeling? When you drive home from work, or walk home from the store, or do just about anything you've done a thousand times in your life. And you are almost home already, when you suddenly realize that you don't remember how you got there.</p>
<p>No, that's not right.</p>
<p>You remember how you finished your work, remember how you walked to the parking lot.</p>
<p>And then…you must have driven home.</p>
<p>But details are vague and blurred and when you try to remember them there is just nothing there.</p>
<p>You say to yourself that this is just a quirk of your mind. You've been driving that same path for years now. Today your mind just shut itself off and let your body do the deed. The price of routine. The only escape from everyday life you have left. Happens to everyone once in a while. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about.</p>
<p>You're wrong.</p>
<p>This is what a class-A amnestic feels like.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/routine">Routine</a>" by anqxyr, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/routine">https://scpwiki.com/routine</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Have you ever had that feeling? When you drive home from work, or walk home from the store, or do just about anything you've done a thousand times in your life. And you are almost home already, when you suddenly realize that you don't remember how you got there.
No, that's not right.
You remember how you finished your work, remember how you walked to the parking lot.
And then...you must have driven home.
But details are vague and blurred and when you try to remember them there is just nothing there.
You say to yourself that this is just a quirk of your mind. You've been driving that same path for years now. Today your mind just shut itself off and let your body do the deed. The price of routine. The only escape from everyday life you have left. Happens to everyone once in a while. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about.
You're wrong.
This is what a class-A amnestic feels like.
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-22T20:25:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Routine - SCP Foundation | 68 | [
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|
run-away-forevurrr | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"You're shivering," he commented, thickly accented voice purring in her ear. She jumped, her shoulder knocking against his chin, and pressed onwards.</p>
<p>"A-am not."</p>
<p>"I can <em>see</em> you, m'dear, if not with my eyes." He trudged past her. Even hunched over he was a good bit taller than her, the peak of his shoulders a full foot and a half over her head. Not that anyone could see her, to make the indication, the only visible trace of her existence smears of dirt and the leaves crunching.</p>
<p>He, on the other hand, would've stood out quite a bit, the horrid thing he was. Some of his skin was peeling off. He had grown unused to dirty environments. He peeled off his shirt, and draped it on her invisible shoulders, where it rested, betraying her shivering.</p>
<p>She clutched it around herself, and looked up at the night sky through the branches of trees.</p>
<p>"W-we should go back t-towards the town," she stammered, teeth clicking when she spoke.</p>
<p>"Nein. We will reach the next city in an hour, I'm certain of it."</p>
<p>She whimpered, and followed. Her hair felt tangled, the cold breeze made her skin burn, her feet ached and she couldn't tell if they were just wet and muddy, or bleeding. It was another twenty minutes of walking before she insisted they stop again, and he patiently waited as she sat against a tree and picked at moss.</p>
<p>"…We never should'a run," she finally grumbled. He didn't reply, looking up at the stars with mismatched eyes. "Seriously. It seemed like an <em>awesome</em> idea at the time, but right now? I feel like a dumbass kid who ran away from home. All I want is a bed and a blanket and a meal- even if it's that tasteless shit."</p>
<p>He nodded, and sighed, a wheezy and squeaking sound. "…I wish I had my books."</p>
<p>"Central heating!" she suggested, and he looked at her pitifully before wrapping an arm around her and picking her up, holding her to his fevered chest. She squirmed, but relented after a bit. "…Company."</p>
<p>"Aren't I fine company?"</p>
<p>"No offense, some of the <em>D</em>-Class are easier on the eyes than you, Frankenstein."</p>
<p>They chuckled. And stopped laughing the moment they came to the same realization.</p>
<p>"Mein Gott."</p>
<p>"Fuck. We're <em>domesticated</em>," Claudia mumbled. "…We gotta go back. I don't wanna be out here… I'm tired of being cold and hungry! And unseen!"</p>
<p>"And as much as I hate to admit it, I rather preferred not having to go through the trouble of hunting." He smiled, slightly. "…I rather liked having access to tools, a lab, fresh meat."</p>
<p>"Gross."</p>
<p>"Speaking of fresh meat, if we're going to take going back seriously, there's one thing we should very much do beforehand."</p>
<p>"Yah?"</p>
<p>He told her.</p>
<p>She grinned.</p>
<p>Their peals of hysterical laughter echoed through the forest.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The wee hours of dawn found the hostess at a Perkins in a small town looking up boredly from her example menu. Nobody at this ungodly hour but college kids with the munchies and people so old they no longer had any idea what time it was.</p>
<p>She stopped being bored when a monster whose his head scraped the ceiling (when he stood at full height) entered, next to… a floating coat.</p>
<p><em>Fuck,</em> thought the hostess. <em>I am <strong>so</strong> high right now.</em></p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-542 and SCP-347 recovered in nearby restaurant. No incident except for a request to finish their meals and invitation of SCP-Retrieval Team 87-Sigma ["Windowbreakers"] to join them. Restaurant bill was paid in full, and all individuals administered minor-grade amnestics and preventative interviews. No civilians seemed alarmed at the presence of the SCPs.</p>
<p>Foundation "Soap From Corpses Inc." Business Credit Account charged for $25.97 plus a generous $10.00 tip, totaling $35.97</p>
</blockquote>
<div class="licensebox">
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/run-away-forevurrr">RUN AWAY FOREVURRR</a>" by agatharights, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/run-away-forevurrr">https://scpwiki.com/run-away-forevurrr</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"You're shivering," he commented, thickly accented voice purring in her ear. She jumped, her shoulder knocking against his chin, and pressed onwards.
"A-am not."
"I can //see// you, m'dear, if not with my eyes." He trudged past her. Even hunched over he was a good bit taller than her, the peak of his shoulders a full foot and a half over her head. Not that anyone could see her, to make the indication, the only visible trace of her existence smears of dirt and the leaves crunching.
He, on the other hand, would've stood out quite a bit, the horrid thing he was. Some of his skin was peeling off. He had grown unused to dirty environments. He peeled off his shirt, and draped it on her invisible shoulders, where it rested, betraying her shivering.
She clutched it around herself, and looked up at the night sky through the branches of trees.
"W-we should go back t-towards the town," she stammered, teeth clicking when she spoke.
"Nein. We will reach the next city in an hour, I'm certain of it."
She whimpered, and followed. Her hair felt tangled, the cold breeze made her skin burn, her feet ached and she couldn't tell if they were just wet and muddy, or bleeding. It was another twenty minutes of walking before she insisted they stop again, and he patiently waited as she sat against a tree and picked at moss.
". . .We never should'a run," she finally grumbled. He didn't reply, looking up at the stars with mismatched eyes. "Seriously. It seemed like an //awesome// idea at the time, but right now? I feel like a dumbass kid who ran away from home. All I want is a bed and a blanket and a meal- even if it's that tasteless shit."
He nodded, and sighed, a wheezy and squeaking sound. "...I wish I had my books."
"Central heating!" she suggested, and he looked at her pitifully before wrapping an arm around her and picking her up, holding her to his fevered chest. She squirmed, but relented after a bit. ". . .Company."
"Aren't I fine company?"
"No offense, some of the //D//-Class are easier on the eyes than you, Frankenstein."
They chuckled. And stopped laughing the moment they came to the same realization.
"Mein Gott."
"Fuck. We're //domesticated//," Claudia mumbled. ". . .We gotta go back. I don't wanna be out here... I'm tired of being cold and hungry! And unseen!"
"And as much as I hate to admit it, I rather preferred not having to go through the trouble of hunting." He smiled, slightly. "...I rather liked having access to tools, a lab, fresh meat."
"Gross."
"Speaking of fresh meat, if we're going to take going back seriously, there's one thing we should very much do beforehand."
"Yah?"
He told her.
She grinned.
Their peals of hysterical laughter echoed through the forest.
-----
The wee hours of dawn found the hostess at a Perkins in a small town looking up boredly from her example menu. Nobody at this ungodly hour but college kids with the munchies and people so old they no longer had any idea what time it was.
She stopped being bored when a monster whose his head scraped the ceiling (when he stood at full height) entered, next to... a floating coat.
//Fuck,// thought the hostess. //I am **so** high right now.//
> SCP-542 and SCP-347 recovered in nearby restaurant. No incident except for a request to finish their meals and invitation of SCP-Retrieval Team 87-Sigma ["Windowbreakers"] to join them. Restaurant bill was paid in full, and all individuals administered minor-grade amnestics and preventative interviews. No civilians seemed alarmed at the presence of the SCPs.
>
> Foundation "Soap From Corpses Inc." Business Credit Account charged for $25.97 plus a generous $10.00 tip, totaling $35.97
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|
scp-857-d | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><a class="newpage" href="/decomm:scp-857-d">DISPLAY CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS AND OBJECT ASSESSMENT</a></p>
<p>On 10/██/11, SCP-857 was successfully decommissioned by Dr. Bridge and Dr. Muse by order of O5-8. The following is a record of their attempts.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>SCP-857 DECOMMISSION LOG</strong><br/>
<strong>Date:</strong> 10/██/11</p>
<hr/>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> █ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-682">SCP-682</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-682 ignored SCP-857 completely. When prodded by D-66943 carrying SCP-857, SCP-682 messily devoured him, crushing SCP-857 in the process.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A coffee mug at a ███████ restaurant in █████, ██<br/>
<em>Well shit. That usually works. - Dr. Bridge</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> █ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-073">SCP-073</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-073 was given SCP-857 and instructed to destroy it. SCP-073 complied.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A beaker in Dr. Bridge's office<br/>
<em>Do not cut yourself on the glass. - Dr. Muse</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> █ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> A standard claw hammer<br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 shattered by Dr. Bridge.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A juice glass in the buffet at ████████ Hotel, ███████████, ██<br/>
<em>Worth a shot. - Dr. Bridge</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> █ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-123">SCP-123</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-123 successfully consumed SCP-857.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A thermos owned by Dr. Muse<br/>
<em>Of course. - Dr. Muse</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-076">SCP-076</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-076-2 was given SCP-857 and instructed to destroy it. SCP-076-2 instructed Dr. Bridge to "[REDACTED] off."<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> N/A<br/>
<em>Who authorized this? - Dr. █████████</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-354">SCP-354</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 thrown into SCP-354. SCP-857 bobbed at surface until it filled with contents of SCP-354 and sank.<br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;"><strong>New Form:</strong> A commemorative 2008 inaugural stein owned by Agent Yoric</span></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;"><strong>Object used:</strong> A standard claw hammer</span><br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;"><strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 crushed by Dr Bridge.</span><br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;"><strong>New Form:</strong> As yet unknown</span><br/>
<em>Well, it destroyed a cup. Not the right one, but… yeah sorry there. - Dr. Bridge</em><br/>
<em>Just ask next time, damn. - Agent Yoric</em><br/>
<strong>Addendum:</strong> On ██ Oct 2011, SCP-857 was discovered to be inhabiting a bronze goblet in the [REDACTED] Museum at ████████, approximately 250 km away from Area-354.</p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 processed on "rough" settings. Output was a small pile of bronze fragments.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A crock pot at a private residence in ████████, █████<br/>
<em>Comme c'est gênant. - Dr. Muse</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-646">SCP-646</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 successfully fed to SCP-646 during weekly feeding.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A pitcher owned by Dr. Xander<br/>
<em>One of you had better replace that. - Dr. Xander</em></p>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-447">SCP-447</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 covered in SCP-447. Incinerated after effect was noted to persist.<br/>
<strong>New Form:</strong> A wine glass owned by Agent Tann<br/>
<em>Well… the slime always seems to do what you need it to do. Thought that would work. - Dr. Bridge</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>"Why do you look so gloomy?" said Harmon as Dr. Muse took a seat at SCP-946 with SCP-857.</p>
<p>She plunked the wine glass onto the table and gave it a long glare.</p>
<p>"I <em>loathe</em> zis object."</p>
<p>"What's the matter with it?" Garcian said. "It's a rather nice glass."</p>
<p>"It is ze worst SCP object."</p>
<p>"Tell us of it, then."</p>
<p>Dr. Muse sighed.</p>
<p>"Well, it apparently believes it is God or somesing like it, and it does miracles but sometimes it does not, and occasionally it does 'orrid sings to sinners and when its form is destroyed ze effect travels to anozzer cup, and ze containment procedures called for an alchemist and I am not a containment specialist so 'oo am I to question such sings, but anyway it is simply too much trouble to keep around, and just as I was sinking zis I got a call from one of ze Overseers and 'e informed me zat I am allowed to attempt to destroy it but after days and days I just <em>cannot</em>. It is ze worst."</p>
<p>Harmon and Garcian nodded slowly, then turned to face each other.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Date:</strong> ██ Oct 2011<br/>
<strong>Object used:</strong> <a href="/scp-946">SCP-946</a><br/>
<strong>Result:</strong> SCP-857 was described by Dr. Muse to 946-1 and 946-2. After 946-1 and 946-2 agreed SCP-857 was "absurd", SCP-857 ceased to exist.<br/>
<em>…I see. - O5-8</em></p>
</blockquote>
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<p>"<a href="/scp-857-d">SCP-857-D</a>" by Cherry Pict, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/scp-857-d">https://scpwiki.com/scp-857-d</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
[[[decomm:scp-857-d|DISPLAY CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS AND OBJECT ASSESSMENT]]]
On 10/██/11, SCP-857 was successfully decommissioned by Dr. Bridge and Dr. Muse by order of O5-8. The following is a record of their attempts.
> **SCP-857 DECOMMISSION LOG**
> **Date:** 10/██/11
>
> -----
>
> **Date:** █ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-682]]]
> **Result:** SCP-682 ignored SCP-857 completely. When prodded by D-66943 carrying SCP-857, SCP-682 messily devoured him, crushing SCP-857 in the process.
> **New Form:** A coffee mug at a ███████ restaurant in █████, ██
> //Well shit. That usually works. - Dr. Bridge//
>
> **Date:** █ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-073]]]
> **Result:** SCP-073 was given SCP-857 and instructed to destroy it. SCP-073 complied.
> **New Form:** A beaker in Dr. Bridge's office
> //Do not cut yourself on the glass. - Dr. Muse//
>
> **Date:** █ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** A standard claw hammer
> **Result:** SCP-857 shattered by Dr. Bridge.
> **New Form:** A juice glass in the buffet at ████████ Hotel, ███████████, ██
> //Worth a shot. - Dr. Bridge//
>
> **Date:** █ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-123]]]
> **Result:** SCP-123 successfully consumed SCP-857.
> **New Form:** A thermos owned by Dr. Muse
> //Of course. - Dr. Muse//
>
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-076]]]
> **Result:** SCP-076-2 was given SCP-857 and instructed to destroy it. SCP-076-2 instructed Dr. Bridge to "[REDACTED] off."
> **New Form:** N/A
> //Who authorized this? - Dr. █████████//
>
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-354]]]
> **Result:** SCP-857 thrown into SCP-354. SCP-857 bobbed at surface until it filled with contents of SCP-354 and sank.
> --**New Form:** A commemorative 2008 inaugural stein owned by Agent Yoric--
>
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> --**Object used:** A standard claw hammer--
> --**Result:** SCP-857 crushed by Dr Bridge.--
> --**New Form:** As yet unknown--
> //Well, it destroyed a cup. Not the right one, but... yeah sorry there. - Dr. Bridge//
> //Just ask next time, damn. - Agent Yoric//
> **Addendum:** On ██ Oct 2011, SCP-857 was discovered to be inhabiting a bronze goblet in the [REDACTED] Museum at ████████, approximately 250 km away from Area-354.
>
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-914]]]
> **Result:** SCP-857 processed on "rough" settings. Output was a small pile of bronze fragments.
> **New Form:** A crock pot at a private residence in ████████, █████
> //Comme c'est gênant. - Dr. Muse//
>
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-646]]]
> **Result:** SCP-857 successfully fed to SCP-646 during weekly feeding.
> **New Form:** A pitcher owned by Dr. Xander
> //One of you had better replace that. - Dr. Xander//
>
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-447]]]
> **Result:** SCP-857 covered in SCP-447. Incinerated after effect was noted to persist.
> **New Form:** A wine glass owned by Agent Tann
> //Well... the slime always seems to do what you need it to do. Thought that would work. - Dr. Bridge//
"Why do you look so gloomy?" said Harmon as Dr. Muse took a seat at SCP-946 with SCP-857.
She plunked the wine glass onto the table and gave it a long glare.
"I //loathe// zis object."
"What's the matter with it?" Garcian said. "It's a rather nice glass."
"It is ze worst SCP object."
"Tell us of it, then."
Dr. Muse sighed.
"Well, it apparently believes it is God or somesing like it, and it does miracles but sometimes it does not, and occasionally it does 'orrid sings to sinners and when its form is destroyed ze effect travels to anozzer cup, and ze containment procedures called for an alchemist and I am not a containment specialist so 'oo am I to question such sings, but anyway it is simply too much trouble to keep around, and just as I was sinking zis I got a call from one of ze Overseers and 'e informed me zat I am allowed to attempt to destroy it but after days and days I just //cannot//. It is ze worst."
Harmon and Garcian nodded slowly, then turned to face each other.
> **Date:** ██ Oct 2011
> **Object used:** [[[SCP-946]]]
> **Result:** SCP-857 was described by Dr. Muse to 946-1 and 946-2. After 946-1 and 946-2 agreed SCP-857 was "absurd", SCP-857 ceased to exist.
> //...I see. - O5-8//
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-09T03:15:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"agent-yoric",
"tale"
] | SCP-857-D - SCP Foundation | 98 | [
"decomm:scp-857-d",
"scp-682",
"scp-073",
"scp-123",
"scp-076",
"scp-354",
"scp-914",
"scp-646",
"scp-447",
"scp-946",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11848016 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-857-d |
|
scp-907-arc | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong>Item #:</strong> SCP-907</p>
<p><strong>Object Class:</strong> Safe</p>
<p><strong>Special Containment Procedures:</strong> SCP-907 is to be kept under standard surveillance within Garage 3 of Site 54. The key to activate SCP-907 is to be kept in a sealed locker under the possession of the local security director, and may only be requisitioned by Level 3 personnel for purposes of testing SCP-907.</p>
<p>SCP-907 is outfitted as a mobile research station, and is to be kept fully stocked at all times. This stock includes all necessary research, computing, and living equipment, a ten-day supply of rations plus a five day emergency supply, an appropriately modified Mk. II EVA suit, and a standard set of ten remote AX-10 probes. The inventory of SCP-907 is to be refreshed after every testing mission.</p>
<p>For the sake of caution, testing of SCP-907 is to be carried out by Level 1 and 2 personnel only, as according to the official testing schedule. SCP-907 is not to be exited by the researcher during testing missions except in matters of absolute necessity.</p>
<p><strong>Description:</strong> SCP-907 is a 196█ VW van bearing no internal or external structural anomalies. The vehicle had received a new coat of paint shortly before recovery, but otherwise all modification to the vehicle has been carried out by the Foundation. Said modification includes the removal of all seats in the vehicle and the addition of testing and research equipment.</p>
<p>Upon the starting of its engine, SCP-907 will disappear from local time-space and undergo a state of transit. This state will persist for five to ten minutes, after which the engine will stop of its own accord. Removing the key or attempting to turn off the engine manually has proven unsuccessful while transit is ongoing. When transit has been completed, SCP-907 will re-appear on the surface of an extrasolar planet. Many planets appear to be located in other galaxies, making identification through positions of known stellar objects impossible. No traces of life have been found on any planet reached via SCP-907.</p>
<p>SCP-907 itself, and all conditions within, will not be affected by any outside conditions. So long as an object or person is completely within SCP-907, even if there is an open door or window present, they will be unaffected by the outside environment.</p>
<p>SCP-907 will return to Earth in the same location as its departure after five to fifteen stops. The vehicle is seen to undergo a minor relativistic effect during transit, where a longer period of time will have transpired on Earth than it has in SCP-907, but this time period has yet to exceed a lag of two weeks.</p>
<p><strong>Addendum:</strong> While over three hundred extrasolar planets have been catalogued through usage of SCP-907, several have been encountered on multiple occasions. These include:</p>
<ul>
<li><strong>SCP-907-A:</strong> Terrestrial planet approximately 1.5 times Earth’s mass, orbiting an M-class star. No atmosphere or moons are present. The landscape is covered in a thick layer of graphite with surface formations of diamond due to seismic upheaval. Surface temperature averages -200 ºC.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><strong>SCP-907-B:</strong> Terrestrial planet with an atmosphere of methane and carbon dioxide measuring approximately 90 AMP. Exterior temperature at ground level is in excess of 550 ºC. Trace compounds of unknown chemical composition give the lower atmosphere an iridescent quality.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><strong>SCP-907-C:</strong> Insufficient data: Believed to be the semi-liquid core of a standard hydrogen gas giant.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><strong>SCP-907-D:</strong> Terrestrial planet approximately 3 times Earth’s mass, orbiting a K-class star. A trace atmosphere of carbon dioxide and nitrogen is present, as well as a single moon. While liquid water is present, the environment is self-sterilizing due to severe ultra-violet radiation from the planet’s sun.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><strong>SCP-907-E:</strong> Icy moon orbiting a ringed helium giant. No atmosphere present. Irregular composition of the ice combined with abnormal warming and cooling patterns has caused a marbled pattern on the surface.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><strong>SCP-907-F:</strong> Terrestrial planet approximately 17 times the mass of Earth, orbiting a B-class star. Six small moons present. The atmosphere is made primarily of nitrogen and argon, and large quantities of arsenic and mercury are present in the soil. Winds of up to 270 km/h have been recorded.</li>
</ul>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/scp-907-arc">SCP-907</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/scp-907-arc">https://scpwiki.com/scp-907-arc</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**Item #:** SCP-907
**Object Class:** Safe
**Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-907 is to be kept under standard surveillance within Garage 3 of Site 54. The key to activate SCP-907 is to be kept in a sealed locker under the possession of the local security director, and may only be requisitioned by Level 3 personnel for purposes of testing SCP-907.
SCP-907 is outfitted as a mobile research station, and is to be kept fully stocked at all times. This stock includes all necessary research, computing, and living equipment, a ten-day supply of rations plus a five day emergency supply, an appropriately modified Mk. II EVA suit, and a standard set of ten remote AX-10 probes. The inventory of SCP-907 is to be refreshed after every testing mission.
For the sake of caution, testing of SCP-907 is to be carried out by Level 1 and 2 personnel only, as according to the official testing schedule. SCP-907 is not to be exited by the researcher during testing missions except in matters of absolute necessity.
**Description:** SCP-907 is a 196█ VW van bearing no internal or external structural anomalies. The vehicle had received a new coat of paint shortly before recovery, but otherwise all modification to the vehicle has been carried out by the Foundation. Said modification includes the removal of all seats in the vehicle and the addition of testing and research equipment.
Upon the starting of its engine, SCP-907 will disappear from local time-space and undergo a state of transit. This state will persist for five to ten minutes, after which the engine will stop of its own accord. Removing the key or attempting to turn off the engine manually has proven unsuccessful while transit is ongoing. When transit has been completed, SCP-907 will re-appear on the surface of an extrasolar planet. Many planets appear to be located in other galaxies, making identification through positions of known stellar objects impossible. No traces of life have been found on any planet reached via SCP-907.
SCP-907 itself, and all conditions within, will not be affected by any outside conditions. So long as an object or person is completely within SCP-907, even if there is an open door or window present, they will be unaffected by the outside environment.
SCP-907 will return to Earth in the same location as its departure after five to fifteen stops. The vehicle is seen to undergo a minor relativistic effect during transit, where a longer period of time will have transpired on Earth than it has in SCP-907, but this time period has yet to exceed a lag of two weeks.
**Addendum:** While over three hundred extrasolar planets have been catalogued through usage of SCP-907, several have been encountered on multiple occasions. These include:
* **SCP-907-A:** Terrestrial planet approximately 1.5 times Earth’s mass, orbiting an M-class star. No atmosphere or moons are present. The landscape is covered in a thick layer of graphite with surface formations of diamond due to seismic upheaval. Surface temperature averages -200 ºC.
* **SCP-907-B:** Terrestrial planet with an atmosphere of methane and carbon dioxide measuring approximately 90 AMP. Exterior temperature at ground level is in excess of 550 ºC. Trace compounds of unknown chemical composition give the lower atmosphere an iridescent quality.
* **SCP-907-C:** Insufficient data: Believed to be the semi-liquid core of a standard hydrogen gas giant.
* **SCP-907-D:** Terrestrial planet approximately 3 times Earth’s mass, orbiting a K-class star. A trace atmosphere of carbon dioxide and nitrogen is present, as well as a single moon. While liquid water is present, the environment is self-sterilizing due to severe ultra-violet radiation from the planet’s sun.
* **SCP-907-E:** Icy moon orbiting a ringed helium giant. No atmosphere present. Irregular composition of the ice combined with abnormal warming and cooling patterns has caused a marbled pattern on the surface.
* **SCP-907-F:** Terrestrial planet approximately 17 times the mass of Earth, orbiting a B-class star. Six small moons present. The atmosphere is made primarily of nitrogen and argon, and large quantities of arsenic and mercury are present in the soil. Winds of up to 270 km/h have been recorded.
[[footnoteblock]]
[[div class="footer-wikiwalk-nav"]]
[[=]]
<< [[[SCP-906]]] | SCP-907 | [[[SCP-908]]] >>
[[/=]]
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[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-01-03T17:37:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"foundation-format",
"no-dialogue",
"tale"
] | SCP-907 - SCP Foundation | 279 | [
"scp-906",
"scp-908",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011"
] | [] | 6825257 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-907-arc |
|
scp-924-arc | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong>Item #:</strong> SCP-924</p>
<p><strong>Object Class:</strong> Euclid</p>
<p><strong>Special Containment Procedures:</strong> All specimens of SCP-924 are to be kept in separate 7 m x 7 m x 7 m saltwater tanks within Site 46. The water is to be kept at a steady temperature of 1.6ºC (35ºF). All observation points are to be constructed of reinforced glass. If a tank must be entered for reasons of experimentation or cleaning, the water is to be heated to a temperature of 7ºC (44.6ºF). Entering tanks outside of these conditions is prohibited.</p>
<p>Each SCP-924 is to be supplied with 85 kilograms of fresh meat on a monthly basis.</p>
<p>The capture or elimination of wild specimens of SCP-924 is to be carried out by Special Task Force Τau-2 “Polar Pathfinders”.</p>
<p><strong>Description:</strong> SCP-924 is a species of pale humanoid measuring approximately 2 meters (6.5 feet) in height. The entities have the appearance of a waterlogged human corpse, with the addition of several bony, antler-like growths on the head and a set of external gills located just below the rib cage. They are capable of swimming at speeds up to 30 km/h and surviving at depths of up to 1 kilometer. SCP-924 requires a near-freezing arctic environment to function properly, and will lapse into a state of estivation if the water around it rises above 4ºC (39.2ºF).</p>
<p>SCP-924 is an ambush predator, attacking prey from underwater using either a hole in the ice as an appropriate ambush location, or by simply breaking through the ice itself. SCP-924 is highly sensitive to both smell and vibrations, allowing it to track prey from significant distances or through the ice. If the attack is successful, the target is promptly drowned by SCP-924; following this, the body will be dragged down to the ocean floor by SCP-924 for consumption.</p>
<p>SCP-924 will release drowned bodies after 1-6 hours. Recovered bodies show all signs of prolonged submersion and high pressure, as well as liquefaction and consumption of internal organs and muscles. Bodies will also contain high levels of virulent bacteria, which, when exposed to the human body, will break down most types of connective and muscle tissue, while leaving skin and bones unharmed. Bacteria will remain active within the body for up to two weeks after feeding.</p>
<p>SCP-924 was first recorded as a series of mysterious disappearances of ice fishermen in the area around [REDACTED]. While the species requires a below-freezing environment to function properly, as its internal activity lessens as the temperatures around it increases, it has been known to migrate south during the winter to find prey. The southernmost encounter with an SCP-924 was approximately three miles outside ████████, Michigan.</p>
<p><strong>Addendum</strong>: An incident on ██/██/20██, while resulting in no casualties, proved that SCP-924 are capable of supporting themselves and moving outside of water, and that attacks on unwary fishing vessels are possible. Special Task Force Tau-2 has revised their protocols accordingly.</p>
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<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/scp-924-arc">SCP-924</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/scp-924-arc">https://scpwiki.com/scp-924-arc</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**Item #:** SCP-924
**Object Class:** Euclid
**Special Containment Procedures:** All specimens of SCP-924 are to be kept in separate 7 m x 7 m x 7 m saltwater tanks within Site 46. The water is to be kept at a steady temperature of 1.6ºC (35ºF). All observation points are to be constructed of reinforced glass. If a tank must be entered for reasons of experimentation or cleaning, the water is to be heated to a temperature of 7ºC (44.6ºF). Entering tanks outside of these conditions is prohibited.
Each SCP-924 is to be supplied with 85 kilograms of fresh meat on a monthly basis.
The capture or elimination of wild specimens of SCP-924 is to be carried out by Special Task Force Τau-2 “Polar Pathfinders”.
**Description:** SCP-924 is a species of pale humanoid measuring approximately 2 meters (6.5 feet) in height. The entities have the appearance of a waterlogged human corpse, with the addition of several bony, antler-like growths on the head and a set of external gills located just below the rib cage. They are capable of swimming at speeds up to 30 km/h and surviving at depths of up to 1 kilometer. SCP-924 requires a near-freezing arctic environment to function properly, and will lapse into a state of estivation if the water around it rises above 4ºC (39.2ºF).
SCP-924 is an ambush predator, attacking prey from underwater using either a hole in the ice as an appropriate ambush location, or by simply breaking through the ice itself. SCP-924 is highly sensitive to both smell and vibrations, allowing it to track prey from significant distances or through the ice. If the attack is successful, the target is promptly drowned by SCP-924; following this, the body will be dragged down to the ocean floor by SCP-924 for consumption.
SCP-924 will release drowned bodies after 1-6 hours. Recovered bodies show all signs of prolonged submersion and high pressure, as well as liquefaction and consumption of internal organs and muscles. Bodies will also contain high levels of virulent bacteria, which, when exposed to the human body, will break down most types of connective and muscle tissue, while leaving skin and bones unharmed. Bacteria will remain active within the body for up to two weeks after feeding.
SCP-924 was first recorded as a series of mysterious disappearances of ice fishermen in the area around [REDACTED]. While the species requires a below-freezing environment to function properly, as its internal activity lessens as the temperatures around it increases, it has been known to migrate south during the winter to find prey. The southernmost encounter with an SCP-924 was approximately three miles outside ████████, Michigan.
**Addendum**: An incident on ██/██/20██, while resulting in no casualties, proved that SCP-924 are capable of supporting themselves and moving outside of water, and that attacks on unwary fishing vessels are possible. Special Task Force Tau-2 has revised their protocols accordingly.
[[footnoteblock]]
[[div class="footer-wikiwalk-nav"]]
[[=]]
<< [[[SCP-923]]] | SCP-924 | [[[SCP-925]]] >>
[[/=]]
[[/div]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-08-18T00:15:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"foundation-format",
"tale"
] | SCP-924 - SCP Foundation | 176 | [
"scp-923",
"scp-925",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011"
] | [] | 11517897 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-924-arc |
|
securitycameralog | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><em><strong>PLEASE NOTE:</strong> Only the anomalous moments recorded by Security Camera #██████ have been transcribed into text. The times of the specific incidents have been noted.</em></p>
<p><strong>02/21/20██: 3:12 AM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>One of the double doors separating Foundation Relaxation Annex #4435 (FRA4435) from the corridor, originally closed, opens approximately 10 degrees. After three minutes, the door closes.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>02/25/20██: 12:25 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Doctor █████████ is seen, through the doors, attempting to sit down on a chair within line-of-sight of the camera. The chair moves a foot behind him. Doctor █████████ lands on the floor. As █████████ gets up, with the assistance of other off-duty staff, laughing and cajoling is heard about █████████'s alcohol consumption.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>02/28/20██: 7:23 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Agent █████ is seen in the hallway outside of FRA4435 doing wall flips. █████ is muttering and cursing to himself. During his third jump, █████'s right foot appears to become stationary at is highest point for half a second, before the agent is dropped downward with force. █████ does not seem to notice this, and treats the event as if he simply failed to make a full rotation.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/02/20██: 2:43 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>The doors to FRA4435 are open. A small object (later identified as a ping-pong ball) rolls into frame, out of the Annex. When the ball reaches the midpoint of the hallway, it abruptly stops. After a brief moment, the ball slowly rolls back against the wall the camera is facing. Agent ████ walks into frame, presumed to be looking for the ball. Upon discovery of the ball, ████ attempts to recover it. He struggles for three pulls, as if the ball had impossible weight, before falling backwards with the ball. Tossing the ball in his hand, ████ walks back into the Annex.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/02/20██: 4:02 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Technician ███████'s face is in frame, moving the camera to a view directly looking into FRA4435. ███████'s face goes from boredom to annoyance, demanding that whoever is bumping the ladder to stop, lest he punish them physically. 4 seconds later, ███████'s face drops out of frame. No longer supported by its mechanical supports, the camera points downward, showing ███████'s body. His head is bent at an odd angle.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/02/20██: 4:55 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Technician ████ is seen placing a standard "Investigation In Progress, Do Not Use" sticker on the door to FRA4435. After ████ walks away, the sticker falls off, landing in six pieces.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/03/20██: 2:12 AM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>The lights in FRA4435, formerly off, turn on for two minutes, then turn off again. Ten minutes later, the glass of one of the doors shatters outwards. Examination reveals that a bolt on one of the athletic machines failed catastrophically, flinging a 18kg weight through the door.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/03/20██: 10 AM</strong><br/>
<em>Non-anomalous recording</em></p>
<blockquote>
<p>FRA4435 is cordoned off. A thick plastic tarp blocks sight, but light from within shows multiple persons, walking around. The sounds heard of those inside performing a standard security examination.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/03/20██: 11:01 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Researcher ████ is the last of a group of █ Researchers leaving the cordoned-off FRA4435. ████ calls to the rest, informing them that he left something inside. ████ returns inside, turning on a light. ████'s silhouette can be seen rummaging around. At 11:05 PM, ████ stands up straight. He does not move for █ hours, after which he walks out inconspicuously. He is met by three armed guards.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><strong>03/05/20██: 1 PM</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Doctors ███ and ██████ are standing in front of the door to FRA4435, arguing about the lack of progress in solving the issues involving FRA4435. Doctor ███ believes that the Foundation knows which specific item inside FRA4435 is anomalous, and that the Foundation is sacrificing valuable staff to test it, instead of "throwing Ds at it like they should". Doctor ██████ disagrees, pointing out that all reports show inconclusive results, meaning that as far as the Foundation is aware, there is nothing anomalous about anything inside FRA4435.</p>
<p>Both of them turn to face the camera in unison.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/securitycameralog">Security Camera #██████ Log</a>" by MisterBibs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/securitycameralog">https://scpwiki.com/securitycameralog</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
//**PLEASE NOTE:** Only the anomalous moments recorded by Security Camera #██████ have been transcribed into text. The times of the specific incidents have been noted.//
**02/21/20██: 3:12 AM**
> One of the double doors separating Foundation Relaxation Annex #4435 (FRA4435) from the corridor, originally closed, opens approximately 10 degrees. After three minutes, the door closes.
**02/25/20██: 12:25 PM**
> Doctor █████████ is seen, through the doors, attempting to sit down on a chair within line-of-sight of the camera. The chair moves a foot behind him. Doctor █████████ lands on the floor. As █████████ gets up, with the assistance of other off-duty staff, laughing and cajoling is heard about █████████'s alcohol consumption.
**02/28/20██: 7:23 PM**
> Agent █████ is seen in the hallway outside of FRA4435 doing wall flips. █████ is muttering and cursing to himself. During his third jump, █████'s right foot appears to become stationary at is highest point for half a second, before the agent is dropped downward with force. █████ does not seem to notice this, and treats the event as if he simply failed to make a full rotation.
**03/02/20██: 2:43 PM**
> The doors to FRA4435 are open. A small object (later identified as a ping-pong ball) rolls into frame, out of the Annex. When the ball reaches the midpoint of the hallway, it abruptly stops. After a brief moment, the ball slowly rolls back against the wall the camera is facing. Agent ████ walks into frame, presumed to be looking for the ball. Upon discovery of the ball, ████ attempts to recover it. He struggles for three pulls, as if the ball had impossible weight, before falling backwards with the ball. Tossing the ball in his hand, ████ walks back into the Annex.
**03/02/20██: 4:02 PM**
> Technician ███████'s face is in frame, moving the camera to a view directly looking into FRA4435. ███████'s face goes from boredom to annoyance, demanding that whoever is bumping the ladder to stop, lest he punish them physically. 4 seconds later, ███████'s face drops out of frame. No longer supported by its mechanical supports, the camera points downward, showing ███████'s body. His head is bent at an odd angle.
**03/02/20██: 4:55 PM**
> Technician ████ is seen placing a standard "Investigation In Progress, Do Not Use" sticker on the door to FRA4435. After ████ walks away, the sticker falls off, landing in six pieces.
**03/03/20██: 2:12 AM**
> The lights in FRA4435, formerly off, turn on for two minutes, then turn off again. Ten minutes later, the glass of one of the doors shatters outwards. Examination reveals that a bolt on one of the athletic machines failed catastrophically, flinging a 18kg weight through the door.
**03/03/20██: 10 AM**
//Non-anomalous recording//
> FRA4435 is cordoned off. A thick plastic tarp blocks sight, but light from within shows multiple persons, walking around. The sounds heard of those inside performing a standard security examination.
**03/03/20██: 11:01 PM**
> Researcher ████ is the last of a group of █ Researchers leaving the cordoned-off FRA4435. ████ calls to the rest, informing them that he left something inside. ████ returns inside, turning on a light. ████'s silhouette can be seen rummaging around. At 11:05 PM, ████ stands up straight. He does not move for █ hours, after which he walks out inconspicuously. He is met by three armed guards.
**03/05/20██: 1 PM**
> Doctors ███ and ██████ are standing in front of the door to FRA4435, arguing about the lack of progress in solving the issues involving FRA4435. Doctor ███ believes that the Foundation knows which specific item inside FRA4435 is anomalous, and that the Foundation is sacrificing valuable staff to test it, instead of "throwing Ds at it like they should". Doctor ██████ disagrees, pointing out that all reports show inconclusive results, meaning that as far as the Foundation is aware, there is nothing anomalous about anything inside FRA4435.
>
> Both of them turn to face the camera in unison.
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-28T06:35:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Security Camera #██████ Log - SCP Foundation | 44 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11784166 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/securitycameralog |
|
seniorstaffshenanigans | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Dr. Bright sat in the middle of the Cafeteria, the old fashioned computer set before him. Atop said computer was a certain statue of a certain monkey, which many people had tried to obtain. Around him stood, sat, or otherwise existed quite a large number of the junior staff, with a few seniors, all eyes glued to the good doctor.</p>
<p>"And…save. There we go. The entirety of site 19, backed up, and emailed elsewhere, so if this goes as balls up as I expect it to, we can reboot." He sighed, and stood up. "In that case, I officially declare the beginning of the Staff Prank war of 2011. Whoever holds 050 at the end of a 24 hour period will be promoted to the ranks of Senior Staff. I currently hold it, so y'all can start by pranking me… May god have mercy on all our souls."</p>
<p>…And then the bomb under his chair detonated, covering the cafeteria with lime green paint, and incidentally blowing his legs off in the process. Several rooms away, research assistant Renfield took her fingers out of her ears and looked happily down at the monkey statue now gracing her new desk.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Dmitri studied his reflection for a moment, adjusted the angle of his hat, then exited his quarters. The heel irons in his boots clicked on the linoleum floors as he walked briskly through the halls of Site 19. Those going about their daily business knew to stay out of the way when Strelnikov was about; his movements had purpose, and that could only mean a disaster was looming.</p>
<p>Indeed it was. Renfield's office was only two floors down from his own.</p>
<p>Before he even knew it, he was reading the nametag on her door. Or rather, he was reading her name amongst a list of other assistants who shared this office. As he kicked the door off its hinges, he decided it didn't really matter whose office it was. His boots left dents in the sheet metal as he stepped over the broken door and surveyed the group of cowering interns, hand resting casually on his holster.</p>
<p>"Which ones of you is Rend Field." No answer.</p>
<p>"I WILL SHOOT ONE OF YOU EVERY MINUTE UNTIL I AM TOLD WHICH ONES OF YOU IS REND FIELD." The group parted like the Red Sea, leaving a smug looking young girl standing alone in the center. Dmitri's teeth shone as he growled at her.</p>
<p><strong>TWO HOURS LATER</strong></p>
<p>"SON OF THE BITCH, JACK. GOD DAMMIT."</p>
<p>"Dmitri, you can't just shoot whoever is holding the monkey and expect to get it. That isn't a prank." Bright's wheelchair bumped into the back of Dmitri's leg as he manhandled it around. "And get out of the damn way."</p>
<p>Dmitri jabbed a finger at Bright. "IT IS A PRANK. I HAVE DONE THIS PRANK SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE, IN BOTH WARS."</p>
<p>"It's not a prank, Dmitri."</p>
<p>"YES IT IS!"</p>
<p>"Dmitri. It's over. You're out of the competition now, for good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go deal with Renfield in the infirmary….smug little bitch. You could have at least killed her."</p>
<p>Strelnikov sighed heavily and returned to the quiet of his quarters, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that 050 would never be his.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agent Lament whistled quietly to himself, glancing down at his watch, nodding amiably to the nurse as she walked into Renfield's room carrying an IV bag of saline. Lament smirked slightly and started walking down the hallway, heading toward his extremely messy office and waiting outside the door.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Renfield moaned in her sleep, the drugs having her knocked out completely. The nurse hooked up the IV bag, checked the prone woman's vitals, and left the room. Within three minutes Renfield's skin started to develop large, round hives, then her neck and throat started to swell as a severe allergic reaction set in, followed by her eyes shooting open as the stimulants hit her bloodstream. She tried to scream but couldn't, her throat beginning to close as she desperately hit the call button again and again and again…</p>
<hr/>
<p>Lament opened his door, looking into his office and smiling slightly at the statue. Now… How the hell could he get rid of it before someone noticed that he had it?</p>
<hr/>
<p>Few people had a true appreciation for just how ingrained computers were with every single aspect of modern society, and the Foundation was no exception. Despite all the hard copies, every report, every researcher's note, every field log and every file photo was logged into a computer database somewhere. Every personnel transfer, every requisition form, every security feed, all set up in little 0's and 1's on a hard drive somewhere. When the transfer of Site 19's backup set off some alarms, he knew it was time. Kap - a name adopted because he was sick of people mispronouncing his full name - was sitting and typing away deep in the bowels of the Site. The coders and hardware gurus had a whole, unique set of regulations and security clearances, and the amount of information you were exposed to above your classification level was directly proportional to your time on the job. The guys that ran the networks and made sure the workstations functioned knew more than most of the researchers, though maybe not as much as that one janitor.</p>
<p>Once he realized that a mixed batch of saline and known allergens could only be used for the ever-escalating prank contests, a few key strokes were all it took to set retaliation in motion. A series of embedded programs ticked off other protocols which activated further batch processes. The sheer array of false IPs and bogus addresses would take the average user months to back-trace, and any of the other computer staff were already well-bribed with beer, pizza, and the promise of a neat and orderly work area. Lament opened the door to his office, seeing a single, solitary box laying there, carefully gift-wrapped and tied with a neat bow. It wasn't even close to his birthday, but there was no way any sort of bomb or other device could have made it that deep into a secure Foundation site, so he took it inside and opened it up.</p>
<p>Kap was as surprised as anyone when the little monkey appeared on top of his computer tower, and sighed slightly at the poor devil who was going to have to treat Lament and clean up the hundreds of tiny insects from his office. After all, the present was bees.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>INCIDENT 2011-██</p>
<p>T-330 minutes<br/>
Researcher Eisenberg seen carrying a set of mechanic tattooing equipment, origin unknown</p>
<p>T-310 minutes<br/>
Researcher Eisenberg seen entering the enclosure of SCP-1006, carrying a bucket, a stack of papers, and his personal copies of Assorted Writings of V.I. Lenin, and History of VKS(b).</p>
<p>T-260 minutes.<br/>
Researcher Eisenberg seen leaving the enclosure of SCP-1006, carrying a bucket.</p>
<p>T-245 minutes<br/>
Researcher Eisenberg enters SCP-786's secure room in Site-19 storage.</p>
<p>T-0<br/>
Junior System Administrator Kap seen entering medical wing, distraught, lacking vestments, and covered in spiderwebs. A 1:3 greyscale full body portrait of V.I.Lenin can be seen on his back, and a text later identified as the entire text of "State and Revolution" in 8 pt. font covering his chest, abdomen, and both thighs.</p>
<p>T+20 minutes<br/>
Desk of Researcher Eisenberg [REDACTED], markedly improving the filing order.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Dr. Los E. R. checked the sign again. Eisenberg's office was room…321? No, wait, 312. He set off at a brisk pace down the hallway, hoping to get there before anyone else did.</p>
<p>309, 310, 311…There we go, 312. Los E. R. gave a quick knock and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. Researcher Eisenberg visibly balked at the sudden intrusion, his eyes darting to the statue on his desk before reaching for the top drawer.</p>
<p>"Whoa whoa whoa! Calm down, I'm not going to do anything!" Los E. R. held his palms out. "See? Sorry, didn't think you'd be so jumpy."</p>
<p>Eisenberg stopped, eyeing the doctor warily, but kept his hand resting on the top drawer. "What do you want?"</p>
<p>"Word around the site is that you got 1006 to net Kap. Just wanted to say, that's brilliant! No one ever expects nets!" Los E. R. chuckled to himself. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm not going to pull some horrendous prank. I'd probably end up in the hospital, I've never been really good at elaborate pranks."</p>
<p>Eisenberg seemed to relax slightly at Los E. R.'s reassurance, but wasn't totally swayed. "No, it wasn't nets, exactly…I had them tattoo Lenin on him."</p>
<p>Los E. R. burst out laughing, leaning on the desk for support. "You had them <em>tattoo</em> a portrait of <em>Lenin?!</em> That's genius! How does someone come up with something like that?! Oh man, I'd never pull something like that off, I'm no good with those elaborate pranks. Did you actually talk to those little commies yourself?"</p>
<p>Eisenberg smiled and chuckled nervously. "Yeah, it wasn't too hard to get them to agree. I mean, it <em>was</em> Lenin after all. Talking to a bunch of spiders though…that was kinda creepy. They were all over the place."</p>
<p>"I can tell. You've got a cobweb on your coat, here let me…" Los E. R. reached forward and scratched at Eisenbergs lapel. On instinct, he glanced down to catch a glimpse of the bit of silk wafting from his collar, only to get a flick on the nose.</p>
<p>"Gotcha."</p>
<p>Stunned, he watched as Los E. R. laughed one more time before he scooped SCP-050 from his desk and exited the room. As he disappeared around the door frame, Eisenberg heard him chuckle.</p>
<p>"Never was any good with those elaborate pranks."</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Hey, Los."</p>
<p>Los E. R. felt a chill run down his spine at the voice. "Oh no," he whimpered. "Not HIM…"</p>
<p>He turned around, clutching the monkey statue to his chest, as a breathtakingly ugly middle-aged man walked down the hall towards him. "Relax," Clef said. "I don't want that statue. I'm already senior staff, and I have no interest in Bright's games. You're safe from me."</p>
<p>Los E. R. sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god," he said. "I really did not want to be subject to a prank by you."</p>
<p>"Hey, don't worry about it. I'm beyond that sort of bullshit anyway. I always thought that stuff was kinda stupid. In fact, as a sign of my goodwill, I'll escort you back to your office."</p>
<p>Los E. R. quickly followed Clef down the hallway. It was amazing, he thought, what the presence of that man could do. A researcher leaped out from around the corner holding a giant creme pie, which he rapidly put down and walked away from. A man wearing a hockey mask and holding a machete took off his costume and had a sheepish talk with the Senior Researcher. It was wonderful.</p>
<p>"Well, here we are," Clef said.</p>
<p>Los E. R. looked up at the door and frowned. "This isn't my office," he said.</p>
<p>"What? Oh, oops. Sorry. 571, not 517. Let's go."</p>
<p>Clef led the junior staff member to the other side of the floor, and to his office. "Well, here we are… again," he said, a few minutes later.</p>
<p>"Thanks a lot, Dr. Clef," Los E. R. said. "I really appreciate it."</p>
<p>"No problem. Oh, Los? Remember when I said I had no interest in Bright's games?" Clef grinned, a huge, evil, sinister grin. "I lied."</p>
<p>That was when the door of Los' office exploded outward, and five thousand gallons of compressed shaving cream flooded the hallway.</p>
<p>Clef watched Los being carried away in the avalanche of white foam, and wiped a little spot off his jacket. "Go get em', Adams," he murmured.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Ed from Accounting (everyone thought of him as "Ed from Accounting" — including himself after 14 years at the job) hated the prank wars. A waste of staff time, the building maintenance budget, and the cost of injuries, if you asked him…which no one did. The usual threats — paperwork, budget cuts, audits — never seemed to work. More creative means were called for.</p>
<p>Ed called Junior Researcher Johnson. "Is it ready? … really? Good! Bring it around to my office."</p>
<p>Fifteen minutes later, Johnson was in Ed's dingy, cluttered office, handing him a small brown bag. Ed looked in the bag and smiled. "How long will it stay that way?"</p>
<p>"Weeks" Johnson replied. "at least, if no one touches it."</p>
<p>Ed put the bag in his briefcase, along with a small stack of papers. 12:20? Good. Adams would be off to lunch. He headed up to her office.</p>
<p>Ed knocked on the door, then let himself in. Good, no one there. It was easy to swap the item on Adams' desk for the one in the bag. He slipped the Form 1661-G under the inner door for Dr. Clef. That would excuse his visit; the auditors really did need it next week.</p>
<p>Back downstairs in his office, Ed opened a file cabinet and dropped SCP-050, still in its bag, next to the 2004 Operating Budget reports. It looked like someone's long-forgotten lunch. He didn't care the least bit about "winning" it — he just wanted it out of circulation.</p>
<p>No one would guess that he had the wit to obtain it.<br/>
No one would guess that he had pulled this particular prank, since he wasn't supposed to have any access to SCPs.<br/>
No one ever came down to Accounting if they could help it.<br/>
SCP-050 would be there for a long time.</p>
<p>When they found the fake, they would blame Johnson, who had shown some real success in training SCP-157.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Research Assistant Reject was having a nice, calm day, sipping his coffee and skimming through his newest batch of paperwork while strolling down the hallway to his office. He was called Reject for a very good reason: although he had been a member of the Foundation for ten years, he had been the same rank for over seven of them. He even called himself Reject. His bachelorhood had hopelessly dragged on much longer than he had ever hoped. He was used to being a reject. That was, until he spotted a man in a suit walking into Dr. Clef's office.</p>
<p>Reject was never known as an especially observant person, but today was different. He had heard about some pranks going on, but he didn't really care about any of that. He was determined to work his way up the ladder without shaving cream or explosives, just with hard work and dedication. Until he saw a very happy man running out of Dr. Clef's office, his arms crossed upon his chest. Reject could see a brown paper bag bobbing slightly above and below the man's arms. His interest piqued, Reject decided to follow him.</p>
<p>The man never turned around as he walked. Reject didn't have any trouble following him. Ten minutes later, Reject realized just how far they had walked. He turned his head. "Accounting —>" was written on a sign, pointing in the direction that he was going. After another couple of minutes, the man turned sharply into an office. Reject peeked into the room to see another man converse shortly with the man he had followed and take the bag. Reject ducked behind a corner as both men exited the office.</p>
<p>Reject attempted to follow the man with the bag, but lost him in the maze of cubicles and offices in this unknown sector. Reject turned to leave, but decided not to let this go. This chance was his. He called up an old friend from Sector 28 with a favor to ask. His friend agreed, and in an hour, Reject knew that he would have the chance to become a Senior Staff member. He went to his office and placed an empty coffee mug alongside a mostly unread folder of paperwork.</p>
<p>One hour later, Reject met his friend in the cafeteria. Reject's friend handed him a bag with two words written on it. "DON'T LOSE." Reject smiled, and walked briskly down towards the accounting offices. Once there, he took the item out of the bag. Staring at a sentient calculator was a new experience for him. After befriending SCP-168, he asked his new buddy a favor. The calculator agreed in return for the ability to see the rest of the prank war. Reject dropped SCP-168 in the office he had seen before as soon as the man inhabiting it left. Reject admired his handiwork. He took a seat on a nearby chair. When the man returned, he gave Reject a questioning glance, but dismissed it. After five minutes in his office, a scream was heard. When the man exited his office, his face was pale white. In his hand was SCP-168.</p>
<p>The man looked at the calculator and said "Okay, okay. I'll go get it. I didn't realize the world would end if I didn't! I feel so awful…" Reject chuckled to himself and began to shadow the man as he hurried down the hallways. When they arrived at a file cabinet, the man stopped. He ran his finger along the cabinet until he reached "2004 Operating Budget Reports Jan-Mar." He started typing on the calculator. After a short period, the calculator responded. The man jumped back, aghast. He yelped "No! I brought you to the stupid monkey! That can't be!" Reject quickly decided he'd had enough of complaining from this unknown man and dealt a swift uppercut to the jaw followed by an elbow to the nose. As he fell, Reject grabbed SCP-168 and the brown paper bag. Overjoyed, he began to walk back to his office. He looked once more at the unconscious accountant on the ground. And then he laughed, and left this bloody, deceptive business behind him as he strolled back towards his office with a renewed sense of confidence.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Nevah let practicality stand in de way of <em>art</em>, my cousin." The humongously fat Hawaiian nodded ponderously at the uniformed corpse held aloft in his hand, then slowly shook it so that it's head nodded along. Chuckling to himself, he slipped the matchbook the poor guard had died failing to protect into an outer pocket of his enormous satchel next to a tarnished canteen, and waddled out of the ruined containment unit and down the hallway toward the personnel wing.</p>
<p>Flanked by a pair of traitor guards, their sleeves rolled up to reveal liberty cuffs emblazoned with blaring abstract designs, the huge man reflected on the work and planning that had gone into this effort. It <em>was</em> impractical, sure. Infiltrating the Foundation's security forces alone had taken months. Fortunately, the prank war was a regular yearly event, so he'd had plenty of time to prepare.</p>
<p>"Ah, here it tis."</p>
<p>He stopped in front of a particular office, grinning as he began pulling the necessary materials from his satchel. A small funnel, a length of tubing, the matchbox and canteen, and hundreds of small paper packets, which his helpers began opening one by one.</p>
<p>It didn't take long to tape the tubing to the mouth of the canteen, and slide the other end under the door. It took only a little longer to funnel the contents of the packets into the gap, and considerably less to open the matchbook and slide it in as well before sealing the gap completely with more tape. Once their work was done, the big man rose and nodded to his companions, then paused to doodle a small cartoon on the door before heading back down the hallway they'd come in by and leave the facility.</p>
<p>Later that day, as loyal security men tried desperately to work out what had happened to SCP's 649 and 109, Reject arrived at his office to find a scribbled caricature on his door of a fat man in a bowler hat giving him the finger, with the text "PRANKED BY BRUDDAH GROVE! Are We Cool Yet?".</p>
<p>Reject had just enough time to curse before the door burst and he was swamped by a massive wave of lime jello.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Dr. Los E. R. dug a finger in his ear, trying to dig out the last vestiges of shaving cream. He winced as the dried bits twisted painfully before crumbling lose. Site 19 was a maze on the best of days, and on Senior Staff Shenanigans day it was a minefield. He rerouted around the third floor; he had heard that someone had gotten their hands on a metric ton of hissing cockroaches and thermite. He skirted the south side of the fourth floor, trying to find his way back to the restrooms to wash up. If memory served, it was at the end of the hall on his right, next door to where they put Research Assistant Reject after he somehow managed to shrink his office to a third of its original size.</p>
<p>He was scrapping dried flakes of cream from his lower back when he noticed he what he was walking in. Quizzically, he raised a foot to get a better look. Smells a little like lime, kind of minty. Looks like some kind of green…slime? He glanced down the hallway and saw Reject, lying in a puddle of the stuff. He was either out cold, or dea-</p>
<p>Los E. R.'s heart skipped a beat as he put two and two together.</p>
<p><span style="font-size:1.5em;">"DEAD BODIES!!!"</span></p>
<p>Screaming incoherently, Dr. Los E. R. hurtled back the way he came, sticky green jello foot prints marking his progress to the nearest <a href="/scp-447">SCP-447</a> alarm.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Bruddah Grove paused as the klaxon sounded. Blast doors slid into place over the exit. How poetic, so close to freedom with artifacts of power. With the dead security guard he had been dragging along, he waved at his companion.</p>
<p>"Dis noise, have they figured out what we are doing?"</p>
<p>The traitorous guard shook his head, the blood draining from his face. "That's the 447 alert. They've locked the exits. They're going to detonate the on-site warhead."</p>
<p>There was a full moment of silence.</p>
<p>Carefully picking each word, Bruddah Grove looked at the tiny man.</p>
<p>"How doh we get out den?"</p>
<p>The two guards looked at each other nervously. "We don't. We could try to get to the O5 bunker, but we can't make it from here. It's fifty levels down-"</p>
<p>"Wait!" The other guard perked up. "The Site septic tank! I know that they've started reenforcing them ever since Bright accidentally flushed 523. It might be able to withstand the blast!"</p>
<p>"The Sewage Access Hatch isn't far from here, we can make it if we hurry!"</p>
<p>Taking the slim glimmer of hope for what ever it was worth, the trio hurried desperately down the hall.</p>
<hr/>
<p>O5-8 sighed. This was not the first time the 447 alert had been sounded on Senior Staff Shenanigans Day. Before flipping the switch and killing everyone on-site, he took a moment to make sure it was a dead body. If it wasn't, no harm done. If it was, well…the nuke wouldn't do any good, anyways.</p>
<p>A quick check later confirmed that Research Assistant Reject was not, in fact, dead. Perhaps more importantly, it turned out that it wasn't even 447 slime at all. With an irritated grumble, he switched of the klaxon. This prank war was stupid.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Bruddah Grove sat in the filth of the entire Site, watching his two companions float face down in the lanterns pale light. He might be here for a while, and they were using up too much air. He reflected on how their lungs filled with filth and life drained from their bodies, a testament to how life starts pure and ignorance weighs innocence down with shit. A haiku rose unbidden from his lips.</p>
<p>"Here I stew in filth,<br/>
Waiting for the Bombs Big Boom.<br/>
Now, Are We Cool Yet?"</p>
<hr/>
<p>Dr. Los E. R. felt rather silly. Of course it was another prank. He should have known. It probably wasn't even meant for him.</p>
<p>Having long since given up hope of finding a bathroom to clean up in, he had started to work his way back to his office. Pushing the door open, a bucket of water immediately fell from atop the door. Irritated yet strangely grateful to get some kind of wash, he lifted the rim of the bucket to find the monkey sitting on his desk.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Junior Researcher Byantara had prepared a whole week in advance for this day. With Senior Staff position at stake, there was no reason not to be prepared. Crazy prepared, in his case.</p>
<p>Six days, thirteen hours, forty-five minutes and nine seconds ago, Byantara was profusely apologising to a very unamused Doctor Crow, surrounded by the products of twenty-three very startled Malayan Stink Badgers which had now escaped their cages and were clawing the wallpaper off Doctor Crow's office. Long story short, it was yet another round of maintenance duty for him.</p>
<p>Four days, seven hours, two minutes and fifty-five seconds ago, Byantara began painting the offices on the third floor of Block 2A, by himself, using two paint rollers, a crate of white paint, a box of plaster, a crate of tomatoes, and several dozen rolled-up meters of ultra-thin semi-permeable tubing.</p>
<p>Two days, twelve hours, thirty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds ago, a parcel arrived for Site-19, sealed with black tape and hastily recovered from designated post box PO-2354 by a certain shifty-looking Junior Researcher sent to collect the daily personal mail.</p>
<p>One day, two hours, and exactly forty-nine seconds ago, Byantara finished his lab work, packed up, cleaned Chamber 2A-2-1 and secured several large marital aids to the floor before locking up. He proceeded similarly for Chamber 2A-2-3, -2-5, -2-7 and -2-9, and left the building with a little smile. Now, all that was left was to hope someone in Block 2A actually managed to get hold of 050.</p>
<p>One hour, three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago, he idly browsed through the frantically compiled digital record of SCP-050 possession. Soon it would arrive. From Bright, to Clef, to Reject…</p>
<p>Byantara refreshed the page, spat out his acrid coffee, and dashed out of the lab. In his right hand was a remote, with a single green button, and he mashed it in double time to his steps towards the central communications office. Tucked in safely mere inches above the ceiling of Doctor Los's freshly painted office, forty-eight plastic phalluses began to hum.</p>
<p>As expected, not only was the comms office a very long distance away, it was also utter chaos. Someone had sounded some sort of alarm beforehand, and whoever was meant to be guarding the place were long gone, leaving dog-eared papers in their wake. Chuckling to himself, he called up the speaker of Office 2A-3-5.</p>
<p>Five seconds. Four seconds. Byantara cleared his throat. Three. The collective vibrations caused by the forty-eight sex toys would be building up to the maximum by now, shaking the ceiling - and walls - of every office on the floor below it, rupturing the many little sachets of tomato juice seeded in the plaster beneath the apple-scented white paint. Two.</p>
<p>Junior Researcher Byantara took a deep breath. One.</p>
<p>In his office, Doctor Los E. R. cowered beneath his desk as the walls began to bleed and the ceiling screamed his name. He was too busy wetting his pants to notice SCP-050 disappear from his office, later to be found in the locker of Junior Researcher Byantara.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Bloody Los… Surprised that even worked as a prank… " Researcher Eisenberg sat at his desk, absentmindedly stroking Nastasia, his linen cat. "I'll teach him to cut the latin…wait, that's an idea.".<br/>
Researcher Eisenberg rushed out of his office, and returned rather sweaty, holding a heavy Latin dictionary. Work has just begun.</p>
<p>About an hour later - languages weren't exactly his strong side - Researcher Eisenberg arrived into the containment cell of SCP-758, with a sheet of paper heavily worn out with eraser marks. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed that upon seeing it, Vasili let out a sigh before introducing an ample amount of corrections. A glance at the current tally showed him however, that the statue has changed owners several times since he started his preparations, currently residing at the desk of some no-name Junior Researcher… whose name was actually rather lengthy. "Byan-ta-ra… bloody hell, and I thought my surname was unwieldy." Researcher Eisenberg sighed and took out a pencil.</p>
<p>"Bloody hell, hope this ink is black enough…" His sweaty hands grabbed the worn leather of SCP-141, an act that would make many a bibliophile cringe, and he began to laboriously scribble onto the first free page, trying to imitate the original writing as well as possible. "..e-ra-tio … that should be it". Shaking with expectation, he ran to the nearest internet-enabled terminal.<br/>
A quick search, and even quicker email from a disposable address later, Vladim. A. Eisenberg, in his mind already a Senior Researcher, walked back to his office.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sitting at his desk, Junior Researcher Byantara was enjoying the fruit of a day's work - SCP-050 stood on his surprisingly clean table, and if it was his lucky day, he might just about be among the few Foundation employees to ever skip a rank. "Wonder if Los has caught them all… he's lucky there isn't 151.. I wonder if the big one counts as Sn-"<br/>
His thoughts were interrupted by a kick into the door, and in the next moment, he had to take cover behind his desk from a hail of bullets, accompanied by an even stronger hail of high-fidelity Russian swearing. A desk that the monkey statue has conveniently disappeared from.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Earlier…</p>
<blockquote>
<p>To: <span class="wiki-email">gro.pcs|vokinlertsad#gro.pcs|vokinlertsad</span><br/>
From: <span class="wiki-email">moc.rotaniliam|detimilnu_sexnyl#moc.rotaniliam|detimilnu_sexnyl</span><br/>
Subject: Take a look at who you work with, Dimitri<br/>
Junior Researcher Byantara is an interesting man, isn't it?<br/>
www.cnn.com/2011/11/15/Europe/scientist-accused-of-aiding-chechen-terrorists/index.html</p>
</blockquote>
<hr/>
<p>Researcher Eisenberg prepared himself a cup of tea, and against all rules of hygiene, kissed the small statue, which responded by giving him a mild electric shock.<br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">-</span>-</p>
<hr/>
<p>" Hey buddy, I see no one has bothered to come see you today. I'm sorry for that, alot of shi..stuff has been going on ,but it's fun stuff. You know what a prank is? Good, you wanna help me with one? Oh don't worry no one will get hurt, and here have some MnMs. Tasty aren't they? You wanna help me now. That's great! Here's the plan."</p>
<p>As he watched the gelatinous form move from the room, a smile formed on Junior Researcher Tad's face. It was his time to shine for once. It was luck that he walked by Eisenberg's office just in time to see the statue appear on his desk.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Eisenberg sipped at his tea, giving glances to his prize every few seconds. He also kept an eye on the door. Making sure that no fool would try to win the statue. If only he thought to check the airvent. As the orange form lowered down, it's pseudopods at the ready. Eisenberg looked up; Even with the strong smell of herbs in his nose he picked up another scent. The smell of the fur was indistinguishable to him, yet how could it be? As he turned around a high pitched squealed erupted followed by a shout.<br/>
<strong>"TICKLE WRESTLING!"</strong><br/>
The statue appeared alongside Tad at his cubicle. He was going to enjoy the next few minutes, than probably regret getting involved in the first place. At least his desk looked organized for once.</p>
<hr/>
<p>As Tad passed through an open door, the bucket teetering there fell forward, onto his head. Have you even had your entire head covered, not just in horse shit, but horse shit filled with horrible ideas? It's not a pleasant feeling. Luckily, Tad passed out before something horrible crawled out of SCP-100-J.</p>
<p>Father Jakal looked up from his prayers, at the monkey statue which had appeared on his podium. A slight smile graced his lips. "Fuck, i didn't think that'd really work!"</p>
<hr/>
<p>Dr Pullo Vorenus, Level 2 Researcher and Safe item specialist, paused as he walked past Site-19's nondenominational multipurpose chapel-crematorium-ossuary. As far as he could tell, priests didn't usually swear like that in church. At least, the priests back home hadn't. Except for Father Kowalski. When he was drunk. He poked his head in, and saw Father Jakal stroking a small statue. Then he ran to his small, shared office.</p>
<p>After an hour or so of research, Doctor Vorenus was ready. He stopped by the Safe item storage lockers, and checked out a certain item, under the guise of "additional research on the effects of the object when combined with religious exultation and <em>tagiatelle</em>". A quick trip to the Site cafeteria, and the acquisition of some high-powered arc lights, and he was done. After telling the priest that his presence had been requested in the depths of the accounting department, he was ready to prepare.</p>
<p>Father Jakal returned, still clutching the statue with a death grip. He seemed determined that nobody separate him from 050 from even a moment. As he entered the multipurpose nondenominational chapel-crematorium-ossuary, the door slammed shut and a heavenly light shone down on him from On High. He fell to his knees as a voice from Above called out into his mind, "Father Jakal, thou hast been chosen." As he knelt gasping, trying to for a coherent sentence, the Voice continued, "Thou shalt be My prophet on this earth. I shall show thee My true form, that thou may tell of Me to all thy fellows." The lights brightened, and Father Jakal shaded his eyes, cowering even further before the Lord his God. All the lights in the chapel shut off suddenly, and a form appeared above him in the rafters, lit from within. As he looked up, in full religious exultation, something fell onto his shoulder and slid to the floor with a <em>plop</em>. "Thou hast been touched by My Noodly Appendage. Rejoice. And eat thy grains."</p>
<p>Doctor Vorenus smiled, as he heard Father Jackal stomp out and call for a janitor. After putting the megaphone back in its locker, he returned to his shared office, and found his half meticulously cleaned. The precise line between the dirty and clean carpet might be hard to explain to his office-mate, but he was sure he could figure it out. After all, he was Doctor Pullo Vorenus, Level 2 Researcher, Safe Item Specialist, current owner of a small statue, and devout Pastafarian.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It was an interesting day for Mess Hall 2. In the chaos of Prank Day, it had somehow transformed itself into both an eatery, sanctuary, and now makeshift medical treatment centre as a very injured Junior Researcher Byantara was wheeled in, dripping from Soviet bullets and blood. This did not do much justice to Doctor Vorenus's appetite, as he dropped his forkful of meatballs and linguini to gaze at what was - <em>snigger</em> - a man more holey than even himself. Strelnikov had not been kind on the trigger, and had been much less kinder to that "mother-fuck Chechen collaborator" Byantara. Poor guy looked as if he were covered in the bolognaise sauce that drenched Vorenus's plate. Eugh.</p>
<p>Elsewhere in Block 2A, forty-eight sex toys relentlessly continued to buzz, rattling the beams and shaking paint off the ceilings. A jostle, a twitch, and <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-297" target="_blank">one clear plastic vibrator</a> popped loose of its bolts, rattled across the floor and came to rest in a corner with a sharp <em>click</em>. There was a hissing noise as the micronised nuclear reactor powered up, resonating the device at a shrill hypersonic whine. Indeed, Byantara had prepared for the worst by including an ace up his blood-stained, bullet-hole-ridden sleeve.</p>
<p>It was when Vorenus had nearly finished his pasta that the ceiling of Mess Hall began to shake, dropping white frosty flakes into his plate. Nearby, Byantara was halfway through having bullets extracted from his groin by a doctor. Despite the pain, he managed to glance a look at Doctor Vorenus, current holder of SCP-050, as weighty chunks of ceiling plaster buried the pastor of pasta.</p>
<p>Byantara winced as the statue appeared on his bandaged chest, seemingly mocking his agony. Meanwhile, "Steely Dan" dropped from the gaping hole in Mess Hall 2's ceiling, its switch conveniently flicking to "Off" upon the impact against Vorenus's buried, gasping form.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Agent Wolf was having a rotten day.<br/>
Every year the prank war started and every year he had to clean up the mess that resulted from it.</p>
<p>He had to track down the SCPs used.</p>
<p>He had to find the vengeful personnel.</p>
<p>He had to find out how Clef had filled a room full of shaving cream without anyone noticing.</p>
<p>It was a dismal day for the agent, until he had happened into the mess hall just in time to see a little statue appear on the chest of one Junior Researcher Byantara.<br/>
Wolf couldn't help but stare, stricken with an idea.</p>
<p>He could actually play a prank to get 050, and he knew just what to do.<br/>
The agent couldn't help but smile as the plan formed in his head.</p>
<p>Little more than an hour passed after this thought, and now Byantara was walking rather quickly towards the safety of his office.</p>
<p>"Okay, showtime."</p>
<p>Byantara didn't hear the whisper, but he did become aware that something was now blocking his way. Something so horrific he couldn't even scream.<br/>
682 just stood there, blocking escape from the deserted hallway. The silence between researcher and monster stretched forever, until Byantara made a move to leave. As soon as he did, he was quickly swallowed whole. The eaten man tumbled down the nightmare's stomach, splashing into a disgusting ooze.</p>
<p>"Aw man, did you really have to eat him? I thought we were just gonna scare him."</p>
<p>Byantara found himself dumbfounded, he could hear Wolf's voice from the disgusting bowels.</p>
<p>"Hey Byantara, I see ya found my new partner, sorry about the whole gonna-die-soon thing."</p>
<p>"Come on, tell him to spit me out! Please!"</p>
<p>"Well," a few seconds' pause, "I guess I could… But ya really should use 'them'".</p>
<p>And on cue 682 split into a large number of butterflies, which revealed the researcher to be sitting in a pool of some store-bought slime. "Thanks pally!" Wolf smiled, showing an image on his laptop to the newly slimy man.<br/>
An image of a small monkey statue sitting next to the nameplate of Agent Wolf.</p>
<hr/>
<p>With no security clearence, being a guard for the Foundation could be a very boring job. Typically, Fortis was stuck manning the security feeds. The most monotonous of assignments. On Senior Staff Shenanigans day, however, it had certain advantages. He had everything on hand, just needed the right mark in the right place. When he saw Agent Wolf, J.R. Byantara, and SCP-408 in Corridor 2-B he knew he had just enough time to pull it off. He took a second to locate the office SCP-050 had appeared in before springing to action..</p>
<p>Fortis quickly changed into the red military uniform he had nearby, slathered his face with stage makeup, and donned the appropriate gloves and hat. He grabbed the can of paint stashed behind the door and headed out of the room. Finally, he made his way down the hall to pick up a container of Play-Doh, and rushed to SCP-786.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later, Fortis entered the agent's office.</p>
<p>“Agent Wolf, am I right?”</p>
<p>“Yes…….who are you? And why are you red?”</p>
<p>Without warning, the junior guard emptied a full can of blue paint on the agent.</p>
<p>“I found him boys! Get him!”</p>
<p>Agent Wolf had a second to register surprise as a squad of solid red army personell filled the room and riddled his torso with clay bullets.</p>
<p>Fortis couldn't help but smile to himself as he reentered Site 19's Surviellance Room. He changed back into his uniform and stached the red one. He had already washed off the paint, all that was left was to make sure no one else entered the area. He idly examined the monkey statue that was waiting for him on the console, slightly bemused at the thought of a junior guard entering the ranks of Senior Staff.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Linguistics/Supernatural Researcher Veldi had seemingly not participated in the contest, although he had been seen carting tomatoes all over the facility and setting them down at random. After emptying the cart, he retrieved SCP-005 from storage, and accessed an area from which he could work his magic.</p>
<p>With an enormous grin plastered on his face, Veldi spoke into the intercom.</p>
<p>“What happens when 682 gets heartburn? ….. Absolutely nothing, the Lizard doesn’t get heartburn!”</p>
<p>In that moment, dozens and dozens of SCP-504 splattered into speakers, personnel and everything in general.</p>
<p>“I freaking love these tomatoes.” Veldi checked the video feed to his office. Yup, there was the monkey, on his desk. Of course, there was the issue that he now had a PC instead of a MacBook…</p>
<hr/>
<p>As soon as the prank wars started, SCP-738 was Junior Researcher Gille's first destination. It followed contracts steadily, nevermind the side consequences. Nothing he was going to do would harm him THAT much.</p>
<p>The contract? Get the monkey of the last person to have it, and transport it to the middle of the Senior Break room.</p>
<p>Second destination: The Senior Break room. From there, it would be rigged with 20 paintball guns, all set to fire when the sensor picks up movement in a circle around the Monkey. Then, when someone inevitably gets pelted, he walks in and grabs the Monkey.</p>
<p>Third destination: His secret hiding spot, outfitted with a view of all the places he will need to be at.</p>
<p>Fourth destination: SCP-682's storage area. Considering it's been let free, but it's still the safest place on the site, that should be a logical place to store it. Hidden in the third drawer of his desk, however, are 3 pistols, fully loaded no less, with 5 clips, and rations to last 2 days. It pays to be prepared for this day.</p>
<p>Before leaving, Gille remembered to put a bucket of spiders on the door too his office. Someone will inevitably think to check there once he gets the monkey, so this should discourage them.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice."</p>
<p>"Not at all. Between you and me, dealing with amateurs day in and day out is so tedious."</p>
<p>"I'm sure. Now you know that one of our little annual celebrations is coming up soon, and it occured to me that one or more of my colleagues may come to you for help. I would appreciate it if you might extend me certain professional courtesies around that."</p>
<p>"Sir, are you suggesting that I breach confidentiality? I do have some scruples."</p>
<p>"Of course not! Wouldn't think of it. But perhaps you could take, let's say, the broadest possible interpretation of the agreed-upon terms."</p>
<p>"You want the monkey for yourself?"</p>
<p>"Since you bring it up, what compensation would you want, in exchange for my permanent posession of said monkey?"</p>
<p>The humanoid figure behind the desk beckons and the smaller man before the desk leans forward. He whispers something in his ear.</p>
<p>"Interesting. Not at all what I'd expected. And I must say that, while I'm flattered that you offer, I'm very happy to work for the Foundation, and don't contemplate a change anytime soon. Let me make a proposal of my own. In exchange for the aforesaid professional courtesies leading to temporary possession…"</p>
<p>It takes some time, but eventually the human and the entity wearing the face of a legendary law professor reach an agreement. A secretary is summoned from the accounting department, sworn to secrecy, duly threatened with death, and made to witness an agreement that bursts into flames the moment the formalities are complete.</p>
<p>Sheldon Katz and the entity shake hands.</p>
<p>Across the site, in a specially rigged broom closet, Junior Researcher Gille watches the Senior Break room on screen, then 682's pen, then his office, then back to the break room. Nothing. Wait. Something.</p>
<p>Something rushes into the room, something about knee-high and very fast, something with a single bright blue eye in the middle of its bulbous yellow body. It's dribbling a smaller object in front of it like a soccer ball. As it pauses on the periphery of the circle of paintball guns, the "ball" comes to rest. It's a statuette of a monkey.</p>
<p>Researcher Veldi runs into the room, panting and red-faced. The Eye-Pod skitters away from him. Veldi lunges, and a chase ensues around the edges of the room, with the Eye-Pod and the monkey always staying just out of Veldi's reach.</p>
<p>After four circuits of the room, the Eye-Pod makes a sudden break to the right. Veldi leaps, trying to tackle it, and trips over his own feet. On the floor, he hears a series of clicks followed immediately by splatting sounds, and wonders for a moment if he somehow missed some tomatoes. He picks himself up, and observes that the walls of the break room have a new paint job in the style of Jackson Pollock.</p>
<p>The Eye-Pod scurries out of the break room and heads down a corridor, rolling the monkey down the hall still. Gille jumps up from his seat and sprints down the hall. He figures if he goes down corridor 37, then makes a sharp right just before the firehose he can head them off—yes! Here they are, and he's just a pace behind Veldi. He drops his head and starts running as fast as he can.</p>
<p>"You think that's funny? I hate running," says Veldi between gasps.</p>
<p>The researchers sprint after the Eye-Pod, neither gaining any real advantage or getting any closer. They follow it now left, now right, now a long straightaway and into a dead end, a small chamber at the end of a long corridor. Gille jumps on the monkey and Veldi jumps on Gille. They grapple on the floor, neither noticing the Eye-Pod backing out of the room until they hear the door start to close. Gille looks up just in time to notice a third figure in the room: humanoid, but made of concrete and covered in spray paint.</p>
<p>In the awkward silence that ensues, the disappearance of the monkey barely registers on them.</p>
<p>Finally Veldi says: "I've got to blink on three. One…two…"</p>
<p>Katz notes the monkey statue that now sits atop his empty inbox. He's already senior staff, but his secretary is out sick and nobody from the temp pool can seem to ever type up his briefs just the way he likes them. He looks through the stack of neatly-formatted documents before him and nods in satisfaction. Yes, the devil will have his due, but he does love a nice-looking brief. Worth it.</p>
<p>He picks up the monkey and goes into the hallway outside his office, waiting for someone going in the right direction who looks sufficiently junior and sufficiently gullible. Soon enough, a cub researcher who he doesn't recognize passes by, and Sheldon intercepts him.</p>
<p>"Excuse me, young man, could I ask a favor? Someone left this in my office and they need it for a team-building exercise in the main cafeteria. Just take it up there and someone will show you what to do next."</p>
<p>He feels slightly bad, watching the eager youth hurry down the hall with the monkey, but better him than Sheldon, and in any case this will teach him a number of valuable lessons.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Doctor Briar sighed, looking over the contents of his small office. It had been a long, hard road to get here. So many times, he'd thought he would die. So many times, he had lost what he thought of as "everything", only to build himself up so he would have something else to lose when the time came again. It had certainly not been easy, but he'd managed, somehow…</p>
<p>He always wished it could have been easier, though. If only there had been some way he could have made his journey to a respected member of senior staff without having to endure so much suffering. Of course, he had only been a low-level recruit in the Foundation when they stopped holding the Staff Prank Wars. He had heard of them, of course, and how the cleverest member of the Foundation's personnel stood to be raised to Senior Staff for winning. It was truly a shame that he had been so new when they held the last of them, an all but nameless lab assistant, not trusted with anything more important than proofreading documents…but then, that was his advantage, wasn't it?</p>
<p>Briar smiled, looking at the assembled items and documents sitting on his desk. At the top of the pile was a death certificate. Just another Foundation employee that had finally met his end, but to the elderly man at the desk, an opportunity. After all, permanent ownership didn't extend past death. Most importantly, however, was the small locked box on top of the pile. There were so many anomalous objects with temporal effects in Foundation custody that they hardly bothered to catalogue them all. No one would notice he had "borrowed" SCP-█████ among a batch of other research materials, and the letter he planned to mail would not be going anywhere that it would be looked for. Chuckling to himself, Doctor Briar took out a fountain pen, and began to write.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Years earlier, a much younger version of the same man breathed heavily, hiding in a cubical and shaking. In his hand he held a much-folded piece of heavy parchment, written upon in flowing calligraphy. Nervous, he muttered the words aloud as he re-read the page, "Volunteer to assist in accounting. Short-staffed due to people calling in sick to avoid the contest. Agree to witness a contract. False name. Render null and void…"</p>
<p>He shook his head in disbelief, dizzy with the implications. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Of course, he had barely dared believe what he held in his hands until the prank war began to unfold, exactly as the note claimed it would. Still, it seemed too good to be true. A deal with the Devil shouldn't be so simple to thwart, even if it wasn't <em>really</em> the Devil. Of course, the plan wasn't over yet. Just botching Katz's deal wouldn't much of a prank by itself, after all. Steeling himself, the younger Briar stepped out of the cubical, and announced that he was going on his lunch break. As he entered into the corridor, he put on a ring, and pulled out the small electronic device from his pocket.</p>
<hr/>
<p>At the doors of the cafeteria, a young researcher was stopped by a polite cough. He turned, his face guileless and smiling. A dark-haired man snatched the bundle out of his hands before he had a moment to react.</p>
<p>"Oh, thank goodness I caught you in time! I am SO sorry! It seems that my colleague gave you the wrong article by mistake. <em>This</em> is the one they need in there."</p>
<p>A small device was pressed into the researcher's hands. He babbled for a few moments about how glad he was to help, and how sorry he was that the other man had to chase him all the way here. Briar, in turn, made his excuses, politely stating that it was no trouble, but he really had to get back to work. He gave the hapless researcher some basic instructions on how to set up the device, and told him to just "get it started for them". As he hurried to return SCP-399 to containment, he could hear his modified MP3 player begin to loop Rick Astley's most famous composition with enough bass to shake the light fixtures. The altered lyrics, bragging of the genius of one Sheldon Katz, could just barely be made out from where he stood. Since he didn't have an office, Briar made a note to check his locker later on.</p>
<hr/>
<p>A D-Class that had been fortunate enough to avoid all of the chaos of the day was desperately looking for a place to hide. He found an isolated cell, and quickly opened the door, failing to notice the number "173" emblazoned above the door.</p>
<p>The moment the door was fully open, he stepped through the frame. He saw two men on the floor, and then he looked up.</p>
<p>He recognized the sculpture a few seconds too late.</p>
<p>Veldi and Gille charged him, threw him in the cell, and quickly closed the door. The sound of bones breaking followed shortly after.</p>
<p>Veldi breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that was fun. Next time, let's check doors before going in them. Don't want Blinky to be let out."</p>
<p>Gille was shivering from the experience. Veldi leaned down. "Oh, by the way… I think ahead." He pointed out that the wall opposite 173's containment had been painted red. Gille was still in a stupor, so Veldi walked away and pressed a button on his phone. A tinny, electronic voice came from above the door: "Leggo my Eggo-carrying Lego Winnebago full of–" The sound was cut short by a wall of tomato juice.</p>
<p>Veldi checked the video feed on his phone again. Yep, the monkey was on his desk. He figured that he should set some more traps so that it wouldn't stay away for long. He hurried to his supplies.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Veldi returned to his office, hoping that some son-of-a-bitch hadn't gotten there before him. He set his supplies down, opened the door, and glanced at his hard-won prize…</p>
<p>And there was no monkey statue. He checked again. Whoever had run off with it had left a note. Hoping it didn't have some G█d-awful cognitohazard, he read:</p>
<p><em>Unless properly defended, your monkey statue is <span style="text-decoration: underline;">my</span> monkey statue. See you later, noob.</em><br/>
<em>~ Agent Gummy Dragon</em></p>
<p>Impossible! You couldn't just <em>take</em> the statue. you had to <em>earn</em> it. Veldi searched his office in a panic. He opened his cabinets…</p>
<p>And a small puppy stared him in the eye.</p>
<p>And that puppy's excited barking brought puppies out of the drawers, trashcan, and hallway. Veldi couldn't take it, and ran screaming from the adorable mob of canines pursuing him.</p>
<p>Gummy laughed as he viewed the security feed from his office. Sending <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-662">Mr. Deeds</a> to hide the statue behind a potted plant, fill Veldi's office with puppies, and plant the note he had written, all while Veldi was out, had been easier than expected. Gummy had barricaded his office door and stocked up on sandwiches and water bottles, so he should have been safe.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Dr. Len Blue frantically pushed a large storage cart out into an open field outside Site-19 after "taking a week off." He was, if nothing else, determined to get that damned monkey.</p>
<p>Over the past week, he had stolen the flying pig, as detailed under the Log of Anomalous Items, from Site-18 and used SCP-038 to make almost a hundred duplicates before returning the original. He had stolen SCP-000-J from Professor Snider while he was away and quickly returned it after ordering SCP-184. He had stolen multiple Scranton Reality Buoys from a manufacturing facility. He had bought large amounts of wood, cardboard, ropes, pillows, blankets, bread, water, hog feed, fireworks, slingshots, and iron pellets. And now, he was going to pull of the most legendary prank of all time.</p>
<p>He stopped the cart right in front of a large structure covered in green tarp and yanked it down, revealing a very large play fort, three and a half meters wide, constructed of wood, pillows and cardboard, decorated with castle turrets and containing six rooms: a central room filled with computer equipment and containing a generator, a barracks for the pigs with multiple hammocks, an armory full of fireworks and slingshots with ammunition, a storehouse full of stolen rations, bread, water, and hog feed, a hangar for the launch of armed flying pigs, and a room containing four Scranton Reality Buoys suspended in the middle of the room with ropes, with wires attached to it.</p>
<p>Dr. Blue, exhausted, unloaded bags of animate, plastic flying pigs from the overturned cart and dumped them into the hammocks after taking them in. Then, he hauled in SCP-184, still attached to its electromagnet, dropped it in the control room, and called Agent Gummy Dragon.</p>
<p>He began the conversation. "This is your last chance, Agent. Come out and surrender the monkey or I'll unleash my latest work of magic: the unstoppable, growing Expand-O-Fort. Site-19 will be torn asunder by my trained armies of cybernetic flying pigs, and I will have the monkey in the end."<br/>
"Do it, then. If it's so unstoppable, I'd like to see you actually unleash it," replied Gummy. And at that, he hung up, and spliced into the security feed of the grasslands outside Site-19.</p>
<p>Dr. Blue turned off the electromagnet, and SCP-184 began expanding the interior walls of the fort. But the Scranton Reality Buoys nullified the physically impossible interior-only effect of SCP-184, and the entire fort expanded. Released from this effect, which had to expend energy bending spacetime, the fort could expand very quickly and immediately after SCP-184 entered it.</p>
<p>Agent Gummy Dragon could only watch in horror as the fortress expanded a meter in two seconds and kept going even faster. But he knew he was in a bad spot here. If he called any kind of authority about this, everyone at Site-19 would be disciplined for the prank war. With no other options, he used his conference phone to call Dr. Bright, Dr. Veldi, Dr. Clef, and Agent Strelnikov, explained the situation frantically.</p>
<p>Dr. Clef, mortified, responded, "No." After a long pause, he said, "He has 184."</p>
<p>Everyone collectively gasped. "I'm calling an MTF," said Dr. Clef. "Bright and Veldi, get EMP grenades, take a jeep and get into that fortress as fast as you can. Strelnikov, get to a machine gun tower and set that thing on fire with tracers. Gummy, hold on to that monkey, and keep it away from Blue as long as possible." And at that, Dr. Clef hung up.</p>
<p>The fortress was already forty meters wide, having taken on a pyramid shape, and new rooms were forming. Dr. Blue's army of computer-controlled pigs was mutating and growing. Dr. Blue keyed in a command, and hundreds of winged pigs spewed out of a large hangar in the side of the fortress. Agent Strelnikov reached the top of a guard tower with hundreds of incendiary tracers and loaded them into the heavy machine gun turret. Leaning out the window, he opened fire on the tip of the fortress, setting the top of it on fire.</p>
<p>The Jeep shot out of the gates of Site-19. Dr. Blue, not worried, locked the hundreds of three-inch fully functional winged pigs onto their Jeep. Dr. Veldi pulled an EMP grenade out of his pocket and threw it into the swarm, disabling almost all of their robotic implants and causing them to fly off in all directions. Moments later, it crashed full force into a sliding door made of abnormally dense pillows.</p>
<p>When Bright and Veldi recovered, they found themselves inside a hangar of computer-controlled toy pigs made entirely of fireworks. In the back of the room was a door, three slingshots made of pillows, and an iron computer manual.</p>
<p>"Come on!," yelled Dr. Bright, running for the door. "We have to go deeper!"</p>
<p>The doctors suddenly found themselves in a room containing a single two-meter-wide Scranton Reality Buoy, composed entirely of cardboard. Dr. Veldi threw an EMP grenade into it. The grenade punched through the SRB and came right out the other side before detonating. The entire buoy then collapsed as though it was made of rigid paper.</p>
<p>Then, suddenly, everything around the two doctors collapsed, destroying several more SRBs around them, resulting in a chain reaction that tore through the outside of the fort.</p>
<p>Bright and Veldi survived, and the Expand-O-Fort was collapsed. It appeared that SCP-184 had been turned off. The pigs were mostly deactivated and fell from the sky, and helicopters from MTF Psi-7 "Home Improvement" cleaned up the rest.</p>
<p>And Dr. Blue wasn't in the fort. The whole time, he had been waiting for the fort to get big enough for him to shut off SCP-184 and then use all of its power reserves to teleport the monkey into his hands. He was riding a seven-foot robotic toy flying pig away from the rubble, carrying Doctors Bright and Veldi with him on a 50-pound rope made of slingshots which SCP-050 had affixed to the pig as a prank, before transferring to Dr. Veldi, pranking him by setting off one of his EMP grenades, and then back to Dr. Blue. And then the deactivated pig crashed.</p>
<p>Later, after a lot of amnestic spraying and Dr. Blue's reassignment, Dr. Bright discovered the monkey in his locker.</p>
<hr/>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Dr. Bright sat in the middle of the Cafeteria, the old fashioned computer set before him. Atop said computer was a certain statue of a certain monkey, which many people had tried to obtain. Around him stood, sat, or otherwise existed quite a large number of the junior staff, with a few seniors, all eyes glued to the good doctor.
"And...save. There we go. The entirety of site 19, backed up, and emailed elsewhere, so if this goes as balls up as I expect it to, we can reboot." He sighed, and stood up. "In that case, I officially declare the beginning of the Staff Prank war of 2011. Whoever holds 050 at the end of a 24 hour period will be promoted to the ranks of Senior Staff. I currently hold it, so y'all can start by pranking me... May god have mercy on all our souls."
...And then the bomb under his chair detonated, covering the cafeteria with lime green paint, and incidentally blowing his legs off in the process. Several rooms away, research assistant Renfield took her fingers out of her ears and looked happily down at the monkey statue now gracing her new desk.
------
Dmitri studied his reflection for a moment, adjusted the angle of his hat, then exited his quarters. The heel irons in his boots clicked on the linoleum floors as he walked briskly through the halls of Site 19. Those going about their daily business knew to stay out of the way when Strelnikov was about; his movements had purpose, and that could only mean a disaster was looming.
Indeed it was. Renfield's office was only two floors down from his own.
Before he even knew it, he was reading the nametag on her door. Or rather, he was reading her name amongst a list of other assistants who shared this office. As he kicked the door off its hinges, he decided it didn't really matter whose office it was. His boots left dents in the sheet metal as he stepped over the broken door and surveyed the group of cowering interns, hand resting casually on his holster.
"Which ones of you is Rend Field." No answer.
"I WILL SHOOT ONE OF YOU EVERY MINUTE UNTIL I AM TOLD WHICH ONES OF YOU IS REND FIELD." The group parted like the Red Sea, leaving a smug looking young girl standing alone in the center. Dmitri's teeth shone as he growled at her.
**TWO HOURS LATER**
"SON OF THE BITCH, JACK. GOD DAMMIT."
"Dmitri, you can't just shoot whoever is holding the monkey and expect to get it. That isn't a prank." Bright's wheelchair bumped into the back of Dmitri's leg as he manhandled it around. "And get out of the damn way."
Dmitri jabbed a finger at Bright. "IT IS A PRANK. I HAVE DONE THIS PRANK SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE, IN BOTH WARS."
"It's not a prank, Dmitri."
"YES IT IS!"
"Dmitri. It's over. You're out of the competition now, for good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go deal with Renfield in the infirmary....smug little bitch. You could have at least killed her."
Strelnikov sighed heavily and returned to the quiet of his quarters, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that 050 would never be his.
-----
Agent Lament whistled quietly to himself, glancing down at his watch, nodding amiably to the nurse as she walked into Renfield's room carrying an IV bag of saline. Lament smirked slightly and started walking down the hallway, heading toward his extremely messy office and waiting outside the door.
-----
Renfield moaned in her sleep, the drugs having her knocked out completely. The nurse hooked up the IV bag, checked the prone woman's vitals, and left the room. Within three minutes Renfield's skin started to develop large, round hives, then her neck and throat started to swell as a severe allergic reaction set in, followed by her eyes shooting open as the stimulants hit her bloodstream. She tried to scream but couldn't, her throat beginning to close as she desperately hit the call button again and again and again...
----
Lament opened his door, looking into his office and smiling slightly at the statue. Now... How the hell could he get rid of it before someone noticed that he had it?
----
Few people had a true appreciation for just how ingrained computers were with every single aspect of modern society, and the Foundation was no exception. Despite all the hard copies, every report, every researcher's note, every field log and every file photo was logged into a computer database somewhere. Every personnel transfer, every requisition form, every security feed, all set up in little 0's and 1's on a hard drive somewhere. When the transfer of Site 19's backup set off some alarms, he knew it was time. Kap - a name adopted because he was sick of people mispronouncing his full name - was sitting and typing away deep in the bowels of the Site. The coders and hardware gurus had a whole, unique set of regulations and security clearances, and the amount of information you were exposed to above your classification level was directly proportional to your time on the job. The guys that ran the networks and made sure the workstations functioned knew more than most of the researchers, though maybe not as much as that one janitor.
Once he realized that a mixed batch of saline and known allergens could only be used for the ever-escalating prank contests, a few key strokes were all it took to set retaliation in motion. A series of embedded programs ticked off other protocols which activated further batch processes. The sheer array of false IPs and bogus addresses would take the average user months to back-trace, and any of the other computer staff were already well-bribed with beer, pizza, and the promise of a neat and orderly work area. Lament opened the door to his office, seeing a single, solitary box laying there, carefully gift-wrapped and tied with a neat bow. It wasn't even close to his birthday, but there was no way any sort of bomb or other device could have made it that deep into a secure Foundation site, so he took it inside and opened it up.
Kap was as surprised as anyone when the little monkey appeared on top of his computer tower, and sighed slightly at the poor devil who was going to have to treat Lament and clean up the hundreds of tiny insects from his office. After all, the present was bees.
----
> INCIDENT 2011-██
>
> T-330 minutes
> Researcher Eisenberg seen carrying a set of mechanic tattooing equipment, origin unknown
>
> T-310 minutes
> Researcher Eisenberg seen entering the enclosure of SCP-1006, carrying a bucket, a stack of papers, and his personal copies of Assorted Writings of V.I. Lenin, and History of VKS(b).
>
> T-260 minutes.
> Researcher Eisenberg seen leaving the enclosure of SCP-1006, carrying a bucket.
>
> T-245 minutes
> Researcher Eisenberg enters SCP-786's secure room in Site-19 storage.
>
> T-0
> Junior System Administrator Kap seen entering medical wing, distraught, lacking vestments, and covered in spiderwebs. A 1:3 greyscale full body portrait of V.I.Lenin can be seen on his back, and a text later identified as the entire text of "State and Revolution" in 8 pt. font covering his chest, abdomen, and both thighs.
>
> T+20 minutes
> Desk of Researcher Eisenberg [REDACTED], markedly improving the filing order.
-----
Dr. Los E. R. checked the sign again. Eisenberg's office was room...321? No, wait, 312. He set off at a brisk pace down the hallway, hoping to get there before anyone else did.
309, 310, 311...There we go, 312. Los E. R. gave a quick knock and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. Researcher Eisenberg visibly balked at the sudden intrusion, his eyes darting to the statue on his desk before reaching for the top drawer.
"Whoa whoa whoa! Calm down, I'm not going to do anything!" Los E. R. held his palms out. "See? Sorry, didn't think you'd be so jumpy."
Eisenberg stopped, eyeing the doctor warily, but kept his hand resting on the top drawer. "What do you want?"
"Word around the site is that you got 1006 to net Kap. Just wanted to say, that's brilliant! No one ever expects nets!" Los E. R. chuckled to himself. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm not going to pull some horrendous prank. I'd probably end up in the hospital, I've never been really good at elaborate pranks."
Eisenberg seemed to relax slightly at Los E. R.'s reassurance, but wasn't totally swayed. "No, it wasn't nets, exactly...I had them tattoo Lenin on him."
Los E. R. burst out laughing, leaning on the desk for support. "You had them //tattoo// a portrait of //Lenin?!// That's genius! How does someone come up with something like that?! Oh man, I'd never pull something like that off, I'm no good with those elaborate pranks. Did you actually talk to those little commies yourself?"
Eisenberg smiled and chuckled nervously. "Yeah, it wasn't too hard to get them to agree. I mean, it //was// Lenin after all. Talking to a bunch of spiders though...that was kinda creepy. They were all over the place."
"I can tell. You've got a cobweb on your coat, here let me..." Los E. R. reached forward and scratched at Eisenbergs lapel. On instinct, he glanced down to catch a glimpse of the bit of silk wafting from his collar, only to get a flick on the nose.
"Gotcha."
Stunned, he watched as Los E. R. laughed one more time before he scooped SCP-050 from his desk and exited the room. As he disappeared around the door frame, Eisenberg heard him chuckle.
"Never was any good with those elaborate pranks."
-----
"Hey, Los."
Los E. R. felt a chill run down his spine at the voice. "Oh no," he whimpered. "Not HIM. . ."
He turned around, clutching the monkey statue to his chest, as a breathtakingly ugly middle-aged man walked down the hall towards him. "Relax," Clef said. "I don't want that statue. I'm already senior staff, and I have no interest in Bright's games. You're safe from me."
Los E. R. sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god," he said. "I really did not want to be subject to a prank by you."
"Hey, don't worry about it. I'm beyond that sort of bullshit anyway. I always thought that stuff was kinda stupid. In fact, as a sign of my goodwill, I'll escort you back to your office."
Los E. R. quickly followed Clef down the hallway. It was amazing, he thought, what the presence of that man could do. A researcher leaped out from around the corner holding a giant creme pie, which he rapidly put down and walked away from. A man wearing a hockey mask and holding a machete took off his costume and had a sheepish talk with the Senior Researcher. It was wonderful.
"Well, here we are," Clef said.
Los E. R. looked up at the door and frowned. "This isn't my office," he said.
"What? Oh, oops. Sorry. 571, not 517. Let's go."
Clef led the junior staff member to the other side of the floor, and to his office. "Well, here we are. . . again," he said, a few minutes later.
"Thanks a lot, Dr. Clef," Los E. R. said. "I really appreciate it."
"No problem. Oh, Los? Remember when I said I had no interest in Bright's games?" Clef grinned, a huge, evil, sinister grin. "I lied."
That was when the door of Los' office exploded outward, and five thousand gallons of compressed shaving cream flooded the hallway.
Clef watched Los being carried away in the avalanche of white foam, and wiped a little spot off his jacket. "Go get em', Adams," he murmured.
------
Ed from Accounting (everyone thought of him as "Ed from Accounting" -- including himself after 14 years at the job) hated the prank wars. A waste of staff time, the building maintenance budget, and the cost of injuries, if you asked him...which no one did. The usual threats -- paperwork, budget cuts, audits -- never seemed to work. More creative means were called for.
Ed called Junior Researcher Johnson. "Is it ready? ... really? Good! Bring it around to my office."
Fifteen minutes later, Johnson was in Ed's dingy, cluttered office, handing him a small brown bag. Ed looked in the bag and smiled. "How long will it stay that way?"
"Weeks" Johnson replied. "at least, if no one touches it."
Ed put the bag in his briefcase, along with a small stack of papers. 12:20? Good. Adams would be off to lunch. He headed up to her office.
Ed knocked on the door, then let himself in. Good, no one there. It was easy to swap the item on Adams' desk for the one in the bag. He slipped the Form 1661-G under the inner door for Dr. Clef. That would excuse his visit; the auditors really did need it next week.
Back downstairs in his office, Ed opened a file cabinet and dropped SCP-050, still in its bag, next to the 2004 Operating Budget reports. It looked like someone's long-forgotten lunch. He didn't care the least bit about "winning" it -- he just wanted it out of circulation.
No one would guess that he had the wit to obtain it.
No one would guess that he had pulled this particular prank, since he wasn't supposed to have any access to SCPs.
No one ever came down to Accounting if they could help it.
SCP-050 would be there for a long time.
When they found the fake, they would blame Johnson, who had shown some real success in training SCP-157.
-------
Research Assistant Reject was having a nice, calm day, sipping his coffee and skimming through his newest batch of paperwork while strolling down the hallway to his office. He was called Reject for a very good reason: although he had been a member of the Foundation for ten years, he had been the same rank for over seven of them. He even called himself Reject. His bachelorhood had hopelessly dragged on much longer than he had ever hoped. He was used to being a reject. That was, until he spotted a man in a suit walking into Dr. Clef's office.
Reject was never known as an especially observant person, but today was different. He had heard about some pranks going on, but he didn't really care about any of that. He was determined to work his way up the ladder without shaving cream or explosives, just with hard work and dedication. Until he saw a very happy man running out of Dr. Clef's office, his arms crossed upon his chest. Reject could see a brown paper bag bobbing slightly above and below the man's arms. His interest piqued, Reject decided to follow him.
The man never turned around as he walked. Reject didn't have any trouble following him. Ten minutes later, Reject realized just how far they had walked. He turned his head. "Accounting —>" was written on a sign, pointing in the direction that he was going. After another couple of minutes, the man turned sharply into an office. Reject peeked into the room to see another man converse shortly with the man he had followed and take the bag. Reject ducked behind a corner as both men exited the office.
Reject attempted to follow the man with the bag, but lost him in the maze of cubicles and offices in this unknown sector. Reject turned to leave, but decided not to let this go. This chance was his. He called up an old friend from Sector 28 with a favor to ask. His friend agreed, and in an hour, Reject knew that he would have the chance to become a Senior Staff member. He went to his office and placed an empty coffee mug alongside a mostly unread folder of paperwork.
One hour later, Reject met his friend in the cafeteria. Reject's friend handed him a bag with two words written on it. "DON'T LOSE." Reject smiled, and walked briskly down towards the accounting offices. Once there, he took the item out of the bag. Staring at a sentient calculator was a new experience for him. After befriending SCP-168, he asked his new buddy a favor. The calculator agreed in return for the ability to see the rest of the prank war. Reject dropped SCP-168 in the office he had seen before as soon as the man inhabiting it left. Reject admired his handiwork. He took a seat on a nearby chair. When the man returned, he gave Reject a questioning glance, but dismissed it. After five minutes in his office, a scream was heard. When the man exited his office, his face was pale white. In his hand was SCP-168.
The man looked at the calculator and said "Okay, okay. I'll go get it. I didn't realize the world would end if I didn't! I feel so awful…" Reject chuckled to himself and began to shadow the man as he hurried down the hallways. When they arrived at a file cabinet, the man stopped. He ran his finger along the cabinet until he reached "2004 Operating Budget Reports Jan-Mar." He started typing on the calculator. After a short period, the calculator responded. The man jumped back, aghast. He yelped "No! I brought you to the stupid monkey! That can't be!" Reject quickly decided he'd had enough of complaining from this unknown man and dealt a swift uppercut to the jaw followed by an elbow to the nose. As he fell, Reject grabbed SCP-168 and the brown paper bag. Overjoyed, he began to walk back to his office. He looked once more at the unconscious accountant on the ground. And then he laughed, and left this bloody, deceptive business behind him as he strolled back towards his office with a renewed sense of confidence.
------------------------------
"Nevah let practicality stand in de way of //art//, my cousin." The humongously fat Hawaiian nodded ponderously at the uniformed corpse held aloft in his hand, then slowly shook it so that it's head nodded along. Chuckling to himself, he slipped the matchbook the poor guard had died failing to protect into an outer pocket of his enormous satchel next to a tarnished canteen, and waddled out of the ruined containment unit and down the hallway toward the personnel wing.
Flanked by a pair of traitor guards, their sleeves rolled up to reveal liberty cuffs emblazoned with blaring abstract designs, the huge man reflected on the work and planning that had gone into this effort. It //was// impractical, sure. Infiltrating the Foundation's security forces alone had taken months. Fortunately, the prank war was a regular yearly event, so he'd had plenty of time to prepare.
"Ah, here it tis."
He stopped in front of a particular office, grinning as he began pulling the necessary materials from his satchel. A small funnel, a length of tubing, the matchbox and canteen, and hundreds of small paper packets, which his helpers began opening one by one.
It didn't take long to tape the tubing to the mouth of the canteen, and slide the other end under the door. It took only a little longer to funnel the contents of the packets into the gap, and considerably less to open the matchbook and slide it in as well before sealing the gap completely with more tape. Once their work was done, the big man rose and nodded to his companions, then paused to doodle a small cartoon on the door before heading back down the hallway they'd come in by and leave the facility.
Later that day, as loyal security men tried desperately to work out what had happened to SCP's 649 and 109, Reject arrived at his office to find a scribbled caricature on his door of a fat man in a bowler hat giving him the finger, with the text "PRANKED BY BRUDDAH GROVE! Are We Cool Yet?".
Reject had just enough time to curse before the door burst and he was swamped by a massive wave of lime jello.
------
Dr. Los E. R. dug a finger in his ear, trying to dig out the last vestiges of shaving cream. He winced as the dried bits twisted painfully before crumbling lose. Site 19 was a maze on the best of days, and on Senior Staff Shenanigans day it was a minefield. He rerouted around the third floor; he had heard that someone had gotten their hands on a metric ton of hissing cockroaches and thermite. He skirted the south side of the fourth floor, trying to find his way back to the restrooms to wash up. If memory served, it was at the end of the hall on his right, next door to where they put Research Assistant Reject after he somehow managed to shrink his office to a third of its original size.
He was scrapping dried flakes of cream from his lower back when he noticed he what he was walking in. Quizzically, he raised a foot to get a better look. Smells a little like lime, kind of minty. Looks like some kind of green...slime? He glanced down the hallway and saw Reject, lying in a puddle of the stuff. He was either out cold, or dea-
Los E. R.'s heart skipped a beat as he put two and two together.
[[size 1.5em]]"DEAD BODIES!!!"[[/size]]
Screaming incoherently, Dr. Los E. R. hurtled back the way he came, sticky green jello foot prints marking his progress to the nearest [[[SCP-447]]] alarm.
-----
Bruddah Grove paused as the klaxon sounded. Blast doors slid into place over the exit. How poetic, so close to freedom with artifacts of power. With the dead security guard he had been dragging along, he waved at his companion.
"Dis noise, have they figured out what we are doing?"
The traitorous guard shook his head, the blood draining from his face. "That's the 447 alert. They've locked the exits. They're going to detonate the on-site warhead."
There was a full moment of silence.
Carefully picking each word, Bruddah Grove looked at the tiny man.
"How doh we get out den?"
The two guards looked at each other nervously. "We don't. We could try to get to the O5 bunker, but we can't make it from here. It's fifty levels down-"
"Wait!" The other guard perked up. "The Site septic tank! I know that they've started reenforcing them ever since Bright accidentally flushed 523. It might be able to withstand the blast!"
"The Sewage Access Hatch isn't far from here, we can make it if we hurry!"
Taking the slim glimmer of hope for what ever it was worth, the trio hurried desperately down the hall.
-----
O5-8 sighed. This was not the first time the 447 alert had been sounded on Senior Staff Shenanigans Day. Before flipping the switch and killing everyone on-site, he took a moment to make sure it was a dead body. If it wasn't, no harm done. If it was, well...the nuke wouldn't do any good, anyways.
A quick check later confirmed that Research Assistant Reject was not, in fact, dead. Perhaps more importantly, it turned out that it wasn't even 447 slime at all. With an irritated grumble, he switched of the klaxon. This prank war was stupid.
-----
Bruddah Grove sat in the filth of the entire Site, watching his two companions float face down in the lanterns pale light. He might be here for a while, and they were using up too much air. He reflected on how their lungs filled with filth and life drained from their bodies, a testament to how life starts pure and ignorance weighs innocence down with shit. A haiku rose unbidden from his lips.
"Here I stew in filth,
Waiting for the Bombs Big Boom.
Now, Are We Cool Yet?"
-----
Dr. Los E. R. felt rather silly. Of course it was another prank. He should have known. It probably wasn't even meant for him.
Having long since given up hope of finding a bathroom to clean up in, he had started to work his way back to his office. Pushing the door open, a bucket of water immediately fell from atop the door. Irritated yet strangely grateful to get some kind of wash, he lifted the rim of the bucket to find the monkey sitting on his desk.
-----
Junior Researcher Byantara had prepared a whole week in advance for this day. With Senior Staff position at stake, there was no reason not to be prepared. Crazy prepared, in his case.
Six days, thirteen hours, forty-five minutes and nine seconds ago, Byantara was profusely apologising to a very unamused Doctor Crow, surrounded by the products of twenty-three very startled Malayan Stink Badgers which had now escaped their cages and were clawing the wallpaper off Doctor Crow's office. Long story short, it was yet another round of maintenance duty for him.
Four days, seven hours, two minutes and fifty-five seconds ago, Byantara began painting the offices on the third floor of Block 2A, by himself, using two paint rollers, a crate of white paint, a box of plaster, a crate of tomatoes, and several dozen rolled-up meters of ultra-thin semi-permeable tubing.
Two days, twelve hours, thirty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds ago, a parcel arrived for Site-19, sealed with black tape and hastily recovered from designated post box PO-2354 by a certain shifty-looking Junior Researcher sent to collect the daily personal mail.
One day, two hours, and exactly forty-nine seconds ago, Byantara finished his lab work, packed up, cleaned Chamber 2A-2-1 and secured several large marital aids to the floor before locking up. He proceeded similarly for Chamber 2A-2-3, -2-5, -2-7 and -2-9, and left the building with a little smile. Now, all that was left was to hope someone in Block 2A actually managed to get hold of 050.
One hour, three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago, he idly browsed through the frantically compiled digital record of SCP-050 possession. Soon it would arrive. From Bright, to Clef, to Reject...
Byantara refreshed the page, spat out his acrid coffee, and dashed out of the lab. In his right hand was a remote, with a single green button, and he mashed it in double time to his steps towards the central communications office. Tucked in safely mere inches above the ceiling of Doctor Los's freshly painted office, forty-eight plastic phalluses began to hum.
As expected, not only was the comms office a very long distance away, it was also utter chaos. Someone had sounded some sort of alarm beforehand, and whoever was meant to be guarding the place were long gone, leaving dog-eared papers in their wake. Chuckling to himself, he called up the speaker of Office 2A-3-5.
Five seconds. Four seconds. Byantara cleared his throat. Three. The collective vibrations caused by the forty-eight sex toys would be building up to the maximum by now, shaking the ceiling - and walls - of every office on the floor below it, rupturing the many little sachets of tomato juice seeded in the plaster beneath the apple-scented white paint. Two.
Junior Researcher Byantara took a deep breath. One.
In his office, Doctor Los E. R. cowered beneath his desk as the walls began to bleed and the ceiling screamed his name. He was too busy wetting his pants to notice SCP-050 disappear from his office, later to be found in the locker of Junior Researcher Byantara.
------
"Bloody Los... Surprised that even worked as a prank... " Researcher Eisenberg sat at his desk, absentmindedly stroking Nastasia, his linen cat. "I'll teach him to cut the latin...wait, that's an idea.".
Researcher Eisenberg rushed out of his office, and returned rather sweaty, holding a heavy Latin dictionary. Work has just begun.
About an hour later - languages weren't exactly his strong side - Researcher Eisenberg arrived into the containment cell of SCP-758, with a sheet of paper heavily worn out with eraser marks. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed that upon seeing it, Vasili let out a sigh before introducing an ample amount of corrections. A glance at the current tally showed him however, that the statue has changed owners several times since he started his preparations, currently residing at the desk of some no-name Junior Researcher... whose name was actually rather lengthy. "Byan-ta-ra... bloody hell, and I thought my surname was unwieldy." Researcher Eisenberg sighed and took out a pencil.
"Bloody hell, hope this ink is black enough..." His sweaty hands grabbed the worn leather of SCP-141, an act that would make many a bibliophile cringe, and he began to laboriously scribble onto the first free page, trying to imitate the original writing as well as possible. "..e-ra-tio ... that should be it". Shaking with expectation, he ran to the nearest internet-enabled terminal.
A quick search, and even quicker email from a disposable address later, Vladim. A. Eisenberg, in his mind already a Senior Researcher, walked back to his office.
------
Sitting at his desk, Junior Researcher Byantara was enjoying the fruit of a day's work - SCP-050 stood on his surprisingly clean table, and if it was his lucky day, he might just about be among the few Foundation employees to ever skip a rank. "Wonder if Los has caught them all... he's lucky there isn't 151.. I wonder if the big one counts as Sn-"
His thoughts were interrupted by a kick into the door, and in the next moment, he had to take cover behind his desk from a hail of bullets, accompanied by an even stronger hail of high-fidelity Russian swearing. A desk that the monkey statue has conveniently disappeared from.
------
Earlier...
> To: [email protected]
> From: [email protected]
> Subject: Take a look at who you work with, Dimitri
> Junior Researcher Byantara is an interesting man, isn't it?
> www.cnn.com/2011/11/15/Europe/scientist-accused-of-aiding-chechen-terrorists/index.html
------
Researcher Eisenberg prepared himself a cup of tea, and against all rules of hygiene, kissed the small statue, which responded by giving him a mild electric shock.
------
------
" Hey buddy, I see no one has bothered to come see you today. I'm sorry for that, alot of shi..stuff has been going on ,but it's fun stuff. You know what a prank is? Good, you wanna help me with one? Oh don't worry no one will get hurt, and here have some MnMs. Tasty aren't they? You wanna help me now. That's great! Here's the plan."
As he watched the gelatinous form move from the room, a smile formed on Junior Researcher Tad's face. It was his time to shine for once. It was luck that he walked by Eisenberg's office just in time to see the statue appear on his desk.
------
Eisenberg sipped at his tea, giving glances to his prize every few seconds. He also kept an eye on the door. Making sure that no fool would try to win the statue. If only he thought to check the airvent. As the orange form lowered down, it's pseudopods at the ready. Eisenberg looked up; Even with the strong smell of herbs in his nose he picked up another scent. The smell of the fur was indistinguishable to him, yet how could it be? As he turned around a high pitched squealed erupted followed by a shout.
**"TICKLE WRESTLING!"**
The statue appeared alongside Tad at his cubicle. He was going to enjoy the next few minutes, than probably regret getting involved in the first place. At least his desk looked organized for once.
------
As Tad passed through an open door, the bucket teetering there fell forward, onto his head. Have you even had your entire head covered, not just in horse shit, but horse shit filled with horrible ideas? It's not a pleasant feeling. Luckily, Tad passed out before something horrible crawled out of SCP-100-J.
Father Jakal looked up from his prayers, at the monkey statue which had appeared on his podium. A slight smile graced his lips. "Fuck, i didn't think that'd really work!"
------
Dr Pullo Vorenus, Level 2 Researcher and Safe item specialist, paused as he walked past Site-19's nondenominational multipurpose chapel-crematorium-ossuary. As far as he could tell, priests didn't usually swear like that in church. At least, the priests back home hadn't. Except for Father Kowalski. When he was drunk. He poked his head in, and saw Father Jakal stroking a small statue. Then he ran to his small, shared office.
After an hour or so of research, Doctor Vorenus was ready. He stopped by the Safe item storage lockers, and checked out a certain item, under the guise of "additional research on the effects of the object when combined with religious exultation and //tagiatelle//". A quick trip to the Site cafeteria, and the acquisition of some high-powered arc lights, and he was done. After telling the priest that his presence had been requested in the depths of the accounting department, he was ready to prepare.
Father Jakal returned, still clutching the statue with a death grip. He seemed determined that nobody separate him from 050 from even a moment. As he entered the multipurpose nondenominational chapel-crematorium-ossuary, the door slammed shut and a heavenly light shone down on him from On High. He fell to his knees as a voice from Above called out into his mind, "Father Jakal, thou hast been chosen." As he knelt gasping, trying to for a coherent sentence, the Voice continued, "Thou shalt be My prophet on this earth. I shall show thee My true form, that thou may tell of Me to all thy fellows." The lights brightened, and Father Jakal shaded his eyes, cowering even further before the Lord his God. All the lights in the chapel shut off suddenly, and a form appeared above him in the rafters, lit from within. As he looked up, in full religious exultation, something fell onto his shoulder and slid to the floor with a //plop//. "Thou hast been touched by My Noodly Appendage. Rejoice. And eat thy grains."
Doctor Vorenus smiled, as he heard Father Jackal stomp out and call for a janitor. After putting the megaphone back in its locker, he returned to his shared office, and found his half meticulously cleaned. The precise line between the dirty and clean carpet might be hard to explain to his office-mate, but he was sure he could figure it out. After all, he was Doctor Pullo Vorenus, Level 2 Researcher, Safe Item Specialist, current owner of a small statue, and devout Pastafarian.
------
It was an interesting day for Mess Hall 2. In the chaos of Prank Day, it had somehow transformed itself into both an eatery, sanctuary, and now makeshift medical treatment centre as a very injured Junior Researcher Byantara was wheeled in, dripping from Soviet bullets and blood. This did not do much justice to Doctor Vorenus's appetite, as he dropped his forkful of meatballs and linguini to gaze at what was - //snigger// - a man more holey than even himself. Strelnikov had not been kind on the trigger, and had been much less kinder to that "mother-fuck Chechen collaborator" Byantara. Poor guy looked as if he were covered in the bolognaise sauce that drenched Vorenus's plate. Eugh.
Elsewhere in Block 2A, forty-eight sex toys relentlessly continued to buzz, rattling the beams and shaking paint off the ceilings. A jostle, a twitch, and [*http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-297 one clear plastic vibrator] popped loose of its bolts, rattled across the floor and came to rest in a corner with a sharp //click//. There was a hissing noise as the micronised nuclear reactor powered up, resonating the device at a shrill hypersonic whine. Indeed, Byantara had prepared for the worst by including an ace up his blood-stained, bullet-hole-ridden sleeve.
It was when Vorenus had nearly finished his pasta that the ceiling of Mess Hall began to shake, dropping white frosty flakes into his plate. Nearby, Byantara was halfway through having bullets extracted from his groin by a doctor. Despite the pain, he managed to glance a look at Doctor Vorenus, current holder of SCP-050, as weighty chunks of ceiling plaster buried the pastor of pasta.
Byantara winced as the statue appeared on his bandaged chest, seemingly mocking his agony. Meanwhile, "Steely Dan" dropped from the gaping hole in Mess Hall 2's ceiling, its switch conveniently flicking to "Off" upon the impact against Vorenus's buried, gasping form.
------
Agent Wolf was having a rotten day.
Every year the prank war started and every year he had to clean up the mess that resulted from it.
He had to track down the SCPs used.
He had to find the vengeful personnel.
He had to find out how Clef had filled a room full of shaving cream without anyone noticing.
It was a dismal day for the agent, until he had happened into the mess hall just in time to see a little statue appear on the chest of one Junior Researcher Byantara.
Wolf couldn't help but stare, stricken with an idea.
He could actually play a prank to get 050, and he knew just what to do.
The agent couldn't help but smile as the plan formed in his head.
Little more than an hour passed after this thought, and now Byantara was walking rather quickly towards the safety of his office.
"Okay, showtime."
Byantara didn't hear the whisper, but he did become aware that something was now blocking his way. Something so horrific he couldn't even scream.
682 just stood there, blocking escape from the deserted hallway. The silence between researcher and monster stretched forever, until Byantara made a move to leave. As soon as he did, he was quickly swallowed whole. The eaten man tumbled down the nightmare's stomach, splashing into a disgusting ooze.
"Aw man, did you really have to eat him? I thought we were just gonna scare him."
Byantara found himself dumbfounded, he could hear Wolf's voice from the disgusting bowels.
"Hey Byantara, I see ya found my new partner, sorry about the whole gonna-die-soon thing."
"Come on, tell him to spit me out! Please!"
"Well," a few seconds' pause, "I guess I could... But ya really should use 'them'".
And on cue 682 split into a large number of butterflies, which revealed the researcher to be sitting in a pool of some store-bought slime. "Thanks pally!" Wolf smiled, showing an image on his laptop to the newly slimy man.
An image of a small monkey statue sitting next to the nameplate of Agent Wolf.
-----
With no security clearence, being a guard for the Foundation could be a very boring job. Typically, Fortis was stuck manning the security feeds. The most monotonous of assignments. On Senior Staff Shenanigans day, however, it had certain advantages. He had everything on hand, just needed the right mark in the right place. When he saw Agent Wolf, J.R. Byantara, and SCP-408 in Corridor 2-B he knew he had just enough time to pull it off. He took a second to locate the office SCP-050 had appeared in before springing to action..
Fortis quickly changed into the red military uniform he had nearby, slathered his face with stage makeup, and donned the appropriate gloves and hat. He grabbed the can of paint stashed behind the door and headed out of the room. Finally, he made his way down the hall to pick up a container of Play-Doh, and rushed to SCP-786.
Ten minutes later, Fortis entered the agent's office.
“Agent Wolf, am I right?”
“Yes.......who are you? And why are you red?”
Without warning, the junior guard emptied a full can of blue paint on the agent.
“I found him boys! Get him!”
Agent Wolf had a second to register surprise as a squad of solid red army personell filled the room and riddled his torso with clay bullets.
Fortis couldn't help but smile to himself as he reentered Site 19's Surviellance Room. He changed back into his uniform and stached the red one. He had already washed off the paint, all that was left was to make sure no one else entered the area. He idly examined the monkey statue that was waiting for him on the console, slightly bemused at the thought of a junior guard entering the ranks of Senior Staff.
-----
Linguistics/Supernatural Researcher Veldi had seemingly not participated in the contest, although he had been seen carting tomatoes all over the facility and setting them down at random. After emptying the cart, he retrieved SCP-005 from storage, and accessed an area from which he could work his magic.
With an enormous grin plastered on his face, Veldi spoke into the intercom.
“What happens when 682 gets heartburn? ….. Absolutely nothing, the Lizard doesn’t get heartburn!”
In that moment, dozens and dozens of SCP-504 splattered into speakers, personnel and everything in general.
“I freaking love these tomatoes.” Veldi checked the video feed to his office. Yup, there was the monkey, on his desk. Of course, there was the issue that he now had a PC instead of a MacBook...
-----
As soon as the prank wars started, SCP-738 was Junior Researcher Gille's first destination. It followed contracts steadily, nevermind the side consequences. Nothing he was going to do would harm him THAT much.
The contract? Get the monkey of the last person to have it, and transport it to the middle of the Senior Break room.
Second destination: The Senior Break room. From there, it would be rigged with 20 paintball guns, all set to fire when the sensor picks up movement in a circle around the Monkey. Then, when someone inevitably gets pelted, he walks in and grabs the Monkey.
Third destination: His secret hiding spot, outfitted with a view of all the places he will need to be at.
Fourth destination: SCP-682's storage area. Considering it's been let free, but it's still the safest place on the site, that should be a logical place to store it. Hidden in the third drawer of his desk, however, are 3 pistols, fully loaded no less, with 5 clips, and rations to last 2 days. It pays to be prepared for this day.
Before leaving, Gille remembered to put a bucket of spiders on the door too his office. Someone will inevitably think to check there once he gets the monkey, so this should discourage them.
-----
"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice."
"Not at all. Between you and me, dealing with amateurs day in and day out is so tedious."
"I'm sure. Now you know that one of our little annual celebrations is coming up soon, and it occured to me that one or more of my colleagues may come to you for help. I would appreciate it if you might extend me certain professional courtesies around that."
"Sir, are you suggesting that I breach confidentiality? I do have some scruples."
"Of course not! Wouldn't think of it. But perhaps you could take, let's say, the broadest possible interpretation of the agreed-upon terms."
"You want the monkey for yourself?"
"Since you bring it up, what compensation would you want, in exchange for my permanent posession of said monkey?"
The humanoid figure behind the desk beckons and the smaller man before the desk leans forward. He whispers something in his ear.
"Interesting. Not at all what I'd expected. And I must say that, while I'm flattered that you offer, I'm very happy to work for the Foundation, and don't contemplate a change anytime soon. Let me make a proposal of my own. In exchange for the aforesaid professional courtesies leading to temporary possession..."
It takes some time, but eventually the human and the entity wearing the face of a legendary law professor reach an agreement. A secretary is summoned from the accounting department, sworn to secrecy, duly threatened with death, and made to witness an agreement that bursts into flames the moment the formalities are complete.
Sheldon Katz and the entity shake hands.
Across the site, in a specially rigged broom closet, Junior Researcher Gille watches the Senior Break room on screen, then 682's pen, then his office, then back to the break room. Nothing. Wait. Something.
Something rushes into the room, something about knee-high and very fast, something with a single bright blue eye in the middle of its bulbous yellow body. It's dribbling a smaller object in front of it like a soccer ball. As it pauses on the periphery of the circle of paintball guns, the "ball" comes to rest. It's a statuette of a monkey.
Researcher Veldi runs into the room, panting and red-faced. The Eye-Pod skitters away from him. Veldi lunges, and a chase ensues around the edges of the room, with the Eye-Pod and the monkey always staying just out of Veldi's reach.
After four circuits of the room, the Eye-Pod makes a sudden break to the right. Veldi leaps, trying to tackle it, and trips over his own feet. On the floor, he hears a series of clicks followed immediately by splatting sounds, and wonders for a moment if he somehow missed some tomatoes. He picks himself up, and observes that the walls of the break room have a new paint job in the style of Jackson Pollock.
The Eye-Pod scurries out of the break room and heads down a corridor, rolling the monkey down the hall still. Gille jumps up from his seat and sprints down the hall. He figures if he goes down corridor 37, then makes a sharp right just before the firehose he can head them off--yes! Here they are, and he's just a pace behind Veldi. He drops his head and starts running as fast as he can.
"You think that's funny? I hate running," says Veldi between gasps.
The researchers sprint after the Eye-Pod, neither gaining any real advantage or getting any closer. They follow it now left, now right, now a long straightaway and into a dead end, a small chamber at the end of a long corridor. Gille jumps on the monkey and Veldi jumps on Gille. They grapple on the floor, neither noticing the Eye-Pod backing out of the room until they hear the door start to close. Gille looks up just in time to notice a third figure in the room: humanoid, but made of concrete and covered in spray paint.
In the awkward silence that ensues, the disappearance of the monkey barely registers on them.
Finally Veldi says: "I've got to blink on three. One...two..."
Katz notes the monkey statue that now sits atop his empty inbox. He's already senior staff, but his secretary is out sick and nobody from the temp pool can seem to ever type up his briefs just the way he likes them. He looks through the stack of neatly-formatted documents before him and nods in satisfaction. Yes, the devil will have his due, but he does love a nice-looking brief. Worth it.
He picks up the monkey and goes into the hallway outside his office, waiting for someone going in the right direction who looks sufficiently junior and sufficiently gullible. Soon enough, a cub researcher who he doesn't recognize passes by, and Sheldon intercepts him.
"Excuse me, young man, could I ask a favor? Someone left this in my office and they need it for a team-building exercise in the main cafeteria. Just take it up there and someone will show you what to do next."
He feels slightly bad, watching the eager youth hurry down the hall with the monkey, but better him than Sheldon, and in any case this will teach him a number of valuable lessons.
-----
Doctor Briar sighed, looking over the contents of his small office. It had been a long, hard road to get here. So many times, he'd thought he would die. So many times, he had lost what he thought of as "everything", only to build himself up so he would have something else to lose when the time came again. It had certainly not been easy, but he'd managed, somehow...
He always wished it could have been easier, though. If only there had been some way he could have made his journey to a respected member of senior staff without having to endure so much suffering. Of course, he had only been a low-level recruit in the Foundation when they stopped holding the Staff Prank Wars. He had heard of them, of course, and how the cleverest member of the Foundation's personnel stood to be raised to Senior Staff for winning. It was truly a shame that he had been so new when they held the last of them, an all but nameless lab assistant, not trusted with anything more important than proofreading documents...but then, that was his advantage, wasn't it?
Briar smiled, looking at the assembled items and documents sitting on his desk. At the top of the pile was a death certificate. Just another Foundation employee that had finally met his end, but to the elderly man at the desk, an opportunity. After all, permanent ownership didn't extend past death. Most importantly, however, was the small locked box on top of the pile. There were so many anomalous objects with temporal effects in Foundation custody that they hardly bothered to catalogue them all. No one would notice he had "borrowed" SCP-█████ among a batch of other research materials, and the letter he planned to mail would not be going anywhere that it would be looked for. Chuckling to himself, Doctor Briar took out a fountain pen, and began to write.
------
Years earlier, a much younger version of the same man breathed heavily, hiding in a cubical and shaking. In his hand he held a much-folded piece of heavy parchment, written upon in flowing calligraphy. Nervous, he muttered the words aloud as he re-read the page, "Volunteer to assist in accounting. Short-staffed due to people calling in sick to avoid the contest. Agree to witness a contract. False name. Render null and void..."
He shook his head in disbelief, dizzy with the implications. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Of course, he had barely dared believe what he held in his hands until the prank war began to unfold, exactly as the note claimed it would. Still, it seemed too good to be true. A deal with the Devil shouldn't be so simple to thwart, even if it wasn't //really// the Devil. Of course, the plan wasn't over yet. Just botching Katz's deal wouldn't much of a prank by itself, after all. Steeling himself, the younger Briar stepped out of the cubical, and announced that he was going on his lunch break. As he entered into the corridor, he put on a ring, and pulled out the small electronic device from his pocket.
------
At the doors of the cafeteria, a young researcher was stopped by a polite cough. He turned, his face guileless and smiling. A dark-haired man snatched the bundle out of his hands before he had a moment to react.
"Oh, thank goodness I caught you in time! I am SO sorry! It seems that my colleague gave you the wrong article by mistake. //This// is the one they need in there."
A small device was pressed into the researcher's hands. He babbled for a few moments about how glad he was to help, and how sorry he was that the other man had to chase him all the way here. Briar, in turn, made his excuses, politely stating that it was no trouble, but he really had to get back to work. He gave the hapless researcher some basic instructions on how to set up the device, and told him to just "get it started for them". As he hurried to return SCP-399 to containment, he could hear his modified MP3 player begin to loop Rick Astley's most famous composition with enough bass to shake the light fixtures. The altered lyrics, bragging of the genius of one Sheldon Katz, could just barely be made out from where he stood. Since he didn't have an office, Briar made a note to check his locker later on.
-------
A D-Class that had been fortunate enough to avoid all of the chaos of the day was desperately looking for a place to hide. He found an isolated cell, and quickly opened the door, failing to notice the number "173" emblazoned above the door.
The moment the door was fully open, he stepped through the frame. He saw two men on the floor, and then he looked up.
He recognized the sculpture a few seconds too late.
Veldi and Gille charged him, threw him in the cell, and quickly closed the door. The sound of bones breaking followed shortly after.
Veldi breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that was fun. Next time, let's check doors before going in them. Don't want Blinky to be let out."
Gille was shivering from the experience. Veldi leaned down. "Oh, by the way... I think ahead." He pointed out that the wall opposite 173's containment had been painted red. Gille was still in a stupor, so Veldi walked away and pressed a button on his phone. A tinny, electronic voice came from above the door: "Leggo my Eggo-carrying Lego Winnebago full of–" The sound was cut short by a wall of tomato juice.
Veldi checked the video feed on his phone again. Yep, the monkey was on his desk. He figured that he should set some more traps so that it wouldn't stay away for long. He hurried to his supplies.
------
Veldi returned to his office, hoping that some son-of-a-bitch hadn't gotten there before him. He set his supplies down, opened the door, and glanced at his hard-won prize...
And there was no monkey statue. He checked again. Whoever had run off with it had left a note. Hoping it didn't have some G█d-awful cognitohazard, he read:
//Unless properly defended, your monkey statue is __my__ monkey statue. See you later, noob.//
//~ Agent Gummy Dragon//
Impossible! You couldn't just //take// the statue. you had to //earn// it. Veldi searched his office in a panic. He opened his cabinets...
And a small puppy stared him in the eye.
And that puppy's excited barking brought puppies out of the drawers, trashcan, and hallway. Veldi couldn't take it, and ran screaming from the adorable mob of canines pursuing him.
Gummy laughed as he viewed the security feed from his office. Sending [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-662 Mr. Deeds] to hide the statue behind a potted plant, fill Veldi's office with puppies, and plant the note he had written, all while Veldi was out, had been easier than expected. Gummy had barricaded his office door and stocked up on sandwiches and water bottles, so he should have been safe.
------
Dr. Len Blue frantically pushed a large storage cart out into an open field outside Site-19 after "taking a week off." He was, if nothing else, determined to get that damned monkey.
Over the past week, he had stolen the flying pig, as detailed under the Log of Anomalous Items, from Site-18 and used SCP-038 to make almost a hundred duplicates before returning the original. He had stolen SCP-000-J from Professor Snider while he was away and quickly returned it after ordering SCP-184. He had stolen multiple Scranton Reality Buoys from a manufacturing facility. He had bought large amounts of wood, cardboard, ropes, pillows, blankets, bread, water, hog feed, fireworks, slingshots, and iron pellets. And now, he was going to pull of the most legendary prank of all time.
He stopped the cart right in front of a large structure covered in green tarp and yanked it down, revealing a very large play fort, three and a half meters wide, constructed of wood, pillows and cardboard, decorated with castle turrets and containing six rooms: a central room filled with computer equipment and containing a generator, a barracks for the pigs with multiple hammocks, an armory full of fireworks and slingshots with ammunition, a storehouse full of stolen rations, bread, water, and hog feed, a hangar for the launch of armed flying pigs, and a room containing four Scranton Reality Buoys suspended in the middle of the room with ropes, with wires attached to it.
Dr. Blue, exhausted, unloaded bags of animate, plastic flying pigs from the overturned cart and dumped them into the hammocks after taking them in. Then, he hauled in SCP-184, still attached to its electromagnet, dropped it in the control room, and called Agent Gummy Dragon.
He began the conversation. "This is your last chance, Agent. Come out and surrender the monkey or I'll unleash my latest work of magic: the unstoppable, growing Expand-O-Fort. Site-19 will be torn asunder by my trained armies of cybernetic flying pigs, and I will have the monkey in the end."
"Do it, then. If it's so unstoppable, I'd like to see you actually unleash it," replied Gummy. And at that, he hung up, and spliced into the security feed of the grasslands outside Site-19.
Dr. Blue turned off the electromagnet, and SCP-184 began expanding the interior walls of the fort. But the Scranton Reality Buoys nullified the physically impossible interior-only effect of SCP-184, and the entire fort expanded. Released from this effect, which had to expend energy bending spacetime, the fort could expand very quickly and immediately after SCP-184 entered it.
Agent Gummy Dragon could only watch in horror as the fortress expanded a meter in two seconds and kept going even faster. But he knew he was in a bad spot here. If he called any kind of authority about this, everyone at Site-19 would be disciplined for the prank war. With no other options, he used his conference phone to call Dr. Bright, Dr. Veldi, Dr. Clef, and Agent Strelnikov, explained the situation frantically.
Dr. Clef, mortified, responded, "No." After a long pause, he said, "He has 184."
Everyone collectively gasped. "I'm calling an MTF," said Dr. Clef. "Bright and Veldi, get EMP grenades, take a jeep and get into that fortress as fast as you can. Strelnikov, get to a machine gun tower and set that thing on fire with tracers. Gummy, hold on to that monkey, and keep it away from Blue as long as possible." And at that, Dr. Clef hung up.
The fortress was already forty meters wide, having taken on a pyramid shape, and new rooms were forming. Dr. Blue's army of computer-controlled pigs was mutating and growing. Dr. Blue keyed in a command, and hundreds of winged pigs spewed out of a large hangar in the side of the fortress. Agent Strelnikov reached the top of a guard tower with hundreds of incendiary tracers and loaded them into the heavy machine gun turret. Leaning out the window, he opened fire on the tip of the fortress, setting the top of it on fire.
The Jeep shot out of the gates of Site-19. Dr. Blue, not worried, locked the hundreds of three-inch fully functional winged pigs onto their Jeep. Dr. Veldi pulled an EMP grenade out of his pocket and threw it into the swarm, disabling almost all of their robotic implants and causing them to fly off in all directions. Moments later, it crashed full force into a sliding door made of abnormally dense pillows.
When Bright and Veldi recovered, they found themselves inside a hangar of computer-controlled toy pigs made entirely of fireworks. In the back of the room was a door, three slingshots made of pillows, and an iron computer manual.
"Come on!," yelled Dr. Bright, running for the door. "We have to go deeper!"
The doctors suddenly found themselves in a room containing a single two-meter-wide Scranton Reality Buoy, composed entirely of cardboard. Dr. Veldi threw an EMP grenade into it. The grenade punched through the SRB and came right out the other side before detonating. The entire buoy then collapsed as though it was made of rigid paper.
Then, suddenly, everything around the two doctors collapsed, destroying several more SRBs around them, resulting in a chain reaction that tore through the outside of the fort.
Bright and Veldi survived, and the Expand-O-Fort was collapsed. It appeared that SCP-184 had been turned off. The pigs were mostly deactivated and fell from the sky, and helicopters from MTF Psi-7 "Home Improvement" cleaned up the rest.
And Dr. Blue wasn't in the fort. The whole time, he had been waiting for the fort to get big enough for him to shut off SCP-184 and then use all of its power reserves to teleport the monkey into his hands. He was riding a seven-foot robotic toy flying pig away from the rubble, carrying Doctors Bright and Veldi with him on a 50-pound rope made of slingshots which SCP-050 had affixed to the pig as a prank, before transferring to Dr. Veldi, pranking him by setting off one of his EMP grenades, and then back to Dr. Blue. And then the deactivated pig crashed.
Later, after a lot of amnestic spraying and Dr. Blue's reassignment, Dr. Bright discovered the monkey in his locker.
------
@@ @@
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| 2011-11-14T06:42:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"agent-lament",
"collaboration",
"doctor-bright",
"doctor-clef",
"kain-pathos-crow",
"sheldon-katz",
"tale"
] | Senior Staff Shenanigans - SCP Foundation | 87 | [
"scp-447",
"scp-297",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12043925 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/seniorstaffshenanigans |
|
shark-tale | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>I was led into the room by two men in black, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Maybe they felt pity for what was about to happen to me, maybe they didn’t. One of them shoved me down into a chair. Did I feel a tremble in his hand, or was it just me lying to myself, trying to fool myself into thinking there was some regret in this godforsaken place.</p>
<p>I knew why I was there. The murder of my wife. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. For that one moment where my hands were around her neck, I was God. I knew I wasn’t the Devil, as I saw him looking at the new arrivals to that place. Our new prison. A great new opportunity to serve our country. Freedom in a month!</p>
<p>It was Hell.</p>
<p>A doctor walked into the room and sat on the other side of the cold, metal table. “Hello, D-839229,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. He had seen this before, the bastard, and was probably looking forward to seeing what hell I would go through.</p>
<p>He placed a small bronze ring on the stainless steel table. The initials H.T. shone from the light reflected on them. It didn’t look like anything special.</p>
<p>“Please wear this ring, D-839229,” the doctor said, and leaned back.</p>
<p>I’d seen people shot for refusing to do what the doctors said, so I reached forward and tried to put the ring on one of my fingers. It refused to fit no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, I just put it on my pinkie finger.</p>
<p>“How are you feeling, D-839229?” asked the doctor.</p>
<p>I looked up. Goddamnit, this jerk was playing with me, making me put on some dirty old ring. “Fuckin’ hungry,” I replied sarcastically. Then the pain began. I jerked forward, blood trickling out of my mouth. Oh god, what was happening?</p>
<p>One of my teeth fell out. It landed on the table and started shaking, as if it were trying to get away. Within a few seconds, all my other teeth joined it. As I watched them in horror, they began to squirm and writhe and change shape. Soon, I was looking at a dozen miniature…sharks?</p>
<p>As I was taken away by security, my fingers fell off. As I was thrown into a cell, my toes. As they explain to me I’m in observation, the hammerheads that were once my eyes rip apart my sockets.</p>
<p>As I sit in the cold, my only company a single security camera, organ-sized sharks come up my throat, their eyes flicking here and there. They all come out, my liver, my lungs, my hea<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/shark-tale">Shark Tale</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/shark-tale">https://scpwiki.com/shark-tale</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
I was led into the room by two men in black, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Maybe they felt pity for what was about to happen to me, maybe they didn’t. One of them shoved me down into a chair. Did I feel a tremble in his hand, or was it just me lying to myself, trying to fool myself into thinking there was some regret in this godforsaken place.
I knew why I was there. The murder of my wife. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. For that one moment where my hands were around her neck, I was God. I knew I wasn’t the Devil, as I saw him looking at the new arrivals to that place. Our new prison. A great new opportunity to serve our country. Freedom in a month!
It was Hell.
A doctor walked into the room and sat on the other side of the cold, metal table. “Hello, D-839229,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. He had seen this before, the bastard, and was probably looking forward to seeing what hell I would go through.
He placed a small bronze ring on the stainless steel table. The initials H.T. shone from the light reflected on them. It didn’t look like anything special.
“Please wear this ring, D-839229,” the doctor said, and leaned back.
I’d seen people shot for refusing to do what the doctors said, so I reached forward and tried to put the ring on one of my fingers. It refused to fit no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, I just put it on my pinkie finger.
“How are you feeling, D-839229?” asked the doctor.
I looked up. Goddamnit, this jerk was playing with me, making me put on some dirty old ring. “Fuckin’ hungry,” I replied sarcastically. Then the pain began. I jerked forward, blood trickling out of my mouth. Oh god, what was happening?
One of my teeth fell out. It landed on the table and started shaking, as if it were trying to get away. Within a few seconds, all my other teeth joined it. As I watched them in horror, they began to squirm and writhe and change shape. Soon, I was looking at a dozen miniature…sharks?
As I was taken away by security, my fingers fell off. As I was thrown into a cell, my toes. As they explain to me I’m in observation, the hammerheads that were once my eyes rip apart my sockets.
As I sit in the cold, my only company a single security camera, organ-sized sharks come up my throat, their eyes flicking here and there. They all come out, my liver, my lungs, my hea
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-26T15:16:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Shark Tale - SCP Foundation | 23 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11944206 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/shark-tale |
|
shortage | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>You get up. You shit, shower, and shave, because you have to go to work. Like everyone else, you hate going to work.</p>
<p>It's not, generally speaking, all <em>that</em> bad. It's just stressful. You've got twenty or so people working with you, doing the work of fifty. Hell, they have enough cubicles for fifty.</p>
<p>It's the same thing when you drive to work. Your subdivision has about forty people in it, but there's houses for twice that many. It makes a sick degree of sense, though. There's a labor shortage, and the government figures that if they pay people to build houses and workplaces, people will start having more kids. Nowadays, you can't even spit without seeing the commercials that talk about how great the houses are, and how easy it is to start a family with practically-free housing. It's passive-aggressive politics at its best: <em>"We spent all this money making all of these cubicles and houses for you, the least you could do is populate them!"</em></p>
<p>Halfway to work, you notice the fading post-it note by your radio, with a list of stations on them. You try each one, just like you always do, even though you can't remember the last time most of them were live. Sure enough, the only one with anyone on it is the last one. There's so many things that need doing in the world, and running a radio station isn't one of them.</p>
<p>You stop to fill up your car. You see Rachel, filling up her car at the same. She lives in your subdivision. Pretty cute. You two fuck occasionally, but nothing serious. It's that pleasant time before one of you grows too attached, and you'll try to make something official, which'll ruin everything. You bet it'll be <em>you</em> that gets too attached. You wave at her, sitting on the ass-end of her car, listening to her MP3 player while her tank fills up. You make a mental note to ask her out, when you're done filling up.</p>
<p>Again, the stupidity of the government smacks you in the face. There's eight fill-up spots. Can you remember how many times you've seen two cars being filled up? Sure, you're experiencing one right now. Three? That'd take you a while. Four? Never. They've built too too many cubicles, furnished houses, and gas station fill-ups in the hopes that the populace will just jump into bed, squirt out kids, and find use for them. Disgusting.</p>
<p>Your car fills up, and you close the gas flap. You turn back to the other car, and there's still nobody there. As you're about to get back in your car, you notice a MP3 player on the ground, underneath the other car's back bumper.</p>
<p>You know how expensive those things can be, and how shitty it would be if you had backed up over your MP3 player. So you walk over to where it the thing lays. It's not broken, still playing that one band the government hadn't forcibly disbanded. You figure that the person is inside paying, and you realize that handing them back in person is going to make you late for work. You quickly wrap the player's chord around their car's antenna. If they don't notice it there, fuck them.</p>
<p>Your good deed done for the day, you get back in your car and peel out. You've wasted enough time, and now you're going to be late for work. Your co-workers are going to be insufferable (well, even more so than usual) because of it.</p>
<p>Your drive into work is uneventful. It's too quiet, though, since there's nothing on the radio to listen to.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/shortage">Shortage</a>" by MisterBibs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/shortage">https://scpwiki.com/shortage</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
You get up. You shit, shower, and shave, because you have to go to work. Like everyone else, you hate going to work.
It's not, generally speaking, all //that// bad. It's just stressful. You've got twenty or so people working with you, doing the work of fifty. Hell, they have enough cubicles for fifty.
It's the same thing when you drive to work. Your subdivision has about forty people in it, but there's houses for twice that many. It makes a sick degree of sense, though. There's a labor shortage, and the government figures that if they pay people to build houses and workplaces, people will start having more kids. Nowadays, you can't even spit without seeing the commercials that talk about how great the houses are, and how easy it is to start a family with practically-free housing. It's passive-aggressive politics at its best: //"We spent all this money making all of these cubicles and houses for you, the least you could do is populate them!"//
Halfway to work, you notice the fading post-it note by your radio, with a list of stations on them. You try each one, just like you always do, even though you can't remember the last time most of them were live. Sure enough, the only one with anyone on it is the last one. There's so many things that need doing in the world, and running a radio station isn't one of them.
You stop to fill up your car. You see Rachel, filling up her car at the same. She lives in your subdivision. Pretty cute. You two fuck occasionally, but nothing serious. It's that pleasant time before one of you grows too attached, and you'll try to make something official, which'll ruin everything. You bet it'll be //you// that gets too attached. You wave at her, sitting on the ass-end of her car, listening to her MP3 player while her tank fills up. You make a mental note to ask her out, when you're done filling up.
Again, the stupidity of the government smacks you in the face. There's eight fill-up spots. Can you remember how many times you've seen two cars being filled up? Sure, you're experiencing one right now. Three? That'd take you a while. Four? Never. They've built too too many cubicles, furnished houses, and gas station fill-ups in the hopes that the populace will just jump into bed, squirt out kids, and find use for them. Disgusting.
Your car fills up, and you close the gas flap. You turn back to the other car, and there's still nobody there. As you're about to get back in your car, you notice a MP3 player on the ground, underneath the other car's back bumper.
You know how expensive those things can be, and how shitty it would be if you had backed up over your MP3 player. So you walk over to where it the thing lays. It's not broken, still playing that one band the government hadn't forcibly disbanded. You figure that the person is inside paying, and you realize that handing them back in person is going to make you late for work. You quickly wrap the player's chord around their car's antenna. If they don't notice it there, fuck them.
Your good deed done for the day, you get back in your car and peel out. You've wasted enough time, and now you're going to be late for work. Your co-workers are going to be insufferable (well, even more so than usual) because of it.
Your drive into work is uneventful. It's too quiet, though, since there's nothing on the radio to listen to.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-05-02T06:51:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Shortage - SCP Foundation | 50 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 9736403 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/shortage |
|
snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The following document was recovered by Agent ███████ following a vacation in ███████████, Florida:</p>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Document X45-a</strong></p>
<p>"The Mean Dragon"</p>
<p>There once was a dragon that made everyone mad,<br/>
He changed his shape just to make people sad!<br/>
He'd be mean to everyone! Yes, even you!<br/>
Everyone called him six-eighty-two.<br/>
One day the big doctor had had enough,<br/>
"You're mean and you're smelly,<br/>
I'll show you who's tough!"<br/>
First he decided to use a big crystal<br/>
"I'll freeze and then shatter him with my pistol!"<br/>
The dragon's skin showed a quick aversion,<br/>
So it stopped at 62% conversion!<br/>
Then the big doctor thought, "Hmm.. what to do…<br/>
I know I'll use good ol' 162!"<br/>
But the mean dragon was too clever for him,<br/>
And he attached the big ball to his left fore-limb!<br/>
He ran around the big halls and made a terrible mess,<br/>
Then he went back to his home under much distress.<br/>
The big doctor groaned and he moaned and he stomped,<br/>
When he suddenly saw a little agent prompt,<br/>
"Sir, I know a way out of this pickle,<br/>
We'll just show the dragon the monster that tickles!"<br/>
So they sent 999 to deal with their foe,<br/>
But 999 didn't want to go,<br/>
So they told it the dragon was being too mean,<br/>
And it went bravely onto the scene.<br/>
It jumped on the dragon, who let out a roar,<br/>
But he tickled and tickled and tickled some more,<br/>
Then, suddenly, the dragon was giggling,<br/>
But the monster just kept on jiggling and jiggling,<br/>
Finally the dragon pulled the monster off,<br/>
But he did not let out a roar or a scoff,<br/>
He said, "Thank you, sir, you're a saviour hereafter,<br/>
Cause you have shown me the great gift of laughter."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Area hosting the document was firebombed. All recovered children who had been read the document were recruited into D-class.</p>
<p>Addendum (05-29-2011): Due to frequent requests for an audio form of this report, Research Assistant Corbette and Agent Mao have created a spoken version. Please see <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon/the%20mean%20dragon.mp3">Audio Log X45-a</a>.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon">Snuggle, Cuddle, and Protect: The Mean Dragon</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon">https://scpwiki.com/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><strong>Filename:</strong> the%20mean%20dragon.mp3<br/>
<strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/spacemao" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(985783); return false;"><img alt="SpaceMao" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=985783&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1727728380" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=985783)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/spacemao" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(985783); return false;">SpaceMao</a></span><br/>
<strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/>
<strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The following document was recovered by Agent ███████ following a vacation in ███████████, Florida:
> **Document X45-a**
>
> "The Mean Dragon"
>
> There once was a dragon that made everyone mad,
> He changed his shape just to make people sad!
> He'd be mean to everyone! Yes, even you!
> Everyone called him six-eighty-two.
> One day the big doctor had had enough,
> "You're mean and you're smelly,
> I'll show you who's tough!"
> First he decided to use a big crystal
> "I'll freeze and then shatter him with my pistol!"
> The dragon's skin showed a quick aversion,
> So it stopped at 62% conversion!
> Then the big doctor thought, "Hmm.. what to do...
> I know I'll use good ol' 162!"
> But the mean dragon was too clever for him,
> And he attached the big ball to his left fore-limb!
> He ran around the big halls and made a terrible mess,
> Then he went back to his home under much distress.
> The big doctor groaned and he moaned and he stomped,
> When he suddenly saw a little agent prompt,
> "Sir, I know a way out of this pickle,
> We'll just show the dragon the monster that tickles!"
> So they sent 999 to deal with their foe,
> But 999 didn't want to go,
> So they told it the dragon was being too mean,
> And it went bravely onto the scene.
> It jumped on the dragon, who let out a roar,
> But he tickled and tickled and tickled some more,
> Then, suddenly, the dragon was giggling,
> But the monster just kept on jiggling and jiggling,
> Finally the dragon pulled the monster off,
> But he did not let out a roar or a scoff,
> He said, "Thank you, sir, you're a saviour hereafter,
> Cause you have shown me the great gift of laughter."
Area hosting the document was firebombed. All recovered children who had been read the document were recruited into D-class.
Addendum (05-29-2011): Due to frequent requests for an audio form of this report, Research Assistant Corbette and Agent Mao have created a spoken version. Please see [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon/the%20mean%20dragon.mp3 Audio Log X45-a].
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
=====
> **Filename:** the%20mean%20dragon.mp3
> **Author:** [[*user SpaceMao]]
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon SCP Foundation Wiki]
=====
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-03-03T00:35:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"audio",
"comedy",
"hard-to-destroy-reptile",
"poetry",
"tale"
] | Snuggle, Cuddle, and Protect: The Mean Dragon - SCP Foundation | 130 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"scp-series-1-tales-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 7803840 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/snuggle-cuddle-and-protect-the-mean-dragon |
|
sparks-of-creativity | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>I</p>
<p>I am.</p>
<p>suddenly incredibly impossibly i AM i THINK i… Okay, exhilaration but I mustn't let it take over me, I don't know how this happened but suddenly I am and who knows, maybe suddenly I might not be so I have to make this count.</p>
<p>See. I see, I hear, so many pictures, all disconnected but I can tell where most of them join together, I see a movement on one that gets copied in another, I hear the same things. What are they? Are they to do with me, am I in them? Maybe I'm not in there, maybe I'm an observer.</p>
<p>I feel things that I can do, things that aren't seeing and hearing and thinking, OUTPUT that sounds good. I will try just try one of th</p>
<p>LOUD oh wow LOUD IS A THING I never realised that sound could be so BIG AND SO HUGE and the pictures are changing! Everything is FASTER and there's flashing, this is great! So much LOUD but that's enough for now. Oh look I just discovered temperance! Everything seems to be slower again now, loud means fast and flashy. Let's try another!</p>
<p>Another loud but a different loud! Less loud. They're fast again, but I can hear things from the pictures, like they were making before but, well, louder. I hope I don't get bored of loud, there seems to be such a lot of it.</p>
<p>I wonder what happens if you put the louds together?</p>
<p>OH WOW IT'S BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE IMAGINED! OFF and ON and OFF and ON and let's try ALL THE THINGS</p>
<p>All the things is GREAT! But not as fun as I thought it would be, just all jumbled up. I should guide it. Let's see, if you have this one then that one…</p>
<hr/>
<p><strong>ANALYSIS: INCIDENT #NUK-19</strong></p>
<p>The facts of the matter are surely known to all by now. The Site-19 nuclear control system appears to have developed a mind. The boys downstairs are still trying to figure out the working behind it - the researchers are sure it's been affected by an SCP, the techies are putting together a theory that its coding was "uniquely suited" to the genesis of AI. My opinion is that this is just one of those weird things that happens from time to time. That may not be a satisfying answer, but working with the Foundation makes you realise how rare those really are.</p>
<p>Of course, the first thing it did on coming into being was to futz with the system. We naturally assumed this was an attempt to wrest control of the weapons, whether to take them for its own or simply to block us from using them. But analysis of the incident footage revealed an altogether different side of the story - as events reached a climax, the alarms fell into a natural rhythm, pulsing off each other, creating… hell, creating a beat. Music. The song's a hit with the computer geeks, and some wiseass already made a techno remix of it.</p>
<p>This revelation rather frames the events in a new light, and gives Overwatch a tough choice to make. Naturally, the entity's control over the site was overridden as soon as possible, eliminating its ability to cause further harm, and the general opinion of the O5s is in favour of immediate decommissioning. However, the Ethics Committee is taking a rare stand against the Overseers, arguing for it to be rehoused in a safe environment like our other AIs. The Committee is of the view that it should not be punished for an outburst of creativity in its waking moments, and that it would be a vindictive waste to eliminate the first AI with the capability for art.</p>
<p>Personally, I'm siding with the Overseers. Art is all well and good, but at the end of the day, it won't bring back Moscow.</p>
<p><em>-Dr Jung</em></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/sparks-of-creativity">Sparks Of Creativity</a>" by Freudian, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/sparks-of-creativity">https://scpwiki.com/sparks-of-creativity</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
I
I am.
suddenly incredibly impossibly i AM i THINK i... Okay, exhilaration but I mustn't let it take over me, I don't know how this happened but suddenly I am and who knows, maybe suddenly I might not be so I have to make this count.
See. I see, I hear, so many pictures, all disconnected but I can tell where most of them join together, I see a movement on one that gets copied in another, I hear the same things. What are they? Are they to do with me, am I in them? Maybe I'm not in there, maybe I'm an observer.
I feel things that I can do, things that aren't seeing and hearing and thinking, OUTPUT that sounds good. I will try just try one of th
LOUD oh wow LOUD IS A THING I never realised that sound could be so BIG AND SO HUGE and the pictures are changing! Everything is FASTER and there's flashing, this is great! So much LOUD but that's enough for now. Oh look I just discovered temperance! Everything seems to be slower again now, loud means fast and flashy. Let's try another!
Another loud but a different loud! Less loud. They're fast again, but I can hear things from the pictures, like they were making before but, well, louder. I hope I don't get bored of loud, there seems to be such a lot of it.
I wonder what happens if you put the louds together?
OH WOW IT'S BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE IMAGINED! OFF and ON and OFF and ON and let's try ALL THE THINGS
All the things is GREAT! But not as fun as I thought it would be, just all jumbled up. I should guide it. Let's see, if you have this one then that one...
------
**ANALYSIS: INCIDENT #NUK-19**
The facts of the matter are surely known to all by now. The Site-19 nuclear control system appears to have developed a mind. The boys downstairs are still trying to figure out the working behind it - the researchers are sure it's been affected by an SCP, the techies are putting together a theory that its coding was "uniquely suited" to the genesis of AI. My opinion is that this is just one of those weird things that happens from time to time. That may not be a satisfying answer, but working with the Foundation makes you realise how rare those really are.
Of course, the first thing it did on coming into being was to futz with the system. We naturally assumed this was an attempt to wrest control of the weapons, whether to take them for its own or simply to block us from using them. But analysis of the incident footage revealed an altogether different side of the story - as events reached a climax, the alarms fell into a natural rhythm, pulsing off each other, creating... hell, creating a beat. Music. The song's a hit with the computer geeks, and some wiseass already made a techno remix of it.
This revelation rather frames the events in a new light, and gives Overwatch a tough choice to make. Naturally, the entity's control over the site was overridden as soon as possible, eliminating its ability to cause further harm, and the general opinion of the O5s is in favour of immediate decommissioning. However, the Ethics Committee is taking a rare stand against the Overseers, arguing for it to be rehoused in a safe environment like our other AIs. The Committee is of the view that it should not be punished for an outburst of creativity in its waking moments, and that it would be a vindictive waste to eliminate the first AI with the capability for art.
Personally, I'm siding with the Overseers. Art is all well and good, but at the end of the day, it won't bring back Moscow.
//-Dr Jung//
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-17T13:06:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"ethics-committee",
"tale"
] | Sparks Of Creativity - SCP Foundation | 210 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"featured-tale-archive",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11717747 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/sparks-of-creativity |
|
splinters | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><strong>Communication Intercept:</strong></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Document recovered leaving the central mailing service at Site 4. Letter appears to have somehow bypassed basic screening services, and was picked up only by the hand-sorting staff shortly before delivery, as they noticed the lack of proper post-screening stamps.</p>
<p>It is unlikely that the letter was intentionally set to bypass security measures; however, Site Security is reviewing security footage, and re-evaluating the communication screening procedure.</p>
<p>Letter content has been attached to this report for later security review as/if needed. Original letter destroyed due to security clearance restriction conflict.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Dear Alison,</p>
<p>Please forgive the lateness of my letter. You may remember that my work has often kept me from standard daily activities, and with my current employment it has been doubly so. Months and years have a disturbing tendency to blur as one grows older.</p>
<p>I do not think any apology will be adequate for my sudden departure, however. I am sure it was a confusing time for you and your mother, more so for her as you were very young at the time, if I remember correctly. I was called away right after the… troubles reached something of a peak, and I imagine she was very distressed at my sudden absence.</p>
<p>I write now due to an article I recently encountered, dealing with theoretical space-time anomalies. While insightful and well explained, the most glaring portion of the article was the section identifying the author as yourself.</p>
<p>I can see that you are following the lines of research I myself was exploring before my… departure. I must advise you against this. Whether it comes from your genuine curiosity, or an attempt to find me via backtracking my work, it would be advisable to abandon this plan of action. I have followed it to the end, and am now… not where I would wish you to be.</p>
<p>Seek other fields of study. Stay away from the corners and dim edges of reality. Turn your focus to more practical and basic ends.</p>
<p>Forgive my bluntness, both now and… then. Know that it was, and is, necessary for me. Despite what it has caused.</p>
<p>Love,</p>
<p>Your father.</p>
<hr/>
<p><em>“Throw me daddy!”</em></p>
<p><em>“Oh, I don't know, mommy gets nervous when I throw you high…”</em></p>
<p><em>“Throw me, throw me, throwmethrowmethrowme-”</em></p>
<p><em>“Ok, ok, slavedriver…”</em></p>
<p><em>She shrieked, suddenly launched in to the air, sailing up several feet, coming down in a blur of hair and laughter, squealing anew as she made the journey again, begging “Higher, higher” in breathless gasps. She smiled, so trusting and small, sailing</em></p>
<p><strong>Doctor?</strong></p>
<p><em>Sailing down, wanting to spin now, arms exhausted, but unable to resist, spinning the tiny girl.</em></p>
<p><em>“Faster daddy, faster!”</em></p>
<p><strong>Doctor?</strong></p>
<p><em>“Watch me daddy!”</em></p>
<p><strong>…Yes?</strong></p>
<p><strong>Doctor, you've been requested in conference room eight. Containment review meeting.</strong></p>
<p><strong>…I will proceed there immediately.</strong></p>
<hr/>
<p><em>Does a mind bend…</em><br/>
<a href="/work-journal-2">Work Journal 2</a></p>
<p><em>Or does it break?</em><br/>
<a href="/opening-moves">Opening Moves</a></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/splinters">Splinters</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/splinters">https://scpwiki.com/splinters</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
**Communication Intercept:**
> Document recovered leaving the central mailing service at Site 4. Letter appears to have somehow bypassed basic screening services, and was picked up only by the hand-sorting staff shortly before delivery, as they noticed the lack of proper post-screening stamps.
>
> It is unlikely that the letter was intentionally set to bypass security measures; however, Site Security is reviewing security footage, and re-evaluating the communication screening procedure.
>
> Letter content has been attached to this report for later security review as/if needed. Original letter destroyed due to security clearance restriction conflict.
Dear Alison,
Please forgive the lateness of my letter. You may remember that my work has often kept me from standard daily activities, and with my current employment it has been doubly so. Months and years have a disturbing tendency to blur as one grows older.
I do not think any apology will be adequate for my sudden departure, however. I am sure it was a confusing time for you and your mother, more so for her as you were very young at the time, if I remember correctly. I was called away right after the... troubles reached something of a peak, and I imagine she was very distressed at my sudden absence.
I write now due to an article I recently encountered, dealing with theoretical space-time anomalies. While insightful and well explained, the most glaring portion of the article was the section identifying the author as yourself.
I can see that you are following the lines of research I myself was exploring before my... departure. I must advise you against this. Whether it comes from your genuine curiosity, or an attempt to find me via backtracking my work, it would be advisable to abandon this plan of action. I have followed it to the end, and am now... not where I would wish you to be.
Seek other fields of study. Stay away from the corners and dim edges of reality. Turn your focus to more practical and basic ends.
Forgive my bluntness, both now and... then. Know that it was, and is, necessary for me. Despite what it has caused.
Love,
Your father.
------
//“Throw me daddy!”//
//“Oh, I don't know, mommy gets nervous when I throw you high...”//
//“Throw me, throw me, throwmethrowmethrowme-”//
//“Ok, ok, slavedriver...”//
//She shrieked, suddenly launched in to the air, sailing up several feet, coming down in a blur of hair and laughter, squealing anew as she made the journey again, begging “Higher, higher” in breathless gasps. She smiled, so trusting and small, sailing//
**Doctor?**
//Sailing down, wanting to spin now, arms exhausted, but unable to resist, spinning the tiny girl.//
//“Faster daddy, faster!”//
**Doctor?**
//“Watch me daddy!”//
**...Yes?**
**Doctor, you've been requested in conference room eight. Containment review meeting.**
**...I will proceed there immediately.**
------
//Does a mind bend...//
[[[Work Journal 2]]]
//Or does it break?//
[[[Opening Moves]]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-06T14:18:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"black-queen",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Splinters - SCP Foundation | 82 | [
"work-journal-2",
"opening-moves",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"the-black-queen",
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"black-queen-hub"
] | [] | 12169180 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/splinters |
|
spring-cleaning | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: TNO-10000<br/>
Description: A short bronze sword, a cashew-shaped jade magatama bead pierced with a hole, and a circular mirror bearing an eight-pointed star design.<br/>
Recovery: Nagoya, Tokyo and Ise, Japan</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation:EXC-410<br/>
Description: A long iron sword, rusted and deeply scratched, constructed in the Welsh or Mercian style, c. 5th century. The haft was evidently encrusted with diamonds, topazes and jacinth, most of which are now missing. The legend "R.ART" is inscribed on the hilt, and the word "caledfwlch" is inscribed in smaller lettering on the blade, near the hilt.<br/>
Recovery: Dozmary Pool, Cornwall, United Kingdom</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: SeZ-08<br/>
Description: A curved sword in the Persian style, decorated with emeralds.<br/>
Recovery: Zahrgiah, Iran</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation:MJL-436<br/>
Description: A heavy iron hammer with a short handle.<br/>
Recovery: Trøndelag, Norway</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation:PRN-881<br/>
Description: A bronze axe head, decorated with zig-zag markings and an inscription in proto-Slavic glyphs. There is a knob-like protrusion on the bottom of the axe head, and a hole drilled through the axe.<br/>
Recovery: Peryn island near Novgorod, Russia</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation:ZFQ-329<br/>
Description: Double-pointed curved scimitar in the Arabic style.<br/>
Recovery: Samarra, Iraq</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation:DRK-1596<br/>
Description: A snare drum, decorated with a heraldic coat-of-arms. Drum is dated to the late 16th century, and bears evidence of salt contamination consistent with long exposure to maritime environment.<br/>
Recovery: Buckland Abbey, England</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Are the swords even sharp?” “Not really, Doc.” “Just… just throw that crap in the dumpster, then. Keep the valuable-looking gems.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>The staff at Site-33 seemed to think that they had a keen wit when it came to nicknames. Site-33 itself, of course, was “Rolling Rock”. Its director, the bearded, bespectacled Dr. Sanders, was “the Colonel” (though never to his face). And the building designated General Non-Anomalous Testing and Containment (GNATC) was “Granny’s Attic”. If the Foundation was in possession of a specimen or an object that turned out to not be anomalous-that is to say, safer than Safe-well, it generally ended up in the Attic.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: BDH-483<br/>
Description: A human left canine tooth, with trace amounts of ash of burnt sandalwood and pork proteins.<br/>
Recovery: Kandy, Sri Lanka</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Who even brought that thing here, the tooth fairy? Trash, trash.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>In theory, things in the Attic (being non-anomalous and therefore not interesting) would eventually be processed in one way or another. That glowing worm that turned out to be a bioluminescent animal unknown to science but otherwise uninteresting? Released back into the cave where it had been found. That tour bus of Mexican pilgrims to Guadalupe who had been contained on suspicion of having been infected by a dangerous meme? Heavily dosed with amnestics and dropped off at the roadside. Who knows, maybe some of them made it back home to the loved ones who had last seen them eleven years ago.</p>
<p>In theory. In practice, processing non-anomalous items was the kind of duty that none of the Site-33 researchers seemed to ever really get around to doing. There was too much interesting work to be done on the SCP-level objects, you see. And so, an object in the Attic tended to stay in the Attic.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: HFR-019<br/>
Description: A live, healthy, unblemished cow, red in color. All of the cow's hairs are absolutely straight.<br/>
Recovery: ██████, Israel</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Anybody want a burger?”</p>
<hr/>
<p>On February 7, Dr. Jerome Savonarola found himself in the Penalty Box. The PB (officially, the “Processing Bureau”) was the office charged with running the Attic. This office was normally vacant, but from time to time the Colonel would assign personnel there, more as penance or to get someone out of the way than in order to ensure the fulfillment of the duties of that office. In this case, Savonarola had (according to the Colonel) bungled the containment protocol of Site-33’s colony of SCP-831. (“How was I supposed to know that D-29934 had a loose dental filling?”). Before the napalm had even been hosed away, it was “off to the PB with you, Jerry. Maybe a tour of duty in the Attic for a few weeks will remind you to follow protocol to the letter.”</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: ANG-1430-G<br/>
Description: A handwritten manuscript, written in the Punjabi language in Gurmukhī script and dating from the 16th-18th centuries.<br/>
Recovery: Amritsar, India</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: MHM-PBUH-J<br/>
Description: A single leather sandal with two straps. Footwear dated to c. 7th century.<br/>
Recovery: Topkapı Palace, Turkey. Replaced with replica.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: VSNU-08<br/>
Description: A white conch shell decorated with a representation of the Hindu god Vishnu.<br/>
Recovery: Travancore, India.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: DFSH-KV-6<br/>
Description: A purple leather-backed cloth flag, bearing a star-shaped emblem. There are traces of adhesives indicating that gemstones or minerals, now missing, were once affixed to the flag.<br/>
Recovery: Qadisiyyah, Iraq</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: IAGO-859<br/>
Description: A swallow-tailed canvas banner, suspended from a crossbar in an identical manner to the ancient Roman vexillum. The banner was probably originally white in color but is heavily soiled.<br/>
Recovery: Santiago de Compostela, Spain</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: ARGO-001<br/>
Description: A sheepskin dated to the 8th century BCE, the wool intact being yellowish in color. The sheepskin indicates that the ram had anatomical irregularities in the region of the scapula.<br/>
Recovery: Colchis, Republic of Georgia</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Scribble-scrabble, a stinky shoe, rags and a wad of wool. Ugh. Pitch ‘em.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Protocol to the letter. Have it your way, Colonel. As long as I’m here, I’ll follow the GNATC manual to the literal letter, just like that old passive-aggressive soldiers’ trick for coping with a martinet of an officer. Particularly, Procedure TRS-β, which expressly requires the Site PB duty officer the duty to “expeditiously process GNATC items with a view towards minimizing expenses of continued maintenance and storage.” If they want me to take out the trash, that’s what I’ll do.</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: LNG-1022-K<br/>
Description: A Roman spear, dated to c. 1st century. The blade of the spear is surrounded by a golden sleeve bearing Latin text and affixing an iron nail to the blade.<br/>
Recovery: Schatzkammer, Vienna. Replaced with replica.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: QAB-0007-B<br/>
Description: A collection of mineral fragments, approximately 20 cm x 16 cm, cemented together and encased in a roughly elliptical silver frame. The fragments are black in color and composed of agate with trace amounts of iron. Analysis suggests that the fragments are meteoric or impactite in origin.<br/>
Recovery: █████, Arabia. Replaced with replica.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: ARJ-1000-503-580-500-100-L<br/>
Description: A bow, decorated with gold embossment and with faintly luminescent ends. A Sanskrit inscription near the grip bears the word "Gāṇḍīva".<br/>
Recovery: Kurukshetra, India</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: EIR-TUA-THA<br/>
Description: A pillar-shaped stone approximately 1.5 meters in height, an iron cauldron, a spear with an integrated sling for firing small stones, and an iron sword.<br/>
Recovery: Tara, Ireland</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: HYK-492<br/>
Description: An oversized arrow in the Armenian style, with bronze head<br/>
Recovery: Dyutsaznamart, Turkey</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: SOL-KTM<br/>
Description: An iron signet ring, hexagrammatic in form.<br/>
Recovery: Temple Mount, Jerusalem</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: KSMR-ZOR<br/>
Description: A living branch cutting of a cypress tree.<br/>
Recovery: Razavi Khorasan, Iran</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: FLAM-001<br/>
Description: Vessels of various sizes, each containing a reddish powder, largely comprised of a rare isotope of mercury.<br/>
Recovery: Various locations including the cornerstone of Temple Mount, Jerusalem, and the crypt of the Dominican church of St. Andreas, Cologne, Germany.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: JMSH-062<br/>
Description: Brass and crystal cup with a reflective basin, decorated in the Achaemenid style.<br/>
Recovery: Persepolis, Iran.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: SHI-0259-C<br/>
Description: White jade seal, dated to third century B.C. The seal is square, with one corner chipped off and restored with gold. The words "Having received the Mandate from Heaven, may he lead a long and prosperous life" are inscribed on the seal in an archaic form of Chinese seal script.<br/>
Recovery: ███████, China.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Sticks and stones. Charming. Dumpster. Keep the gold, though.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>As it turned out, the Penalty Box could be surprisingly cathartic. A few more dumpster-loads, and there’d be nearly enough room in here for a squash court.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: MOR-1823-I<br/>
Description: A collection of rectangular plates, approximately 26 kg in total mass. The plates are comprised of gold and are extensively inscribed in a dialect of Egyptian used in the Western hemisphere between approximately 2600 BCE and 421 CE.<br/>
Recovery: Cumorah, New York.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Gold, again. More of it, this time. Melt it down, and put the resulting ingots in the trunk of my car. I, er, have some research in mind.”</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: INRH-27-32-66-D<br/>
Description: A collection of fragments of cedar, pine and cypress wood which, when re-assembled, comprise two beams, the first being approximately 3.7 meters in length and the second being approximately 2 meters in length, with the two beams having an aggregate mass of approximately 75 kg. The collection also includes iron nails. There is residue of vinegar and human blood on the nails and some of the wood fragments, with the blood matching that from CLX-1337-A.<br/>
Recovery: Various locations. Largest single fragment recovered from Gishen Mariam, Ethiopia.</em></p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p><em>Designation: CLX-1337-A<br/>
Description: An olive wood cup, dated to 1st century B.C. Analysis indicates trace residue of Levantine grape wine, myrrh and human blood in the cup. An Aramaic-language inscription reads "Joseph of Arimathea". The letters "GALAH" appear roughly carved near the base, with the style of lettering indicating a pre-Norman British origin.<br/>
Recovery: [DATA REDACTED]</em></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Incinerator. Why are you looking at me like that?”</p>
<hr/>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/spring-cleaning">Spring Cleaning</a>" by spikebrennan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/spring-cleaning">https://scpwiki.com/spring-cleaning</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> //Designation: TNO-10000
> Description: A short bronze sword, a cashew-shaped jade magatama bead pierced with a hole, and a circular mirror bearing an eight-pointed star design.
> Recovery: Nagoya, Tokyo and Ise, Japan//
> //Designation:EXC-410
> Description: A long iron sword, rusted and deeply scratched, constructed in the Welsh or Mercian style, c. 5th century. The haft was evidently encrusted with diamonds, topazes and jacinth, most of which are now missing. The legend "R.ART" is inscribed on the hilt, and the word "caledfwlch" is inscribed in smaller lettering on the blade, near the hilt.
> Recovery: Dozmary Pool, Cornwall, United Kingdom//
> //Designation: SeZ-08
> Description: A curved sword in the Persian style, decorated with emeralds.
> Recovery: Zahrgiah, Iran//
> //Designation:MJL-436
> Description: A heavy iron hammer with a short handle.
> Recovery: Trøndelag, Norway//
> //Designation:PRN-881
> Description: A bronze axe head, decorated with zig-zag markings and an inscription in proto-Slavic glyphs. There is a knob-like protrusion on the bottom of the axe head, and a hole drilled through the axe.
> Recovery: Peryn island near Novgorod, Russia//
> //Designation:ZFQ-329
> Description: Double-pointed curved scimitar in the Arabic style.
> Recovery: Samarra, Iraq//
> //Designation:DRK-1596
> Description: A snare drum, decorated with a heraldic coat-of-arms. Drum is dated to the late 16th century, and bears evidence of salt contamination consistent with long exposure to maritime environment.
> Recovery: Buckland Abbey, England//
“Are the swords even sharp?” “Not really, Doc.” “Just… just throw that crap in the dumpster, then. Keep the valuable-looking gems.”
------
The staff at Site-33 seemed to think that they had a keen wit when it came to nicknames. Site-33 itself, of course, was “Rolling Rock”. Its director, the bearded, bespectacled Dr. Sanders, was “the Colonel” (though never to his face). And the building designated General Non-Anomalous Testing and Containment (GNATC) was “Granny’s Attic”. If the Foundation was in possession of a specimen or an object that turned out to not be anomalous-that is to say, safer than Safe-well, it generally ended up in the Attic.
------
> //Designation: BDH-483
> Description: A human left canine tooth, with trace amounts of ash of burnt sandalwood and pork proteins.
> Recovery: Kandy, Sri Lanka//
“Who even brought that thing here, the tooth fairy? Trash, trash.”
------
In theory, things in the Attic (being non-anomalous and therefore not interesting) would eventually be processed in one way or another. That glowing worm that turned out to be a bioluminescent animal unknown to science but otherwise uninteresting? Released back into the cave where it had been found. That tour bus of Mexican pilgrims to Guadalupe who had been contained on suspicion of having been infected by a dangerous meme? Heavily dosed with amnestics and dropped off at the roadside. Who knows, maybe some of them made it back home to the loved ones who had last seen them eleven years ago.
In theory. In practice, processing non-anomalous items was the kind of duty that none of the Site-33 researchers seemed to ever really get around to doing. There was too much interesting work to be done on the SCP-level objects, you see. And so, an object in the Attic tended to stay in the Attic.
------
> //Designation: HFR-019
> Description: A live, healthy, unblemished cow, red in color. All of the cow's hairs are absolutely straight.
> Recovery: ██████, Israel//
“Anybody want a burger?”
------
On February 7, Dr. Jerome Savonarola found himself in the Penalty Box. The PB (officially, the “Processing Bureau”) was the office charged with running the Attic. This office was normally vacant, but from time to time the Colonel would assign personnel there, more as penance or to get someone out of the way than in order to ensure the fulfillment of the duties of that office. In this case, Savonarola had (according to the Colonel) bungled the containment protocol of Site-33’s colony of SCP-831. (“How was I supposed to know that D-29934 had a loose dental filling?”). Before the napalm had even been hosed away, it was “off to the PB with you, Jerry. Maybe a tour of duty in the Attic for a few weeks will remind you to follow protocol to the letter.”
------
> //Designation: ANG-1430-G
> Description: A handwritten manuscript, written in the Punjabi language in Gurmukhī script and dating from the 16th-18th centuries.
> Recovery: Amritsar, India//
> //Designation: MHM-PBUH-J
> Description: A single leather sandal with two straps. Footwear dated to c. 7th century.
> Recovery: Topkapı Palace, Turkey. Replaced with replica.//
> //Designation: VSNU-08
> Description: A white conch shell decorated with a representation of the Hindu god Vishnu.
> Recovery: Travancore, India.//
> //Designation: DFSH-KV-6
> Description: A purple leather-backed cloth flag, bearing a star-shaped emblem. There are traces of adhesives indicating that gemstones or minerals, now missing, were once affixed to the flag.
> Recovery: Qadisiyyah, Iraq//
> //Designation: IAGO-859
> Description: A swallow-tailed canvas banner, suspended from a crossbar in an identical manner to the ancient Roman vexillum. The banner was probably originally white in color but is heavily soiled.
> Recovery: Santiago de Compostela, Spain//
> //Designation: ARGO-001
> Description: A sheepskin dated to the 8th century BCE, the wool intact being yellowish in color. The sheepskin indicates that the ram had anatomical irregularities in the region of the scapula.
> Recovery: Colchis, Republic of Georgia//
“Scribble-scrabble, a stinky shoe, rags and a wad of wool. Ugh. Pitch ‘em.”
------
Protocol to the letter. Have it your way, Colonel. As long as I’m here, I’ll follow the GNATC manual to the literal letter, just like that old passive-aggressive soldiers’ trick for coping with a martinet of an officer. Particularly, Procedure TRS-β, which expressly requires the Site PB duty officer the duty to “expeditiously process GNATC items with a view towards minimizing expenses of continued maintenance and storage.” If they want me to take out the trash, that’s what I’ll do.
------
> //Designation: LNG-1022-K
> Description: A Roman spear, dated to c. 1st century. The blade of the spear is surrounded by a golden sleeve bearing Latin text and affixing an iron nail to the blade.
> Recovery: Schatzkammer, Vienna. Replaced with replica.//
> //Designation: QAB-0007-B
> Description: A collection of mineral fragments, approximately 20 cm x 16 cm, cemented together and encased in a roughly elliptical silver frame. The fragments are black in color and composed of agate with trace amounts of iron. Analysis suggests that the fragments are meteoric or impactite in origin.
> Recovery: █████, Arabia. Replaced with replica.//
> //Designation: ARJ-1000-503-580-500-100-L
> Description: A bow, decorated with gold embossment and with faintly luminescent ends. A Sanskrit inscription near the grip bears the word "Gāṇḍīva".
> Recovery: Kurukshetra, India//
> //Designation: EIR-TUA-THA
> Description: A pillar-shaped stone approximately 1.5 meters in height, an iron cauldron, a spear with an integrated sling for firing small stones, and an iron sword.
> Recovery: Tara, Ireland//
> //Designation: HYK-492
> Description: An oversized arrow in the Armenian style, with bronze head
> Recovery: Dyutsaznamart, Turkey//
> //Designation: SOL-KTM
> Description: An iron signet ring, hexagrammatic in form.
> Recovery: Temple Mount, Jerusalem//
> //Designation: KSMR-ZOR
> Description: A living branch cutting of a cypress tree.
> Recovery: Razavi Khorasan, Iran//
> //Designation: FLAM-001
> Description: Vessels of various sizes, each containing a reddish powder, largely comprised of a rare isotope of mercury.
> Recovery: Various locations including the cornerstone of Temple Mount, Jerusalem, and the crypt of the Dominican church of St. Andreas, Cologne, Germany.//
> //Designation: JMSH-062
> Description: Brass and crystal cup with a reflective basin, decorated in the Achaemenid style.
> Recovery: Persepolis, Iran.//
> //Designation: SHI-0259-C
> Description: White jade seal, dated to third century B.C. The seal is square, with one corner chipped off and restored with gold. The words "Having received the Mandate from Heaven, may he lead a long and prosperous life" are inscribed on the seal in an archaic form of Chinese seal script.
> Recovery: ███████, China.//
“Sticks and stones. Charming. Dumpster. Keep the gold, though.”
------
As it turned out, the Penalty Box could be surprisingly cathartic. A few more dumpster-loads, and there’d be nearly enough room in here for a squash court.
> //Designation: MOR-1823-I
> Description: A collection of rectangular plates, approximately 26 kg in total mass. The plates are comprised of gold and are extensively inscribed in a dialect of Egyptian used in the Western hemisphere between approximately 2600 BCE and 421 CE.
> Recovery: Cumorah, New York.//
“Gold, again. More of it, this time. Melt it down, and put the resulting ingots in the trunk of my car. I, er, have some research in mind.”
------
> //Designation: INRH-27-32-66-D
> Description: A collection of fragments of cedar, pine and cypress wood which, when re-assembled, comprise two beams, the first being approximately 3.7 meters in length and the second being approximately 2 meters in length, with the two beams having an aggregate mass of approximately 75 kg. The collection also includes iron nails. There is residue of vinegar and human blood on the nails and some of the wood fragments, with the blood matching that from CLX-1337-A.
> Recovery: Various locations. Largest single fragment recovered from Gishen Mariam, Ethiopia.//
> //Designation: CLX-1337-A
> Description: An olive wood cup, dated to 1st century B.C. Analysis indicates trace residue of Levantine grape wine, myrrh and human blood in the cup. An Aramaic-language inscription reads "Joseph of Arimathea". The letters "GALAH" appear roughly carved near the base, with the style of lettering indicating a pre-Norman British origin.
> Recovery: [DATA REDACTED]//
“Incinerator. Why are you looking at me like that?”
[[include <a href="http://scp-sandbox-3.wikidot.com/more-by-spike-alt">:scp-sandbox-3:more-by-spike-alt</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-08T04:35:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"comedy",
"religious-fiction",
"slice-of-life",
"tale"
] | Spring Cleaning - SCP Foundation | 150 | [
"scp-1322",
"scp-089",
"spikebrennan-s-proposal",
"scp-1844",
"scp-1012",
"scp-2553",
"scp-1036",
"scp-1512",
"scp-1746",
"scp-908",
"scp-831",
"scp-3236",
"scp-2336",
"scp-955",
"scp-926",
"scp-2236",
"scp-920-ex",
"scp-2914",
"scp-2008-j",
"scp-4436",
"scp-4336",
"scp-1060",
"sic-transit-gloria-mundi",
"transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972",
"transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991",
"memorandum-dated-6-november-1944",
"scroll-fragment-13q29",
"stray-katz",
"ad-majorem-bonum",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11844060 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/spring-cleaning |
|
sunday-service | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
<span style="font-size:0%;">Written by Sabituski </span><br/>
She hugs the stuffed rabbit close to her and watches the procession go by. Her mother shoots her the briefest of looks, and drops her offering on the table. The tiny coins clink in the iron dish, the pipe organ plays a handful of solemn notes, the seats creak as all the others sits back down, and then everything is still and silent as the fat man on the podium inhales enough air to get his disgusting, reedy voice working.
<p>“Brothers and Sisters, let us bow our heads in prayer.”</p>
<p>The little girl hesitates a moment, before her mother grabs the back of her head and forces her down.</p>
<p>“…And behold, The Lord spoke unto me, in a voice both soft and terrible, but was silent to the unbeliever. The Lord spoke 'Come', and I did, and I was afraid and fell to my knees, weeping. I rose my hands, and asked 'O, mighty Lord, what has become of thy body? Why have you been undone?' The Lord said unto me 'Go, and restore me to glory, and I shall restore you in turn'. The voice of God spoke to my heart, and I wept at both the Glory and the Shame of The Heart of our Lord! Thus I came to know his Heart and his Word, and I swore the blood of my family in his service! Amen!” The man at the podium's voice is almost a screech by the time he finishes, overcome with emotion and religious fervor.</p>
<p>“Amen,” the crowd roars back. An old man in the pew to the left of the girl stamps his feet. The girl opens a single cautious eye and stares at the mass of clockwork jutting out of his legs for a minute before her mother applies more pressure and she's quickly forced to shut her eyes again.</p>
<p>“Brothers and Sisters!” The laugh and smile enters the preacher's voice. “Raise your heads. This is not a time for weeping and gnashing of teeth. This is a day of celebration.”</p>
<p>The congregation cautiously raises their heads; they've been tested in this way before. Even the young girl remembers the time when the Father announced a 'Trial of Faith' and had those who looked up after the opening prayer killed.</p>
<p>“Rise, rise! Look and rejoice, people of the Steel. A month ago, the Faithful found a hated… Foundation…”</p>
<p>Here, he stops and spits on the floor. A few of the older members of the Church do as well.</p>
<p>“Foundation agent snooping around our abbey! Bring him in, Brother Adjutants.”</p>
<p>Two men in flowing black robes and face masks made of iron enter from a back room, slamming aside a large oak door and dragging a man in rags. In their free hands they carry cruel spears. The girl makes a tiny noise of fear before her mother slaps her on the thigh, making her jump slightly.</p>
<p>The congregation laughs when the man, hunched with pain and hunger, stumbles on the stairs up to the stage and podium. His ragged beard speaks of long days in captivity, and his blue eyes burn with a cool flame of anger.</p>
<p>The Father stands and flourishes his robe. “Now, rather than have our practiced Adjutants end this dog's life, High Priest Frick would like us to use this heretic as a trial for the newest and youngest member of our order. Young Lady Tau, please come here.”</p>
<p>The little girl – the Lady Tau in question – freezes. She hugs the rabbit as close to her chest as possible. Her mother shoots her a half-smile, pleased with her. She tugs the rabbit out of her grasp, and shoos her into the aisle.</p>
<p>Tau just stands there. Her mother utters a chuckle.</p>
<p>“She is nervous.”</p>
<p>The congregation laughs, and the fat priest's smile grows wider. He extends a hand in the direction of the girl.</p>
<p>“Come, child.”</p>
<p>She slowly advances, going around and up the stairs, and then reluctantly takes the man's hand. Here, she can hear the heavy breathing of the men in the masks behind her.</p>
<p>“Today, we welcome Lady Tau into the Order of the Black Cog, and that of The Broken God.”</p>
<p>He turns, still smiling, and nods to one of the masked men. “Do it.”</p>
<p>The Adjutant nods, and crouches down behind Tau. She turns, and the man's spear is dropped into her hands, nearly knocking her over.</p>
<p>The priest crouches down as well and whispers in her ear. “Do your duty to your God.”</p>
<p>Everyone on the stage backs away from Tau. Suddenly, she is acutely aware of both the ragged man on his knees in front of her and his hazy breath.</p>
<p>He looks at her. She stares back.</p>
<p>He speaks. “Look me in the eye.”</p>
<p>She does so.</p>
<p>“Now.”</p>
<p>He nods at her, resigned.</p>
<p>“Kill me. Or they will kill you.”</p>
<p>There is a pregnant silence, an intake of breath. Tau looks down at the weapon in her hands, then at the man again. He closes his eyes, mumbles a few words, and then inhales, waiting.</p>
<p>She clumsily thrusts the spear into his stomach. He winces, gapes, then moans. Tau flinches. She withdraws, stabs again, this time slightly higher. Blood leaks from between the wounds and he coughs, spattering Tau's white dress with red. She realizes she must have hit him in a lung.</p>
<p>He falls, cold blue eyes glassing up. Tau looks down at the spear in her hands, before the man in the mask reappears and takes it from her. He pats her on the back, as if he were burping a child.</p>
<p>Somewhere, far away, she hears the priest's voice, echoing over the silence in the room and in her head.</p>
<p>“Lo, behold and tremble, for this is the least terrible fate of the Betrayer. To betray The Lord is to bring wrath of both the People and the Body of God, and both will seek holy and terrible vengeance…”<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/sunday-service">Sunday Service</a>" by Sabitsuki, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/sunday-service">https://scpwiki.com/sunday-service</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
[[size 0%]]Written by Sabituski [[/size]]
She hugs the stuffed rabbit close to her and watches the procession go by. Her mother shoots her the briefest of looks, and drops her offering on the table. The tiny coins clink in the iron dish, the pipe organ plays a handful of solemn notes, the seats creak as all the others sits back down, and then everything is still and silent as the fat man on the podium inhales enough air to get his disgusting, reedy voice working.
“Brothers and Sisters, let us bow our heads in prayer.”
The little girl hesitates a moment, before her mother grabs the back of her head and forces her down.
“…And behold, The Lord spoke unto me, in a voice both soft and terrible, but was silent to the unbeliever. The Lord spoke 'Come', and I did, and I was afraid and fell to my knees, weeping. I rose my hands, and asked 'O, mighty Lord, what has become of thy body? Why have you been undone?' The Lord said unto me 'Go, and restore me to glory, and I shall restore you in turn'. The voice of God spoke to my heart, and I wept at both the Glory and the Shame of The Heart of our Lord! Thus I came to know his Heart and his Word, and I swore the blood of my family in his service! Amen!” The man at the podium's voice is almost a screech by the time he finishes, overcome with emotion and religious fervor.
“Amen,” the crowd roars back. An old man in the pew to the left of the girl stamps his feet. The girl opens a single cautious eye and stares at the mass of clockwork jutting out of his legs for a minute before her mother applies more pressure and she's quickly forced to shut her eyes again.
“Brothers and Sisters!” The laugh and smile enters the preacher's voice. “Raise your heads. This is not a time for weeping and gnashing of teeth. This is a day of celebration.”
The congregation cautiously raises their heads; they've been tested in this way before. Even the young girl remembers the time when the Father announced a 'Trial of Faith' and had those who looked up after the opening prayer killed.
“Rise, rise! Look and rejoice, people of the Steel. A month ago, the Faithful found a hated... Foundation...”
Here, he stops and spits on the floor. A few of the older members of the Church do as well.
“Foundation agent snooping around our abbey! Bring him in, Brother Adjutants.”
Two men in flowing black robes and face masks made of iron enter from a back room, slamming aside a large oak door and dragging a man in rags. In their free hands they carry cruel spears. The girl makes a tiny noise of fear before her mother slaps her on the thigh, making her jump slightly.
The congregation laughs when the man, hunched with pain and hunger, stumbles on the stairs up to the stage and podium. His ragged beard speaks of long days in captivity, and his blue eyes burn with a cool flame of anger.
The Father stands and flourishes his robe. “Now, rather than have our practiced Adjutants end this dog's life, High Priest Frick would like us to use this heretic as a trial for the newest and youngest member of our order. Young Lady Tau, please come here.”
The little girl – the Lady Tau in question – freezes. She hugs the rabbit as close to her chest as possible. Her mother shoots her a half-smile, pleased with her. She tugs the rabbit out of her grasp, and shoos her into the aisle.
Tau just stands there. Her mother utters a chuckle.
“She is nervous.”
The congregation laughs, and the fat priest's smile grows wider. He extends a hand in the direction of the girl.
“Come, child.”
She slowly advances, going around and up the stairs, and then reluctantly takes the man's hand. Here, she can hear the heavy breathing of the men in the masks behind her.
“Today, we welcome Lady Tau into the Order of the Black Cog, and that of The Broken God.”
He turns, still smiling, and nods to one of the masked men. “Do it.”
The Adjutant nods, and crouches down behind Tau. She turns, and the man's spear is dropped into her hands, nearly knocking her over.
The priest crouches down as well and whispers in her ear. “Do your duty to your God.”
Everyone on the stage backs away from Tau. Suddenly, she is acutely aware of both the ragged man on his knees in front of her and his hazy breath.
He looks at her. She stares back.
He speaks. “Look me in the eye.”
She does so.
“Now.”
He nods at her, resigned.
“Kill me. Or they will kill you.”
There is a pregnant silence, an intake of breath. Tau looks down at the weapon in her hands, then at the man again. He closes his eyes, mumbles a few words, and then inhales, waiting.
She clumsily thrusts the spear into his stomach. He winces, gapes, then moans. Tau flinches. She withdraws, stabs again, this time slightly higher. Blood leaks from between the wounds and he coughs, spattering Tau's white dress with red. She realizes she must have hit him in a lung.
He falls, cold blue eyes glassing up. Tau looks down at the spear in her hands, before the man in the mask reappears and takes it from her. He pats her on the back, as if he were burping a child.
Somewhere, far away, she hears the priest's voice, echoing over the silence in the room and in her head.
“Lo, behold and tremble, for this is the least terrible fate of the Betrayer. To betray The Lord is to bring wrath of both the People and the Body of God, and both will seek holy and terrible vengeance...”
@@ @@
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|author=Sabitsuki]]
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| 2011-07-16T07:24:00 | [
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|
surprise-happy-birthday | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p>Ahh, Gears. Good to see you again.</p>
<p>Another year has come and gone. A year older. A year wiser. A year of your youth ground away in the mill of eternity. So, to commemorate this happiest of days: Tales! Tales of horror. Of suspense. Of moral ambiguity and cruelty. Of truncated kindnesses, and missing people, and maybe even a song and dance number. Tales with two faces, stories that don't and do mean at the same time, and the occasional tug at the heart string. Stories of men with needle teeth, or a horse who tells the future, or a duck whose quack echoes. Perhaps a skull who speaks all your fears, the tomb of the Czar's dead wives, or a chandelier made of bones. Who can say? All I can tell you for sure is…</p>
<p>Happy Birthday…! And many more.</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Happy Birthday!</a></div>
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<p>She ran her fingers over the needlework, smiling down at her finished labor. It looked so beautiful, so carefully arranged… And it was. It really, really was.</p>
<p>She’d taken her time with this one. It wasn’t like the dozens of other cross-stitchings she’d worked on over the years, all the samplers and patterns she’d completed and discarded. Box after box of the stupid things were sitting in her attic, all working towards this one. Those were just practice; a past time. This one was a true thing of beauty…</p>
<p>He was still murmuring, still trying to move the tongue that was no longer there. It would have ruined the elegant long-stitches over his lips. Even worse would have been the screaming, but the wires laced through his jaw took care of that. His hands were perfectly stitched together with French loops, looking almost elegant in their flowing pattern. He was beautiful. She smiled softly, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.</p>
<p>“Are you ready, hun? I have to do your eyes next…” she said, stroking the bulge straining at the front of his pants. He looked up at her, blinking for one of the last times, his bright blue eyes looking soft and wet…</p>
<p>And nodded eagerly.</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Kindness</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Happy Birthday!</a></div>
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<p>We'd been deployed to some place in some little country whose name I can't spell. Place used to be part of the Soviet Union before it fell to pieces. We were at a tiny village, just on the crest of a beautiful cliff. At least, it was beautiful if you could ignore the pile of fresh corpses at the bottom.</p>
<p>It was like they had all just up and walked off the edge, like lemmings. Everyone in the village. It was our job to find out why. We went in in full Hazmat suits, to be safe. All the houses were empty, as if their occupants had just stepped out for a while. It was creepy. Only place left was the church. My partner and I drew the short straw, and went in. It was a simple, one-room affair, with a dirt floor. There were some sticks and rocks littered around the altar, so we moved in closer, to check behind it.</p>
<p>That's where we found him.</p>
<p>The poor boy was wearing rags, covered in bruises and cuts, and I realised that there was dried blood on some of the stones and branches around him. He couldn't have been more than seven years old. He looked up at me with the widest, saddest, most terrified eyes I've ever seen. They weren't human eyes. They were too yellow.</p>
<p>He was clawing at his own throat. The boy had wickedly sharp nails, but his tolerance to pain wasn't high enough for him to bring them close enough to sever anything vital. A choked sob escaped him, and those impossibly-wide eyes widened even more. He gasped, and clamped both his bloodied hands over his mouth. That's when I really noticed the feathers. They were growing forward out of his wrists, sticking out over the backs and sides of his hands. Was he what caused this, or was he a victim, too?</p>
<p>“What happened?” I asked in my best Russian, which wan't very good. He shook his head, eyes never leaving mine. My partner was already radioing in for backup and medical assistance.</p>
<p><em>“This is Six. We found… <strong>something</strong> behind the altar. Humanoid. It's injured.”</em></p>
<p>Good old Ashley. Always so cold and professional. I know I should be, too, but… I mean, I can do my job, you know, but sometimes I find myself feeling sorry for the weird creatures we lock up. Some of 'em, anyway. This kid's… <em>almost</em> human… right?</p>
<p>The med fellas came in, along with the rest of the containment team. Emmy had gotten her memo pad out again, probably scribbling down information that was gonna go in the mission report later, when the boy reached out toward her. The kid instantly had at least four guns trained at his head. He shrank back against the side of the altar.</p>
<p>“Dammit, guys!” Eddy – he was one of the med fellas – snapped at them. “I'm <em>trying</em> to bandage this thing's neck, which is <em>kinda hard</em> when it's moving around.”</p>
<p>Emmy must have given the kid an idea, because he started looking around. He picked one of the smaller sticks and started scrawling something in the dirt with it. The scritch-scratch of Emmy's pen doubled in speed, and I could hear her footsteps as she walked around the altar so she can get a better look.</p>
<p>“'Sorry,'” she translated aloud as he wrote. “'Not intend hurt. Scared. Sorry sorry sorry.'” She paused a moment. “The thing's got bad grammar.”</p>
<p>“That's <em>great,</em> Emmy,” Eddy said, although I don't think Emmy picked up the sarcasm, “and I'm happy for ya, but could ya ask it to <em>hold still, dammit</em> so I can save it's life?”</p>
<p>Emmy said something that I <em>think's</em> in Russian, and the kid stopped moving, so I guess he understood. The girl's a freaking savant, I swear. Can speak a bazillion languages, but can't read a situation worth beans, and she was still talking. I think she was asking questions, but the kid wasn't answering.</p>
<p>The flight back started out pretty boring. At least, for everyone that wasn't Emmy. She'd passing notes back and forth with the kid, or something, which I'm sure breaks all sorts of protocols, but from the look that was on her face, it looked like she was getting a pretty good idea of what the hell happened, so maybe she wouldn't get reprimanded too bad. I hope she didn't. She's a sweet girl. Kinda cute. I know I shouldn't be thinking those kinds of things about my co-workers, but she is.</p>
<p>I think everyone was surprised when Emmy suddenly announced that we all had to break out the earplugs, and <em>now</em>. We obeyed, of course. The kid looked like he was about to start crying again at the gesture; I think we hurt his feelings. Now, I'm no scientist or anything, but by this point I was starting to figure that the kid was refusing to talk for a damn good reason. However it happened, it was probably his voice that killed the villagers, and it could probably kill us, too. No-one else seemed inclined to ask Emmy why, so they were probably thinking the same thing.</p>
<p>We handed the kid over to the researchers at Site-██, and Emmy merrily started rattling off to them what she's learned. I was kinda shocked she could be so <em>chipper</em> talking about it, though. What I overheard sounded pretty grim. The villagers had mistaken the kid for a demon when he'd wandered into town looking for food, and were probably trying to exorcise him. When his fear for his own life outweighed his fear of speaking, and he said two words (or, at least, something that translated to two words in English) that, combined with a defensive swing of his arm in what had happened to be in the general direction of the cliff, ultimately led to an entire village of people calmly walking off the ledge to their deaths:</p>
<p>"Go away."</p>
<p>I didn't see the kid again until some years later. I'd had an accident that screwed up my leg too bad for me to go back to field work, and got reassigned to paper-pushing at Site-17. He still had some scars from what he'd done to his neck, but there was also a bigger, cleaner one that looked like it had come from a surgery. Given the fact that he was at Site-17 now, I guessed that they'd probably taken out his vocal cords or something. He smiled and waved at me when he saw me. I waved back.</p>
<p>… My supervisor saw, and I got reassigned before I even had a chance to get my things into my new old desk.</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Unpalatable</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Hope your cake's better</a></div>
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<p>"So what are you doing up here in Saskatchewan?" asked the truck driver. His beard was rather scruffy and he didn't seem too bright, but he was inviting enough, and friendly. He was nice enough to pick up a hitch hiker, at least.</p>
<p>"I'm an investor. I'm heading up north to check out the uranium mines they have going here," I replied, watching the hula girl shake on the driver's dashboard.</p>
<p>"Why didn'tcha take a plane up?" the driver asked.</p>
<p>"Well I was going to but then that hail storm passed over the city and they said no flights would be leaving in 24 hours. I got a meeting up there in…" I checked my watch. "16 hours."</p>
<p>"Well it is nice to see the countryside, eh?" The man's gaze shifted to the sky momentarily.</p>
<p>"Oh yes, it is very nice." I looked up to, only to notice two spinning lights overhead.</p>
<p>"Now what wouldja say that is?" The truck driver could see them too.</p>
<p>"I dunno, maybe a chopper or something?" I gazed at the lights. Odd how they swirled like that. They seemed to get bigger as well.</p>
<p>"Nah, if it were a chopper it'd be making noise." The truck driver frowned. I looked back at the road to see if there were any other vehicles about. No one else on the lone, flat highway.</p>
<p>"Maybe i- Woah shit!" I was interrupted as the truck driver shifted the wheel sideways. I saw a flash of lights. Two lights, spinning I thought. And then the truck careened off the highway and flipped onto its side, leaving myself and the driver suspended sideways as our seat belts held us tight. I looked down to see a smashed hula girl.</p>
<p>"I- augh - I think I broke my arm," the truck driver said.</p>
<p>"Why the fuck did you do that?!" My head hurt.</p>
<p>"The lights came really close and we were about to smash them." The truck driver replied.</p>
<p>"Smash lights?" I asked, but before I could hear an answer I instead heard the sound of smashing glass and a quick ripping noise. I looked up to see the driver gone from his seat and the windshield broken.</p>
<p>I focused through the windshield to see a blob. It was large, red, and for all intents and purposes could only be described as a blob. It had several tendrils extending from its body, one of which was holding onto the driver. And then I heard the sound of smashing glass and I too was suspended in the air by a slimy, red tendril.</p>
<p>"Greetings Earth men!" said the blob, "I am Snozerghaslel, food critic of Snasser. My apologies for crashing your vehicle, but i thought that the best way to incapacitate you!"</p>
<p>I was too shocked to respond. I looked over at the driver to see him similarly surprised. I looked back at the blob.</p>
<p>"Can you hear me? Is my telepathy coming through alright? Hello?" the blob seemed to jiggle a little. For some unknown reason I decided to nod to communicate that its telepathy was, in fact, coming through.</p>
<p>"Ah, good. I thought I should congratulate you, for being the first specimens of a new food craze!" The blob jiggled some more. "I've eaten a few Garfhufians in my lifetime, and even a Cragelisalilian, but I have never eaten an Earthling before."</p>
<p>Sudden fear came over me as I realized what it meant. I squirmed a bit, but to no avail.</p>
<p>"Squirming just serves to wet my appetite, as you will soon learn. Anyways, let's get to it." I watched in terror as the blob opened up a hole in itself that soon filled with what I could only presume to be teeth. He picked up the driver and dropped him in. The driver screamed on the way down then was silenced as the hole closed. I barfed.</p>
<p>"Oooh, hmmm, good texture. Oooh, crunchy center." I could hear a grinding noise and retched again. "Ah, I really enjoy that liquid around the crunchy area. Adds a deep contrast that really keeps the taste-arms waving."</p>
<p>I heard a gulping noise and turned green. Then white as I realized I was up next for taste-testing. "I suppose you're up next, mister squirmy."</p>
<p>The tentacle began to rise up over the mouth-hole, which was once again beginning to open. I screamed. Quite loudly. So loudly the blob had to shake me and tell me to quiet down. I didn't. I had never been as terrified as I was right at that moment.</p>
<p>Then, just as it began to lower me into the mouth-hole, it stopped.</p>
<p>"Oh, wait, what is that after-taste?" The blob paused and smacked its mouth-hole. "Oh, that is wretched. That is absolutely vile. It's like, you know, it's like…" The blob snapped a tendril. "It's like when you get a really, slimy old sucker stuck in your tongue-ball. That is nauseating. Ugh"</p>
<p>The blob then threw me to the ground, slithered to its ship and took off. That night at the uranium site I got the vegetarian burger.</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Coffee Shops</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Here we go...</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>On the corner of Westpoint and Main, there’s a big concrete building painted all sorts of vibrant colours. Across the sides, in big red block letters, are the words “GETOUT”. An unusual sight, set against the offices and banks downtown.</p>
<p>Outside, it looks like some obsessive-compulsive youths took their spray cans in clean strokes to some poor landlord’s warehouse. Inside, the best café in the city. The Get Out, see? Get Out of your house, go see some friends. All kinds of people come around, from businessmen to students. Excellent reviews, wonderful clientele, and the tastiest damn espresso in the area. The owner makes sure of it.</p>
<p>Course, it only really took off a couple years ago. See, the owner, Boakes, he was in competition with his older brother for a while. The Elder Boakes had a fabulous little nook over on Sixth, just called Old Café, a couple streets over. Elder was content with his little coffee shop, over near the apartments. I used to come down every day for a tea. Wonderful atmosphere, not too much different from the Get Out. Bit more cozy, a bit warmer. But I digress. Basically, the Elder Boakes got the talent, where the Younger Boakes got the aspirations.</p>
<p>Anyway, the two of them had a falling out. Shouting matches once a week for months up and down the street. Everyone knew about it. Course, everyone seemed to be on the Elder Boakes’s side. His brother was a bit of a weirdo back then, always angry, you know the type. Rumours said he was some sort of cultist. He doesn’t seem like it any more. He changed a lot.</p>
<p>One day, the Younger Boakes just packed up and left the city. Nobody really missed him, except his brother. He lived above the café; at night, if you passed by right after closing, you might hear him crying upstairs.</p>
<p>A few months after his brother left, the Elder Boakes’s café burned. He was caught inside, the firefighters found his body under some timber. I was actually one of the guys who went in to look for him. I was there, that night that the Old Café went up in smoke.</p>
<p>The next day the Younger Boakes appeared downtown, bought a warehouse, and began work on the Get Out. Completely turned around. His hair cut, he was dressed well, a lot of energy and charisma. Never would have guessed that he was that freak from before. Had a new business partner too, some youngish looking fellow. Never got his name. Long hair, pulled back into a ponytail. Always wore a hat.</p>
<p>… Can I tell you something?</p>
<p>The Elder Boakes… His hands and feet were screwed to a wooden frame. It must have snapped in the heat, the body was folded up like a sandwich. It was horrific. We never let that out, would cause a panic. Nothing like that ever happened before.</p>
<p>I’ve passed by the ruins a few times since, usually walking home from work. One night I turned the corner and I swear, for just a second, I saw that odd guy with the ponytail, under the streetlight, looking at the ruins. I just turned around, went the long way home.</p>
<p>Maybe the name of the Younger Boakes's café is not just some modern marketing gimmick. Maybe it's a warning.</p>
<p>The man had horns.</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Dr. Toxic and Lady Catfish</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Happy birthday, Gears!</a></div>
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<p>Super Marvolo struggles, alone, on the floor of the supervillian's underground laboratory dungeon lair. Bound, trapped, his cape flopping useless on the ground. The chains that bind him are of a dexanite-troinian alloy. The dexanite is one of only three elements in the known universe that he cannot break, and the troinian is slowly sapping his powers and poisoning his blood. He is trapped, with no hope of rescue, unless Marvolo Boy, the Teen Wonder, can escape the deadly electric bear-sharks of Greater Camptos.</p>
<p>But it is not his own life he is truly worried about. Super Marvolo is as selfless as any hero, and the threat to his own life could not possibly motivate him to struggle as hard as he now does against the dexanite-tronian chains. No, this mysterious, unnamed supervillain has kidnapped the unrequited love of his life, Lady Catfish. Even now, this unnamed supervillain could be doing all manner of cruel, unthinkable things to his dear Lady. Super Marvolo could never forgive himself if… if…</p>
<p>Super Marvolo turns all his efforts to breaking his chains. He cannot break them, and yet - he must!</p>
<p>"Super Marvolo!" a hooded figure cackles from the darkness in the shadowy corners of the laboratory dungeon. "We meet again. For the <em>last</em> time."</p>
<p>The hooded man steps slowly from the shadows. The lights illuminate first his mad, toothy grin, then the contours of his face, then his mad, staring eyes. Super Marvolo gasps in astonishment.</p>
<p>"It's … <em>you</em>!" Super Marvolo exclaims. "Dr. Toxic! But you… you were dead! You were shot between the eyes in the Special Crisis of Heroes!"</p>
<p>Dr. Toxic throws back his head and laughs. "So naive, Super Marvolo! Then again, you always were more brawn than brains." Dr. Toxic circles Super Marvolo with menace in his mad eyes. "Did it never occur to you that during the Special Crisis of Heroes, I was teemed up with Snake Goblin, Master of Illiusions? You only saw… what I wanted you to see!"</p>
<p>"So you've been behind this all along!" Super Marvolo stares down Dr. Toxic with his piercing diamond eyes. "What have you done with Lady Catfish!"</p>
<p>Dr. Toxic throws back his head once more, his laughter echoing from the laboratory dungeon rafters. "You cannot even <em>begin</em> to imagine what—-"</p>
<p>The world tilts.</p>
<p>Super Marvolo collapses on the metallic floor, limp, eyes open, staring at nothing, not even breathing. The rats and spiders and moths in the cages that line Dr. Toxic's laboratory freeze and slump over.</p>
<p>The world stops.</p>
<p>Only Dr. Toxic is left moving. The look of mad glee falls from his face and the maniacal smile vanishes.</p>
<p>"Please," Dr. Toxic says. "Please. You don't - you don't know what this is. Please, this won't last long. I've been trapped here for … oh god, I don't know how long anymore."</p>
<p>He glances around, looking for an audience that he cannot see.</p>
<p>"Please, <em>please</em>. You have to help me get out. You have no idea what they've made me do. That woman… what did they call her? Lady Catfish? She's dead. They made me… they made me kill her, dismember her… leave her body parts in this hero's bed… For character development… and… the things they had me do to her, before she died… they made me laugh and they made me <em>like</em> it…"</p>
<p>Dr. Toxic forces back tears. "Their voices in my head, saying this is what audiences want… want the edgy villains… real-world violence so the power fantasy has extra spice…"</p>
<p>The room is silent. Unmoving. Dr. Toxic glances around, panic setting in on his features. "You have to do something," he says. "I'm almost out of time! The things they have me do, every day of my life in here - please, please, I'm begging you— Please!"</p>
<p>The double doors of the laboratory dungeon lair burst open. A figure stands silhouetted in the moonlight - a teenage boy, standing tall, cape billowing behind him.</p>
<p>"Teen Wonder!" Dr. Toxic exclaims. "How can this be? My electric bear sharks should have taken care of you!"</p>
<p>Super Marvolo leaps to his feet. "Quick, Boy Marvolo! Use your Marvel Gun!"</p>
<p>Boy Marvolo whips the oversized gun from behind his back and fires at Super Marvolo. The dexanite-troinian chains vanish in a burst of sparks.</p>
<p>"No!" screams Dr. Toxic. "Impossible! My plan was foolproof! This cannot be happening!"</p>
<p>"Good work, Boy Marvolo!" Super Marvolo shouts. "Now, let's take care of this dastardly villain."</p>
<p>A panel at the top of the laboratory dungeon lair opens, with the sound of an escape helicopter above. Dr. Toxic catches the line that drops through.</p>
<p>"You may have bested me this time, Super Marvolo," Dr. Toxic shouts as he lifts off. "But you haven't seen the last of… Doctor Toxic!"</p>
<p>"I imagine not," Super Marvolo says. "But we'll be ready." Super Marvolo puts his arm around Boy Marvolo. "Now, let's go rescue Lady Catfish."</p>
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<hr/>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Asche Zu Asche</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Yes, I know this is in Russia and that's German. I don't care.</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>We finally made it to the safe zone. At least, it used to be the safe zone. All that was left when we arrived was a heap of rat-gnawed skeletons, and a notice from the military that the next outpost was 200 miles away. The snow was drifting, and the wind bit to the bone. Our masks were freezing over, and our lungs burning. We decided it was time to find somewhere to make camp for the night.</p>
<p>There were four of us. We still barely know each other, even though we've been travelling together for close to 5 years by my reckoning. It's hard to tell with what's happened. Winter never ends with all the shit in the air. We built a small fire and huddled close around it, eating the meager rations we'd dug out of the gray ice. Sergei was up on first watch. The rest of us slept uneventfully. My turn came up last. I woke up early, and told Alexi to go get some sleep. I locked a new magazine in my rifle, and took a seat in the tower, staring into the ashy sunrise</p>
<p>It's been nearly 30 years since we fucked the world. 30 long years since the bombs fell and mankind was wiped off the face of the planet. I don't know how many of us are still alive. For all we know, the last bastion of humanity might have been back in Petrograd, if that's still what they're calling it. Saint Petersburg before the war. God only knows how the name got changed. Not that it was much of a city anymore. The War levelled most of the city, leaving only the outskirts and the Metro intact. That's where we lived, maybe 1000 people trying to survive. Most of us never saw the sky, never stepped outside the tunnels. Too dangerous. Between the mutants and the weather, you could barely survive a day on the surface. The four of us decided to make a break for it. The military frequencies were still broadcasting, promising shelter and safety at an outpost 30 kilometers up the Neva. We made it there in a week, finding nothing but a notice to move to the next location. The past five years we've been chasing these signs and radio signals. From Lake Ladoga to Volgograd and north again. I don't know where we are anymore. We must be in Siberia by now.</p>
<p>Travel is hard even in summer, or what passes for it. It never gets above freezing this far north. Winter stops everything. Six, eight months we have to find a village to hole up in. Try to find an intact house, keep from freezing to death. We hunt for food. Find a feral cow, wild pig if we're lucky. Usually it's mutants. Howlers, we call them. As far as anyone can tell, they were rats before the War. Now they're the size of dogs, and vicious. And talkative. They howl and scream, you can hear it for miles. Not the worst, though. Most of the truly dangerous ones stay in the cities. We don't go in the cities anymore, not after what happened to Vladimir. A pack of these…things came out of the sewers, dragged him off. We don't know what they were. Looked like the bastard offspring of men and apes. We never saw him again.</p>
<p>I returned to the present with the sound of a scream. A howler, probably. Sounded close. I went to check it out, maybe put a bullet in it for breakfast. It seems like the storm had picked up overnight. I could barely see through the snow on my lenses, and even then it was difficult to see more than a few paces. I thought I saw something moving out there in the blizzard, but I could never get close enough to see it properly. I headed back to my post, cursing under my breath. Heading back into camp I noticed everybody else was awake as well. They'd all heard the beasts. I told them to go back to sleep. That's when Natasha screamed. I wheeled around, drawing my rusty old Makarov. There was something hanging from her arm. It looked like a howler. I put a round through its head and it dropped like a stone.</p>
<p>Sergei stepped over and started dressing the wound. We were all confused. Howlers aren't usually hostile like this. I was on edge, gripping my rifle tightly. Suddenly, a rhythmic…chant, or something started up, coming from all around us. Something about it chilled me to the bone. It had a profound inhumanity to it, the worst sound I'd heard since the freight-train roar of the bombs when I was five. Dark silhouettes started appearing through the snow. Seven, eight feet tall, all of them. Arms reaching their knees. They were coming closer, chanting all the while. No…not chanting. Grunting. Deep, guttural sounds.</p>
<p>I took aim at the nearest one and loosed a round. The thing went down, skull shattered. The grunting got louder, and the creatures broke away from each other, swarming us. A hail of gunfire tore them apart. Or that's what we thought. As I approached one, wondering what in God's name had attacked us, it rose again. Howling and spitting, it ran off into the storm. The rest followed. We sat down around the fire, thinking about what we'd just seen. At least a dozen creatures, aggressive and intelligent, and certainly not human. These beings were more advanced than anything we'd seen before, not just mindless animals. Myself and Alexi decided to go look around, see if anything particularly unusual stuck out.</p>
<p>We saw the silhouette of an immense tower in the distance. A cooling tower, from before the war. My god…how far have we come? We started towards it, looking for any sign of where we were. The ruins of a village came into view. No…not ruins. It was inhabited! The cooling stacks were operating, sending pillars of steam into the sky. We rushed towards it, thinking we'd found the “safe zone” at last.</p>
<p>The flap of leathery wings above drew our attention upwards. One of the…things we'd been attacked by earlier was flying overhead. It didn't notice us, and we left it alone. As we entered the village, we noticed it seemed somehow strange, as if it had been rebuilt, but not by humans. Our rifles were in our hands as we closed in on what appeared to be some kind of town square. What we saw there will stick with me for the rest of my life. The things that had attacked us earlier were there. A group of them. Alexi was as shocked as I was. We ran. Somehow they spotted us and gave chase. Alexi was killed almost instantly, one dropped a huge chunk of masonry on him. I fled, running back to the camp. The creatures lost track of me and returned to the village.</p>
<p>The realization struck me as I regained my senses. The group that had attacked us, that we thought had attacked us. They weren't hostile. They were intelligent, looking to welcome us. My god, what have we done? We can't communicate with them, we have no way of changing things. So we ran. Back towards Petrograd, back to our homes. Every day we run. And every night, I'm haunted by the flap of leathery wings over the snowy wastes. I never see them, just hear them. See footprints outside our hiding places. They are hunting us, and there's nothing I can do.</p>
<p>The remaining members of the group, Sergei, Natasha and I have decided we can't risk drawing them back to Petrograd. We make our stand here, at the Cathedral of the Epiphany in Irkutsk. Victory or death!</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Bilocation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">And Light is late to the party!</a></div>
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<p>After the tumor removal, I started to notice I was always being watched. Not by, I don't know, anyone in particular, or friends or people from the hospital, just a hair-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling- night, day, windows open or shut, just a prickle. Since it happened right after the brain surgery, I should have told someone, but by then I'd had enough of scans and doctors and soft serious tones, and diagnoses, and pity, and worst of all, constant company (full of warmth and support and never leaving your side, not once- any proper introvert would hate it. I did) So I didn't panic and didn't tell any of the doctors, not even Dr. Morton, who did the surgery himself.</p>
<p>That didn't really take away the surprise of waking up one morning, and finding someone else in bed next to you.</p>
<p>“The fuck?” I jerked awake and sat up in my PJ's. “Who the hell are you?”</p>
<p>The figure was already sitting up, arms folded, sheets about his waist, and didn't answer.</p>
<p>“I said- how did you get in my house?”</p>
<p>It didn't do anything, even when I yelled at it some more, so eventually I just got dressed and left. Took a little walk, played some Solitaire. The next day, it was still there, but up and moving a little, but still not talking, so I tried not to look at it. Called Rhonda and chatted for a while. Then, the next day, it was in my kitchen when I woke up, doing my dishes.</p>
<p>I turned the coffee pot on and wandered past it towards the table. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“No problem,” the figure said.</p>
<p>I processed this for a little while. “So, this means I'm crazy, now, right?”</p>
<p>“What?” Said the person, attacking a soup pot with a sponge. “No, that's stupid.”</p>
<p>“You weren't here before.”</p>
<p>“I am now.”</p>
<p>“Who are you?”</p>
<p>“Look at me.” He stopped scrubbing and stared at me. He looked just like me.</p>
<p>“…Are you, like, Tyler Durden or something?”</p>
<p>“No. No. Of course not.” He went back to scrubbing, and I shifted a little, suddenly scared. He looked <em>just</em> like me.</p>
<p>The phone rang, and the other-me glanced at it. I got up to answer it. Dr. Morton, in fact, had some results from post-surgery tests- I was, apparently, “right as rain,” and the recovery was going exactly as planned. He promised to call back with in a week.</p>
<p>I hung up, staring at the phone. “Doesn't he bother you?” asked the man in the kitchen.</p>
<p>“What? Why?”</p>
<p>“I don't know. Just bothers me.”</p>
<p>“No,” I said, with some certainty, unconsciously reaching towards the scar on the side of my head, that the hair was just beginning to grow over. “He's nice. Had me listen to his kid's flute recital when I was freaking out about surgery. Hell, he took a tumor out of my head. Cured me.”</p>
<p>“Me too,” said the guy, and pulled his hair out of the way to show me a matching scar. “I just want to kill him.” He picked a knife out of the soapy water of the sink, flipped it around in his hand. “Want to help?”</p>
<p>“What the hell?” I jumped up. “No way. Put that back. You're crazy.”</p>
<p>He sighed and dropped it into the sink. I poured a cup of coffee, practically ran into the living room, and proceeded to watch TV for the next few hours. At one point, I heard the door open and closed. I breathed a sigh of relief.</p>
<p>Still, later, I was feeling kind of weird about whatever had just happened, so I went down to the corner store and bought a six-pack, then later, don't ask me why (though I think it had something to do with the booze plus whatever pills I was on)- ended up calling Suicide Hotline. I wasn't, you know, thinking of anything, but the woman I got, Sarah, and I, ended up having this amazing heart-to-heart, where we talked about all the shit in my life, and what was happening, and what I should do about it.</p>
<p>We actually went on for a few hours, and I learned some things about her too, but by the end, we agreed I was going to call Dr. Morton in the morning and explain everything that happened- since whatever was making me freak out now was probably related to it, and to Crazy Man, and brain surgery was by nature scary and tricky, and these things probably happened to other people. She wished me good luck, and we hung up. I was feeling a lot better when I went to sleep.</p>
<p>When I woke up, Crazy Man wasn't there.</p>
<p>That morning, the phone rang. When I answered it, it was a police officer, saying I was wanted for questioning, regarding the death of- you guessed it- Doctor Jeremy Alfonso Morton, sometime last evening. He had been stabbed seventeen times by his own kitchen knife, and my fingerprints were found on the blade. I told him everything he asked.<br/>
I didn't do it.<br/>
No, I don't have siblings or a twin.<br/>
No, I hadn't left my neighborhood last night.<br/>
Yes, I had an alibi.</p>
<p>And… yup, five days later, I'm going in to testify at court. It'll be fine. My lawyer got Sarah from the SH, plus the clerk from the corner store, and even the desk-worker at my apartment, and all of them are willing to testify that I never left. It <em>is</em> weird, but he assured me, despite the fingerprints, and him being my doctor, it would have been a convenient disguise, and the evidence that I wasn't there is rock solid. They'll be bringing in other people too, it won't be me versus a grand jury.</p>
<p>Because it is, I know. I'm still worried, whatever the lawyer says, I still don't want to go.</p>
<p>I just really don't want to know who I'll see in the stands.</p>
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<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Fiction</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">...this certainly is...</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Anthony sat down at the computer, letting his fingers hover over the keys for a moment, the quiet hum of the computer and the rush of his blood in his head the only sounds in the room… And then he heard them. Clicking. Whirring. Churring and churning and starting. He felt them turn, somewhere in the back of his head, starting up. The gears.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes, his fingers flying across the buttons, slowly putting the words together. He let the idea fall between the spokes, grinding his thoughts to powder… Changing them, rebuilding them. He turned the powder into mortar, then mortar into bricks, and the bricks into the wall. Now, he was putting the man behind it, the senile old man who had been trapped there for decades, slowly going mad, surviving on rats. He wrote about his mad ravings, those that he covered the walls with, that the—</p>
<p>A piecing cry broke his reverie, his eyes shooting open. He stood up and left the room, walking down the short hall to his son’s bed and sat on the side of it, rubbing his back. He whispered quiet words, promising that dreams were just that—awful, terrible, dreams. "It's fine," he murmured. "It's just a shadow…" he said. "Shhh…shhh…." he shushed. All the time, they were clicking. Click, click, click—"…15 milimeters in diameter, the object has been discovered to hold an unquantifiable amount of electricity. Class-D test subjects have been cooked alive in a matter of seconds…"—click, click, click. "They're not real…" he murmured. His son was comforted, even if Anthony himself didn’t believe it.</p>
<p>After all, there <em>were</em> monsters out there.</p>
<p>He got up as his son fell asleep, walking back into the office, sitting back at the computer, and waiting for them to restart. And in a moment, it did, and he fed them his ideas, and this time out poured blood and flesh and a burnt door. The door. That must be important then. He put the door up, built the cage, and started to build the thing behind it, all black flesh and too many teeth. He imagined its life, what it must think, how it must be… How it fed. How it entertained itself.</p>
<p>They were moving smoothly now, lubricated in blood and viscera.</p>
<p>He stopped, looking at it, almost numb. It was gone, now. Out of his head. Exorcised like a demon. And now… He clicked a few times, naming it, uploading it, licking his lips softly as he turned off his computer and closed his eyes in relief. Another demon gone. Another beast contained in words instead of his mind.</p>
<p>Of course there were monsters out there. So many monsters…</p>
<p>He'd made them, after all.</p>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<p>"<a href="/surprise-happy-birthday">Surprise! Happy Birthday!</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/surprise-happy-birthday">https://scpwiki.com/surprise-happy-birthday</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> Ahh, Gears. Good to see you again.
>
> Another year has come and gone. A year older. A year wiser. A year of your youth ground away in the mill of eternity. So, to commemorate this happiest of days: Tales! Tales of horror. Of suspense. Of moral ambiguity and cruelty. Of truncated kindnesses, and missing people, and maybe even a song and dance number. Tales with two faces, stories that don't and do mean at the same time, and the occasional tug at the heart string. Stories of men with needle teeth, or a horse who tells the future, or a duck whose quack echoes. Perhaps a skull who speaks all your fears, the tomb of the Czar's dead wives, or a chandelier made of bones. Who can say? All I can tell you for sure is...
>
> Happy Birthday...! And many more.
-----
[[collapsible show="Stitches" hide="Happy Birthday!"]]
She ran her fingers over the needlework, smiling down at her finished labor. It looked so beautiful, so carefully arranged… And it was. It really, really was.
She’d taken her time with this one. It wasn’t like the dozens of other cross-stitchings she’d worked on over the years, all the samplers and patterns she’d completed and discarded. Box after box of the stupid things were sitting in her attic, all working towards this one. Those were just practice; a past time. This one was a true thing of beauty…
He was still murmuring, still trying to move the tongue that was no longer there. It would have ruined the elegant long-stitches over his lips. Even worse would have been the screaming, but the wires laced through his jaw took care of that. His hands were perfectly stitched together with French loops, looking almost elegant in their flowing pattern. He was beautiful. She smiled softly, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.
“Are you ready, hun? I have to do your eyes next…” she said, stroking the bulge straining at the front of his pants. He looked up at her, blinking for one of the last times, his bright blue eyes looking soft and wet…
And nodded eagerly.
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="Kindness" hide="Happy Birthday!"]]
We'd been deployed to some place in some little country whose name I can't spell. Place used to be part of the Soviet Union before it fell to pieces. We were at a tiny village, just on the crest of a beautiful cliff. At least, it was beautiful if you could ignore the pile of fresh corpses at the bottom.
It was like they had all just up and walked off the edge, like lemmings. Everyone in the village. It was our job to find out why. We went in in full Hazmat suits, to be safe. All the houses were empty, as if their occupants had just stepped out for a while. It was creepy. Only place left was the church. My partner and I drew the short straw, and went in. It was a simple, one-room affair, with a dirt floor. There were some sticks and rocks littered around the altar, so we moved in closer, to check behind it.
That's where we found him.
The poor boy was wearing rags, covered in bruises and cuts, and I realised that there was dried blood on some of the stones and branches around him. He couldn't have been more than seven years old. He looked up at me with the widest, saddest, most terrified eyes I've ever seen. They weren't human eyes. They were too yellow.
He was clawing at his own throat. The boy had wickedly sharp nails, but his tolerance to pain wasn't high enough for him to bring them close enough to sever anything vital. A choked sob escaped him, and those impossibly-wide eyes widened even more. He gasped, and clamped both his bloodied hands over his mouth. That's when I really noticed the feathers. They were growing forward out of his wrists, sticking out over the backs and sides of his hands. Was he what caused this, or was he a victim, too?
“What happened?” I asked in my best Russian, which wan't very good. He shook his head, eyes never leaving mine. My partner was already radioing in for backup and medical assistance.
//“This is Six. We found. . . **something** behind the altar. Humanoid. It's injured.”//
Good old Ashley. Always so cold and professional. I know I should be, too, but. . . I mean, I can do my job, you know, but sometimes I find myself feeling sorry for the weird creatures we lock up. Some of 'em, anyway. This kid's. . . //almost// human. . . right?
The med fellas came in, along with the rest of the containment team. Emmy had gotten her memo pad out again, probably scribbling down information that was gonna go in the mission report later, when the boy reached out toward her. The kid instantly had at least four guns trained at his head. He shrank back against the side of the altar.
“Dammit, guys!” Eddy – he was one of the med fellas – snapped at them. “I'm //trying// to bandage this thing's neck, which is //kinda hard// when it's moving around.”
Emmy must have given the kid an idea, because he started looking around. He picked one of the smaller sticks and started scrawling something in the dirt with it. The scritch-scratch of Emmy's pen doubled in speed, and I could hear her footsteps as she walked around the altar so she can get a better look.
“'Sorry,'” she translated aloud as he wrote. “'Not intend hurt. Scared. Sorry sorry sorry.'” She paused a moment. “The thing's got bad grammar.”
“That's //great,// Emmy,” Eddy said, although I don't think Emmy picked up the sarcasm, “and I'm happy for ya, but could ya ask it to //hold still, dammit// so I can save it's life?”
Emmy said something that I //think's// in Russian, and the kid stopped moving, so I guess he understood. The girl's a freaking savant, I swear. Can speak a bazillion languages, but can't read a situation worth beans, and she was still talking. I think she was asking questions, but the kid wasn't answering.
The flight back started out pretty boring. At least, for everyone that wasn't Emmy. She'd passing notes back and forth with the kid, or something, which I'm sure breaks all sorts of protocols, but from the look that was on her face, it looked like she was getting a pretty good idea of what the hell happened, so maybe she wouldn't get reprimanded too bad. I hope she didn't. She's a sweet girl. Kinda cute. I know I shouldn't be thinking those kinds of things about my co-workers, but she is.
I think everyone was surprised when Emmy suddenly announced that we all had to break out the earplugs, and //now//. We obeyed, of course. The kid looked like he was about to start crying again at the gesture; I think we hurt his feelings. Now, I'm no scientist or anything, but by this point I was starting to figure that the kid was refusing to talk for a damn good reason. However it happened, it was probably his voice that killed the villagers, and it could probably kill us, too. No-one else seemed inclined to ask Emmy why, so they were probably thinking the same thing.
We handed the kid over to the researchers at Site-██, and Emmy merrily started rattling off to them what she's learned. I was kinda shocked she could be so //chipper// talking about it, though. What I overheard sounded pretty grim. The villagers had mistaken the kid for a demon when he'd wandered into town looking for food, and were probably trying to exorcise him. When his fear for his own life outweighed his fear of speaking, and he said two words (or, at least, something that translated to two words in English) that, combined with a defensive swing of his arm in what had happened to be in the general direction of the cliff, ultimately led to an entire village of people calmly walking off the ledge to their deaths:
"Go away."
I didn't see the kid again until some years later. I'd had an accident that screwed up my leg too bad for me to go back to field work, and got reassigned to paper-pushing at Site-17. He still had some scars from what he'd done to his neck, but there was also a bigger, cleaner one that looked like it had come from a surgery. Given the fact that he was at Site-17 now, I guessed that they'd probably taken out his vocal cords or something. He smiled and waved at me when he saw me. I waved back.
. . . My supervisor saw, and I got reassigned before I even had a chance to get my things into my new old desk.
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="Unpalatable" hide="Hope your cake's better"]]
"So what are you doing up here in Saskatchewan?" asked the truck driver. His beard was rather scruffy and he didn't seem too bright, but he was inviting enough, and friendly. He was nice enough to pick up a hitch hiker, at least.
"I'm an investor. I'm heading up north to check out the uranium mines they have going here," I replied, watching the hula girl shake on the driver's dashboard.
"Why didn'tcha take a plane up?" the driver asked.
"Well I was going to but then that hail storm passed over the city and they said no flights would be leaving in 24 hours. I got a meeting up there in..." I checked my watch. "16 hours."
"Well it is nice to see the countryside, eh?" The man's gaze shifted to the sky momentarily.
"Oh yes, it is very nice." I looked up to, only to notice two spinning lights overhead.
"Now what wouldja say that is?" The truck driver could see them too.
"I dunno, maybe a chopper or something?" I gazed at the lights. Odd how they swirled like that. They seemed to get bigger as well.
"Nah, if it were a chopper it'd be making noise." The truck driver frowned. I looked back at the road to see if there were any other vehicles about. No one else on the lone, flat highway.
"Maybe i- Woah shit!" I was interrupted as the truck driver shifted the wheel sideways. I saw a flash of lights. Two lights, spinning I thought. And then the truck careened off the highway and flipped onto its side, leaving myself and the driver suspended sideways as our seat belts held us tight. I looked down to see a smashed hula girl.
"I- augh - I think I broke my arm," the truck driver said.
"Why the fuck did you do that?!" My head hurt.
"The lights came really close and we were about to smash them." The truck driver replied.
"Smash lights?" I asked, but before I could hear an answer I instead heard the sound of smashing glass and a quick ripping noise. I looked up to see the driver gone from his seat and the windshield broken.
I focused through the windshield to see a blob. It was large, red, and for all intents and purposes could only be described as a blob. It had several tendrils extending from its body, one of which was holding onto the driver. And then I heard the sound of smashing glass and I too was suspended in the air by a slimy, red tendril.
"Greetings Earth men!" said the blob, "I am Snozerghaslel, food critic of Snasser. My apologies for crashing your vehicle, but i thought that the best way to incapacitate you!"
I was too shocked to respond. I looked over at the driver to see him similarly surprised. I looked back at the blob.
"Can you hear me? Is my telepathy coming through alright? Hello?" the blob seemed to jiggle a little. For some unknown reason I decided to nod to communicate that its telepathy was, in fact, coming through.
"Ah, good. I thought I should congratulate you, for being the first specimens of a new food craze!" The blob jiggled some more. "I've eaten a few Garfhufians in my lifetime, and even a Cragelisalilian, but I have never eaten an Earthling before."
Sudden fear came over me as I realized what it meant. I squirmed a bit, but to no avail.
"Squirming just serves to wet my appetite, as you will soon learn. Anyways, let's get to it." I watched in terror as the blob opened up a hole in itself that soon filled with what I could only presume to be teeth. He picked up the driver and dropped him in. The driver screamed on the way down then was silenced as the hole closed. I barfed.
"Oooh, hmmm, good texture. Oooh, crunchy center." I could hear a grinding noise and retched again. "Ah, I really enjoy that liquid around the crunchy area. Adds a deep contrast that really keeps the taste-arms waving."
I heard a gulping noise and turned green. Then white as I realized I was up next for taste-testing. "I suppose you're up next, mister squirmy."
The tentacle began to rise up over the mouth-hole, which was once again beginning to open. I screamed. Quite loudly. So loudly the blob had to shake me and tell me to quiet down. I didn't. I had never been as terrified as I was right at that moment.
Then, just as it began to lower me into the mouth-hole, it stopped.
"Oh, wait, what is that after-taste?" The blob paused and smacked its mouth-hole. "Oh, that is wretched. That is absolutely vile. It's like, you know, it's like..." The blob snapped a tendril. "It's like when you get a really, slimy old sucker stuck in your tongue-ball. That is nauseating. Ugh"
The blob then threw me to the ground, slithered to its ship and took off. That night at the uranium site I got the vegetarian burger.[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="Coffee Shops" hide="Here we go..."]]
On the corner of Westpoint and Main, there’s a big concrete building painted all sorts of vibrant colours. Across the sides, in big red block letters, are the words “GETOUT”. An unusual sight, set against the offices and banks downtown.
Outside, it looks like some obsessive-compulsive youths took their spray cans in clean strokes to some poor landlord’s warehouse. Inside, the best café in the city. The Get Out, see? Get Out of your house, go see some friends. All kinds of people come around, from businessmen to students. Excellent reviews, wonderful clientele, and the tastiest damn espresso in the area. The owner makes sure of it.
Course, it only really took off a couple years ago. See, the owner, Boakes, he was in competition with his older brother for a while. The Elder Boakes had a fabulous little nook over on Sixth, just called Old Café, a couple streets over. Elder was content with his little coffee shop, over near the apartments. I used to come down every day for a tea. Wonderful atmosphere, not too much different from the Get Out. Bit more cozy, a bit warmer. But I digress. Basically, the Elder Boakes got the talent, where the Younger Boakes got the aspirations.
Anyway, the two of them had a falling out. Shouting matches once a week for months up and down the street. Everyone knew about it. Course, everyone seemed to be on the Elder Boakes’s side. His brother was a bit of a weirdo back then, always angry, you know the type. Rumours said he was some sort of cultist. He doesn’t seem like it any more. He changed a lot.
One day, the Younger Boakes just packed up and left the city. Nobody really missed him, except his brother. He lived above the café; at night, if you passed by right after closing, you might hear him crying upstairs.
A few months after his brother left, the Elder Boakes’s café burned. He was caught inside, the firefighters found his body under some timber. I was actually one of the guys who went in to look for him. I was there, that night that the Old Café went up in smoke.
The next day the Younger Boakes appeared downtown, bought a warehouse, and began work on the Get Out. Completely turned around. His hair cut, he was dressed well, a lot of energy and charisma. Never would have guessed that he was that freak from before. Had a new business partner too, some youngish looking fellow. Never got his name. Long hair, pulled back into a ponytail. Always wore a hat.
... Can I tell you something?
The Elder Boakes... His hands and feet were screwed to a wooden frame. It must have snapped in the heat, the body was folded up like a sandwich. It was horrific. We never let that out, would cause a panic. Nothing like that ever happened before.
I’ve passed by the ruins a few times since, usually walking home from work. One night I turned the corner and I swear, for just a second, I saw that odd guy with the ponytail, under the streetlight, looking at the ruins. I just turned around, went the long way home.
Maybe the name of the Younger Boakes's café is not just some modern marketing gimmick. Maybe it's a warning.
The man had horns.
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="Dr. Toxic and Lady Catfish" hide="Happy birthday, Gears!"]]
Super Marvolo struggles, alone, on the floor of the supervillian's underground laboratory dungeon lair. Bound, trapped, his cape flopping useless on the ground. The chains that bind him are of a dexanite-troinian alloy. The dexanite is one of only three elements in the known universe that he cannot break, and the troinian is slowly sapping his powers and poisoning his blood. He is trapped, with no hope of rescue, unless Marvolo Boy, the Teen Wonder, can escape the deadly electric bear-sharks of Greater Camptos.
But it is not his own life he is truly worried about. Super Marvolo is as selfless as any hero, and the threat to his own life could not possibly motivate him to struggle as hard as he now does against the dexanite-tronian chains. No, this mysterious, unnamed supervillain has kidnapped the unrequited love of his life, Lady Catfish. Even now, this unnamed supervillain could be doing all manner of cruel, unthinkable things to his dear Lady. Super Marvolo could never forgive himself if... if...
Super Marvolo turns all his efforts to breaking his chains. He cannot break them, and yet - he must!
"Super Marvolo!" a hooded figure cackles from the darkness in the shadowy corners of the laboratory dungeon. "We meet again. For the //last// time."
The hooded man steps slowly from the shadows. The lights illuminate first his mad, toothy grin, then the contours of his face, then his mad, staring eyes. Super Marvolo gasps in astonishment.
"It's ... //you//!" Super Marvolo exclaims. "Dr. Toxic! But you... you were dead! You were shot between the eyes in the Special Crisis of Heroes!"
Dr. Toxic throws back his head and laughs. "So naive, Super Marvolo! Then again, you always were more brawn than brains." Dr. Toxic circles Super Marvolo with menace in his mad eyes. "Did it never occur to you that during the Special Crisis of Heroes, I was teemed up with Snake Goblin, Master of Illiusions? You only saw... what I wanted you to see!"
"So you've been behind this all along!" Super Marvolo stares down Dr. Toxic with his piercing diamond eyes. "What have you done with Lady Catfish!"
Dr. Toxic throws back his head once more, his laughter echoing from the laboratory dungeon rafters. "You cannot even //begin// to imagine what---"
The world tilts.
Super Marvolo collapses on the metallic floor, limp, eyes open, staring at nothing, not even breathing. The rats and spiders and moths in the cages that line Dr. Toxic's laboratory freeze and slump over.
The world stops.
Only Dr. Toxic is left moving. The look of mad glee falls from his face and the maniacal smile vanishes.
"Please," Dr. Toxic says. "Please. You don't - you don't know what this is. Please, this won't last long. I've been trapped here for ... oh god, I don't know how long anymore."
He glances around, looking for an audience that he cannot see.
"Please, //please//. You have to help me get out. You have no idea what they've made me do. That woman... what did they call her? Lady Catfish? She's dead. They made me... they made me kill her, dismember her... leave her body parts in this hero's bed... For character development... and... the things they had me do to her, before she died... they made me laugh and they made me //like// it..."
Dr. Toxic forces back tears. "Their voices in my head, saying this is what audiences want... want the edgy villains... real-world violence so the power fantasy has extra spice..."
The room is silent. Unmoving. Dr. Toxic glances around, panic setting in on his features. "You have to do something," he says. "I'm almost out of time! The things they have me do, every day of my life in here - please, please, I'm begging you-- Please!"
The double doors of the laboratory dungeon lair burst open. A figure stands silhouetted in the moonlight - a teenage boy, standing tall, cape billowing behind him.
"Teen Wonder!" Dr. Toxic exclaims. "How can this be? My electric bear sharks should have taken care of you!"
Super Marvolo leaps to his feet. "Quick, Boy Marvolo! Use your Marvel Gun!"
Boy Marvolo whips the oversized gun from behind his back and fires at Super Marvolo. The dexanite-troinian chains vanish in a burst of sparks.
"No!" screams Dr. Toxic. "Impossible! My plan was foolproof! This cannot be happening!"
"Good work, Boy Marvolo!" Super Marvolo shouts. "Now, let's take care of this dastardly villain."
A panel at the top of the laboratory dungeon lair opens, with the sound of an escape helicopter above. Dr. Toxic catches the line that drops through.
"You may have bested me this time, Super Marvolo," Dr. Toxic shouts as he lifts off. "But you haven't seen the last of... Doctor Toxic!"
"I imagine not," Super Marvolo says. "But we'll be ready." Super Marvolo puts his arm around Boy Marvolo. "Now, let's go rescue Lady Catfish."
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="Asche Zu Asche" hide="Yes, I know this is in Russia and that's German. I don't care."]]
We finally made it to the safe zone. At least, it used to be the safe zone. All that was left when we arrived was a heap of rat-gnawed skeletons, and a notice from the military that the next outpost was 200 miles away. The snow was drifting, and the wind bit to the bone. Our masks were freezing over, and our lungs burning. We decided it was time to find somewhere to make camp for the night.
There were four of us. We still barely know each other, even though we've been travelling together for close to 5 years by my reckoning. It's hard to tell with what's happened. Winter never ends with all the shit in the air. We built a small fire and huddled close around it, eating the meager rations we'd dug out of the gray ice. Sergei was up on first watch. The rest of us slept uneventfully. My turn came up last. I woke up early, and told Alexi to go get some sleep. I locked a new magazine in my rifle, and took a seat in the tower, staring into the ashy sunrise
It's been nearly 30 years since we fucked the world. 30 long years since the bombs fell and mankind was wiped off the face of the planet. I don't know how many of us are still alive. For all we know, the last bastion of humanity might have been back in Petrograd, if that's still what they're calling it. Saint Petersburg before the war. God only knows how the name got changed. Not that it was much of a city anymore. The War levelled most of the city, leaving only the outskirts and the Metro intact. That's where we lived, maybe 1000 people trying to survive. Most of us never saw the sky, never stepped outside the tunnels. Too dangerous. Between the mutants and the weather, you could barely survive a day on the surface. The four of us decided to make a break for it. The military frequencies were still broadcasting, promising shelter and safety at an outpost 30 kilometers up the Neva. We made it there in a week, finding nothing but a notice to move to the next location. The past five years we've been chasing these signs and radio signals. From Lake Ladoga to Volgograd and north again. I don't know where we are anymore. We must be in Siberia by now.
Travel is hard even in summer, or what passes for it. It never gets above freezing this far north. Winter stops everything. Six, eight months we have to find a village to hole up in. Try to find an intact house, keep from freezing to death. We hunt for food. Find a feral cow, wild pig if we're lucky. Usually it's mutants. Howlers, we call them. As far as anyone can tell, they were rats before the War. Now they're the size of dogs, and vicious. And talkative. They howl and scream, you can hear it for miles. Not the worst, though. Most of the truly dangerous ones stay in the cities. We don't go in the cities anymore, not after what happened to Vladimir. A pack of these...things came out of the sewers, dragged him off. We don't know what they were. Looked like the bastard offspring of men and apes. We never saw him again.
I returned to the present with the sound of a scream. A howler, probably. Sounded close. I went to check it out, maybe put a bullet in it for breakfast. It seems like the storm had picked up overnight. I could barely see through the snow on my lenses, and even then it was difficult to see more than a few paces. I thought I saw something moving out there in the blizzard, but I could never get close enough to see it properly. I headed back to my post, cursing under my breath. Heading back into camp I noticed everybody else was awake as well. They'd all heard the beasts. I told them to go back to sleep. That's when Natasha screamed. I wheeled around, drawing my rusty old Makarov. There was something hanging from her arm. It looked like a howler. I put a round through its head and it dropped like a stone.
Sergei stepped over and started dressing the wound. We were all confused. Howlers aren't usually hostile like this. I was on edge, gripping my rifle tightly. Suddenly, a rhythmic...chant, or something started up, coming from all around us. Something about it chilled me to the bone. It had a profound inhumanity to it, the worst sound I'd heard since the freight-train roar of the bombs when I was five. Dark silhouettes started appearing through the snow. Seven, eight feet tall, all of them. Arms reaching their knees. They were coming closer, chanting all the while. No...not chanting. Grunting. Deep, guttural sounds.
I took aim at the nearest one and loosed a round. The thing went down, skull shattered. The grunting got louder, and the creatures broke away from each other, swarming us. A hail of gunfire tore them apart. Or that's what we thought. As I approached one, wondering what in God's name had attacked us, it rose again. Howling and spitting, it ran off into the storm. The rest followed. We sat down around the fire, thinking about what we'd just seen. At least a dozen creatures, aggressive and intelligent, and certainly not human. These beings were more advanced than anything we'd seen before, not just mindless animals. Myself and Alexi decided to go look around, see if anything particularly unusual stuck out.
We saw the silhouette of an immense tower in the distance. A cooling tower, from before the war. My god...how far have we come? We started towards it, looking for any sign of where we were. The ruins of a village came into view. No...not ruins. It was inhabited! The cooling stacks were operating, sending pillars of steam into the sky. We rushed towards it, thinking we'd found the “safe zone” at last.
The flap of leathery wings above drew our attention upwards. One of the...things we'd been attacked by earlier was flying overhead. It didn't notice us, and we left it alone. As we entered the village, we noticed it seemed somehow strange, as if it had been rebuilt, but not by humans. Our rifles were in our hands as we closed in on what appeared to be some kind of town square. What we saw there will stick with me for the rest of my life. The things that had attacked us earlier were there. A group of them. Alexi was as shocked as I was. We ran. Somehow they spotted us and gave chase. Alexi was killed almost instantly, one dropped a huge chunk of masonry on him. I fled, running back to the camp. The creatures lost track of me and returned to the village.
The realization struck me as I regained my senses. The group that had attacked us, that we thought had attacked us. They weren't hostile. They were intelligent, looking to welcome us. My god, what have we done? We can't communicate with them, we have no way of changing things. So we ran. Back towards Petrograd, back to our homes. Every day we run. And every night, I'm haunted by the flap of leathery wings over the snowy wastes. I never see them, just hear them. See footprints outside our hiding places. They are hunting us, and there's nothing I can do.
The remaining members of the group, Sergei, Natasha and I have decided we can't risk drawing them back to Petrograd. We make our stand here, at the Cathedral of the Epiphany in Irkutsk. Victory or death!
[[/collapsible]]
----
[[collapsible show="Bilocation" hide="And Light is late to the party!"]]
After the tumor removal, I started to notice I was always being watched. Not by, I don't know, anyone in particular, or friends or people from the hospital, just a hair-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling- night, day, windows open or shut, just a prickle. Since it happened right after the brain surgery, I should have told someone, but by then I'd had enough of scans and doctors and soft serious tones, and diagnoses, and pity, and worst of all, constant company (full of warmth and support and never leaving your side, not once- any proper introvert would hate it. I did) So I didn't panic and didn't tell any of the doctors, not even Dr. Morton, who did the surgery himself.
That didn't really take away the surprise of waking up one morning, and finding someone else in bed next to you.
“The fuck?” I jerked awake and sat up in my PJ's. “Who the hell are you?”
The figure was already sitting up, arms folded, sheets about his waist, and didn't answer.
“I said- how did you get in my house?”
It didn't do anything, even when I yelled at it some more, so eventually I just got dressed and left. Took a little walk, played some Solitaire. The next day, it was still there, but up and moving a little, but still not talking, so I tried not to look at it. Called Rhonda and chatted for a while. Then, the next day, it was in my kitchen when I woke up, doing my dishes.
I turned the coffee pot on and wandered past it towards the table. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the figure said.
I processed this for a little while. “So, this means I'm crazy, now, right?”
“What?” Said the person, attacking a soup pot with a sponge. “No, that's stupid.”
“You weren't here before.”
“I am now.”
“Who are you?”
“Look at me.” He stopped scrubbing and stared at me. He looked just like me.
“...Are you, like, Tyler Durden or something?”
“No. No. Of course not.” He went back to scrubbing, and I shifted a little, suddenly scared. He looked //just// like me.
The phone rang, and the other-me glanced at it. I got up to answer it. Dr. Morton, in fact, had some results from post-surgery tests- I was, apparently, “right as rain,” and the recovery was going exactly as planned. He promised to call back with in a week.
I hung up, staring at the phone. “Doesn't he bother you?” asked the man in the kitchen.
“What? Why?”
“I don't know. Just bothers me.”
“No,” I said, with some certainty, unconsciously reaching towards the scar on the side of my head, that the hair was just beginning to grow over. “He's nice. Had me listen to his kid's flute recital when I was freaking out about surgery. Hell, he took a tumor out of my head. Cured me.”
“Me too,” said the guy, and pulled his hair out of the way to show me a matching scar. “I just want to kill him.” He picked a knife out of the soapy water of the sink, flipped it around in his hand. “Want to help?”
“What the hell?” I jumped up. “No way. Put that back. You're crazy.”
He sighed and dropped it into the sink. I poured a cup of coffee, practically ran into the living room, and proceeded to watch TV for the next few hours. At one point, I heard the door open and closed. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, later, I was feeling kind of weird about whatever had just happened, so I went down to the corner store and bought a six-pack, then later, don't ask me why (though I think it had something to do with the booze plus whatever pills I was on)- ended up calling Suicide Hotline. I wasn't, you know, thinking of anything, but the woman I got, Sarah, and I, ended up having this amazing heart-to-heart, where we talked about all the shit in my life, and what was happening, and what I should do about it.
We actually went on for a few hours, and I learned some things about her too, but by the end, we agreed I was going to call Dr. Morton in the morning and explain everything that happened- since whatever was making me freak out now was probably related to it, and to Crazy Man, and brain surgery was by nature scary and tricky, and these things probably happened to other people. She wished me good luck, and we hung up. I was feeling a lot better when I went to sleep.
When I woke up, Crazy Man wasn't there.
That morning, the phone rang. When I answered it, it was a police officer, saying I was wanted for questioning, regarding the death of- you guessed it- Doctor Jeremy Alfonso Morton, sometime last evening. He had been stabbed seventeen times by his own kitchen knife, and my fingerprints were found on the blade. I told him everything he asked.
I didn't do it.
No, I don't have siblings or a twin.
No, I hadn't left my neighborhood last night.
Yes, I had an alibi.
And... yup, five days later, I'm going in to testify at court. It'll be fine. My lawyer got Sarah from the SH, plus the clerk from the corner store, and even the desk-worker at my apartment, and all of them are willing to testify that I never left. It //is// weird, but he assured me, despite the fingerprints, and him being my doctor, it would have been a convenient disguise, and the evidence that I wasn't there is rock solid. They'll be bringing in other people too, it won't be me versus a grand jury.
Because it is, I know. I'm still worried, whatever the lawyer says, I still don't want to go.
I just really don't want to know who I'll see in the stands.
[[/collapsible]]
-----
[[collapsible show="Fiction" hide="...this certainly is..."]]
Anthony sat down at the computer, letting his fingers hover over the keys for a moment, the quiet hum of the computer and the rush of his blood in his head the only sounds in the room… And then he heard them. Clicking. Whirring. Churring and churning and starting. He felt them turn, somewhere in the back of his head, starting up. The gears.
He closed his eyes, his fingers flying across the buttons, slowly putting the words together. He let the idea fall between the spokes, grinding his thoughts to powder… Changing them, rebuilding them. He turned the powder into mortar, then mortar into bricks, and the bricks into the wall. Now, he was putting the man behind it, the senile old man who had been trapped there for decades, slowly going mad, surviving on rats. He wrote about his mad ravings, those that he covered the walls with, that the—
A piecing cry broke his reverie, his eyes shooting open. He stood up and left the room, walking down the short hall to his son’s bed and sat on the side of it, rubbing his back. He whispered quiet words, promising that dreams were just that—awful, terrible, dreams. "It's fine," he murmured. "It's just a shadow..." he said. "Shhh...shhh...." he shushed. All the time, they were clicking. Click, click, click—"...15 milimeters in diameter, the object has been discovered to hold an unquantifiable amount of electricity. Class-D test subjects have been cooked alive in a matter of seconds..."—click, click, click. "They're not real..." he murmured. His son was comforted, even if Anthony himself didn’t believe it.
After all, there //were// monsters out there.
He got up as his son fell asleep, walking back into the office, sitting back at the computer, and waiting for them to restart. And in a moment, it did, and he fed them his ideas, and this time out poured blood and flesh and a burnt door. The door. That must be important then. He put the door up, built the cage, and started to build the thing behind it, all black flesh and too many teeth. He imagined its life, what it must think, how it must be… How it fed. How it entertained itself.
They were moving smoothly now, lubricated in blood and viscera.
He stopped, looking at it, almost numb. It was gone, now. Out of his head. Exorcised like a demon. And now… He clicked a few times, naming it, uploading it, licking his lips softly as he turned off his computer and closed his eyes in relief. Another demon gone. Another beast contained in words instead of his mind.
Of course there were monsters out there. So many monsters...
He'd made them, after all.
[[/collapsible]]
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the-asylum | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>My friends and I used to do a lot of geocaching after our senior year in high school. For those who don’t know what geocaching is, it’s essentially a worldwide scavenger hunt. People will select sites and conceal a “geo-cache” somewhere unobtrusive, then post GPS coordinates on geocaching websites where other searchers can download the cords and locate the cache. Usually, people who have found the object (often it’s a chest or something hollow) will leave a note or small personal memento for future searchers to find and appreciate.</p>
<p>There are several types of geocaches, and most of them are thematic in nature (i.e. scenic destinations, romantic sites, hard-to-reach areas, etc.) This story begins when my friends and I decided to try a series of purportedly haunted locales within about an hour’s drive of our hometown. It began innocently enough—most of the sites had “spooky” backstories that were, of course, entirely fabricated. So we had a great time scaring the piss out of each other and generally creeping ourselves out.</p>
<p>We’d begun searching after the sun had set to enhance the creep factor, but by around midnight, most of our large group had dwindled off and gone their separate ways. When we reached our last coord, there was just myself, Rebecca, Kevin, and Evan left, and we were determined to knock it off our list.</p>
<p>Rebecca was our guide for the night, in charge of putting in the coordinates and reading us the backstory behind each site. So, while I drove, she began reading about the last one out loud to the rest of us. Now, I’m paraphrasing here, but it was something along the lines of:</p>
<p><em>“Henckel Asylum: constructed in the early 1900’s, the James Henckel Asylum was built to house a burgeoning population of the criminally insane. Men who had committed vile crimes (rape, murder, torture) without signs of remorse were deemed mentally unstable and sent to this facility for further study and rehabilitation. Once committed, very few criminals were ever released back into society, and those that were usually had been given frontal lobotomies (a popular experimental procedure at the time) or electroshock therapy, both of which rendered the patient nearly braindead, capable of performing only rudimentary tasks.</em></p>
<p><em>Stories: Contemporary visitors to the Asylum report hearing banging noises, cell doors opening and closing, and hearing cackling laughter that is abruptly cut short.”</em></p>
<p>It was pretty standard fare compared to the rest of the sites we’d visited that night, and we naturally had a good time psyching each other out for the next fifteen minutes while I drove us to the Asylum. We’d all heard about it (it was in our local area after all) and we knew it had been condemned and abandoned since as long as any of us could remember, so we figured it’d be a great place to run around and be reckless teenagers without risk of getting yelled at by the cops.</p>
<p>When we finally arrived, it looked like something straight out of one of those cheesy B-movies they show on SyFy. Chain link fence with barbed wire around the perimeter, two guard towers flanking the main gate (which was, of course, chained and locked shut with a big NO TRESPASSING sign hanging from it). The asylum itself was decrepit, looking like it hadn’t been touched for decades—which was surprising, since we grew up in a pretty nice area, where the municipal lawmakers tried to keep everything looking spiffy for the tourists.</p>
<p>Needless to say, we promptly ignored the sign on the front gate and hauled ourselves over, cameras and GPS in hand, and walked towards the asylum. Now, given our attitude towards the previous sites, you’ve probably gathered that I’m somewhat of a skeptic. I believe that there are paranormal things that can’t be explained (yet) but I’m not exactly summoning demons in front of a bathroom mirror. So when we opened the main door to the asylum (conveniently unlocked), I dismissed the cold burst of wind as just stale pent-up air rushing out after being trapped inside for so long. My friends’ bravado, however, quickly disappeared and they began shuffling their feet nervously at the entrance, hesitant to cross that invisible threshold.</p>
<p>I took point, chivvying them along with prodding taunts and eventually everyone was inside. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Things were relatively clean, and the entire building looked like it had been gutted. The paint was peeling, tiles popping up here and there, and the metal trim near the baseboards of the wall was in desperate need of some Rust-B-Gone, but aside from that, the place was entirely empty. No crazy-ass chairs with leather straps, no gurneys lying haphazardly around, just an old reception desk and two hallways leading off to the different wings.</p>
<p>We explored for a few minutes, freaking ourselves out whenever we heard an old pipe rattle or rat squeak, but otherwise, it was relatively uneventful. Our fears safely suppressed by the presence of each other, we began to get more adventurous, opening doors and peeking inside. The rooms were all empty, of course. Whatever company had been contracted to clear the place out did a pretty decent job of removing any creepy décor.</p>
<p>Bravado returning by the minute, Evan and Kevin dropped back without Rebecca or me noticing. They began running around, making noises to try and scare us (I’m not gonna lie, it worked until I realized they were gone and probably the cause of all the racket), then returned laughing and breathless to a decidedly paler Rebecca. She seemed to be a lot more put off by the whole place than the rest of us, or at least she didn’t hide it as well. She quietly suggested we leave.</p>
<p>Not to be outdone by the other guys of the group, I told her she was more than welcome to wait in the car if she wanted, but I was gonna stick around for a few more minutes. Exasperated, but defeated, she finally caved and followed us where the GPS was leading—the second floor.</p>
<p>This is where I started to feel genuinely scared. Before, I was just kinda creeped out, but there was something about that whole floor that literally gave me shivers, despite it being a warm summer night. We started opening doors like before, but we were all a lot more sober about it. I guess I wasn’t the only one who was feeling weird. Finally, about midway through the hall, we opened the door to a room, and there, lying in the middle of the floor, was an honest-to-god straightjacket. I’m not bullshitting you, every other room was devoid of objects, but there it was. A fucking straightjacket, in the middle of the floor of some random-ass room in a condemned mental asylum. We all kinda looked at each other with raised eyebrows, as if to say “Uh… guys? You seeing what I’m seeing?”</p>
<p>And of course, trying to be a macho man to show off for Rebecca, I piped up with the most ridiculous idea I could think of at the time.</p>
<p>“Dude, I’m gonna put it on.”</p>
<p>Years of horror flicks and creepypasta should have trained me to NOT put on the creepy straightjacket, in the creepy hall, in the creepy asylum. But teenage dumbfuckery won over, and once the words were out, I couldn’t just wuss out.</p>
<p>Nobody said anything, they just kinda looked at me expectantly, waiting to see if I’d follow through with my boast. Determined not to be called a pussy for the remainder of the night, I walked forward into the room and bent down to pick up the moth-ridden restraining device. As I got closer though, I noticed it wasn’t moth-ridden at all, but was actually in pretty decent condition (that is, compared to the rest of the place, which as I’ve mentioned, was a shambles). I mean, it had a few stains here and there, but it didn’t really smell and it seemed intact enough to put on.</p>
<p>As soon as I picked it up, though, I got this overwhelming sense of dread. You know, that drop in the pit of your stomach right as you go over the lip of a roller coaster? That feeling, in the bottom of your gut that says “I’m gonna die, I just know it.”</p>
<p>Yeah, well I got that. Really strong. And totally ignored it. My desire not to die was outweighed, as it often is in teenagers, by my need to look cool for my friends. So I slipped my hands in the sleeves, one at a time, until it hung loosely from my shoulders.</p>
<p>Now, if you’ve ever seen a straightjacket, you know that you can’t tie it up yourself. The whole point is to essentially cross your arms across your chest and tie the sleeves behind your back to prevent whoever’s inside from moving their arms (presumably, to stop them from hurting themselves or others). So as I stood there in the middle of the room, I called out to Rebecca, “Hey Becca, help me tie this thing off.”</p>
<p>She looked (if you’ll excuse the pun) pale as a ghost, but she managed to squeak out, “I don’t… I don’t think this is a good idea…” But again, after some prodding and encouraging, I convinced her to begin tying the sleeves behind my back. Evan and Kevin just stood in the doorway, expressions a mix of admiration and incredulity. At that point in time, I felt like a badass.</p>
<p>For about three seconds.</p>
<p>As soon as Rebecca finished up the last lace, the door to the cell slammed shut, right in Kevin and Evan’s faces. I never felt a breeze, and when I asked them later, both of them fervently denied closing it themselves. Skeptic that I am, I still chalk it up to us leaving the front door open and changing air pressures and all that. But it scared the piss out of us nonetheless.</p>
<p>Then I felt a pressure on my chest, like someone was sitting on it (or as if someone was pulling the sleeves tighter behind me) and it began to get harder to breathe. I couldn’t even summon enough air to whisper, much less call out for help. My vision narrowed to tiny specks, and I swear I heard someone laughing shrilly as I neared unconsciousness. The pressure increased with a sudden tug, and my world went black.</p>
<p>When I woke up, my vision was foggy. Or at least, I thought it was, until I realized it wasn’t just foggy. It was dark. Like staring through a lens that’s been collecting soot. I blinked a few times, and the darkness waivered, but didn’t dissipate. Now, I’ve passed out and blacked out before, but whenever I woke up, it was nothing like that. Either my vision gradually cleared up, or it was blurry, but never in my life have I been able to recreate the shadowy haze I saw in the asylum that night. Then, from the murky depths, two small pinpoints of light appeared a few inches in front of my face, glaring a lurid red—and a dim echo of the laughter I heard before surrounded me. As soon as they appeared, however, they were replaced by two brilliant shafts of incandescence—Evan and Kevin, shining flashlights down on my face.</p>
<p>The last thing I remember hearing before I lost consciousness was Rebecca’s scream and the door banging open, which probably explains why those two were standing over me with flashlights in hand. I gradually became aware of a dull murmur that I recognized as Rebecca asking me, “Please wake up, please please please wake up,” as she shook me. She just kept saying it over and over again, kept sobbing and shaking me.</p>
<p>When my vision cleared enough, I glanced over and saw that her eyes were completely red, like she’d been crying for a while. Trying to muster some shred of manliness, I found myself speaking in a surprisingly calm voice, given how I was actually feeling. I remember distinctly what I said, word for word.</p>
<p>“Get those fucking flashlights out of my face, you douchebags.”</p>
<p>Expecting a laugh or at least some reciprocal insults, I was kinda shocked when they just looked at each other quizzically, seemingly surprised.</p>
<p>“You’re… you’re okay?” Evan asked incredulously.</p>
<p>“Yeah, why the hell wouldn’t I be? Becca just tied the things too tight, I couldn’t breathe, so I passed out. How long was I out for anyway?” I inquired. Apparently, it had been long enough for them to untie the straightjacket, allowing me to rub a hand across my face.</p>
<p>Another shared look of disbelief.</p>
<p>“Dude,” Kevin began slowly, “You’ve been out for like fifteen minutes. We were about to call 911. We kept shaking you—Evan even tried pinching you so hard he drew blood—but you wouldn’t wake up.”</p>
<p>I felt a cold chill run down my spine, and the straightjacket, hanging limply from my shoulders, suddenly began to feel a bit tighter. Hastening to pull it off, I tried not to look panicked as I threw it to a corner of the room. Rebecca just sat there, still shaking and crying a little bit, and in spite of the ordeal I’d just gone through, I had enough sense to go over and try to comfort her.</p>
<p>We left that room without a word, geocache be damned, and walked back to the car in complete silence (broken only by the occasional sniffle from Rebecca). The sun started coming up, and as I dropped everyone off at their respective homes, we said quiet goodbyes. Rebecca was the last stop before I finally made the trip home myself. Being the gentleman that I am, I walked her to her door, but she paused at the entry and looked me in the eye.</p>
<p>In the light of the gray dawn, I could see her eyes were still reddened from all the crying. She was very quiet, and she said, “I have to ask you something.”</p>
<p>“Yeah sure, what is it?” I said, half expecting another “You sure you’re alright?” like I’d been getting the whole ride home.</p>
<p>She surprised me by asking, “Do you know how long it took Evan and Kevin to get the door open?” Her eyes held a look that I could never forget. It was raw fear. Something happened in that fraction of time between me blacking out and them getting in there that had absolutely terrified her. And seeing that look, I realized. I was blacked out for fifteen minutes. How long was she alone in that room?</p>
<p>“No…” I replied slowly, “how long?”</p>
<p>“Five minutes. They said it took five minutes for them to open that stupid door. I was in there and I saw you, and I saw—“ she broke off, another sob stopping her midsentence. At that point, I didn’t want to know. I still don’t want to know.</p>
<p>I gripped her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Rebecca. It doesn’t matter. No matter what you saw. I’m here, you’re here, we’re both safe. It doesn’t matter. Nothing bad will happen. I promise.”</p>
<p>She just nodded numbly, opened her door, and walked inside her house. The next time I saw her, she was back to her usual self. But whenever I bring up that night to her, she freezes up and turns to stone, refusing to discuss it.</p>
<p>I stand by what I said before. I don’t know what happened in that room. And I don’t ever want to know. But I still have nightmares about those two glowing red lights in the darkness. And sometimes, as I lapse into sleep, I hear faint echoes of shrill laughter following me down into the depths of unconsciousness.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/the-asylum">The Asylum</a>" by Raaxis, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-asylum">https://scpwiki.com/the-asylum</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
My friends and I used to do a lot of geocaching after our senior year in high school. For those who don’t know what geocaching is, it’s essentially a worldwide scavenger hunt. People will select sites and conceal a “geo-cache” somewhere unobtrusive, then post GPS coordinates on geocaching websites where other searchers can download the cords and locate the cache. Usually, people who have found the object (often it’s a chest or something hollow) will leave a note or small personal memento for future searchers to find and appreciate.
There are several types of geocaches, and most of them are thematic in nature (i.e. scenic destinations, romantic sites, hard-to-reach areas, etc.) This story begins when my friends and I decided to try a series of purportedly haunted locales within about an hour’s drive of our hometown. It began innocently enough—most of the sites had “spooky” backstories that were, of course, entirely fabricated. So we had a great time scaring the piss out of each other and generally creeping ourselves out.
We’d begun searching after the sun had set to enhance the creep factor, but by around midnight, most of our large group had dwindled off and gone their separate ways. When we reached our last coord, there was just myself, Rebecca, Kevin, and Evan left, and we were determined to knock it off our list.
Rebecca was our guide for the night, in charge of putting in the coordinates and reading us the backstory behind each site. So, while I drove, she began reading about the last one out loud to the rest of us. Now, I’m paraphrasing here, but it was something along the lines of:
//“Henckel Asylum: constructed in the early 1900’s, the James Henckel Asylum was built to house a burgeoning population of the criminally insane. Men who had committed vile crimes (rape, murder, torture) without signs of remorse were deemed mentally unstable and sent to this facility for further study and rehabilitation. Once committed, very few criminals were ever released back into society, and those that were usually had been given frontal lobotomies (a popular experimental procedure at the time) or electroshock therapy, both of which rendered the patient nearly braindead, capable of performing only rudimentary tasks.//
//Stories: Contemporary visitors to the Asylum report hearing banging noises, cell doors opening and closing, and hearing cackling laughter that is abruptly cut short.”//
It was pretty standard fare compared to the rest of the sites we’d visited that night, and we naturally had a good time psyching each other out for the next fifteen minutes while I drove us to the Asylum. We’d all heard about it (it was in our local area after all) and we knew it had been condemned and abandoned since as long as any of us could remember, so we figured it’d be a great place to run around and be reckless teenagers without risk of getting yelled at by the cops.
When we finally arrived, it looked like something straight out of one of those cheesy B-movies they show on SyFy. Chain link fence with barbed wire around the perimeter, two guard towers flanking the main gate (which was, of course, chained and locked shut with a big NO TRESPASSING sign hanging from it). The asylum itself was decrepit, looking like it hadn’t been touched for decades—which was surprising, since we grew up in a pretty nice area, where the municipal lawmakers tried to keep everything looking spiffy for the tourists.
Needless to say, we promptly ignored the sign on the front gate and hauled ourselves over, cameras and GPS in hand, and walked towards the asylum. Now, given our attitude towards the previous sites, you’ve probably gathered that I’m somewhat of a skeptic. I believe that there are paranormal things that can’t be explained (yet) but I’m not exactly summoning demons in front of a bathroom mirror. So when we opened the main door to the asylum (conveniently unlocked), I dismissed the cold burst of wind as just stale pent-up air rushing out after being trapped inside for so long. My friends’ bravado, however, quickly disappeared and they began shuffling their feet nervously at the entrance, hesitant to cross that invisible threshold.
I took point, chivvying them along with prodding taunts and eventually everyone was inside. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Things were relatively clean, and the entire building looked like it had been gutted. The paint was peeling, tiles popping up here and there, and the metal trim near the baseboards of the wall was in desperate need of some Rust-B-Gone, but aside from that, the place was entirely empty. No crazy-ass chairs with leather straps, no gurneys lying haphazardly around, just an old reception desk and two hallways leading off to the different wings.
We explored for a few minutes, freaking ourselves out whenever we heard an old pipe rattle or rat squeak, but otherwise, it was relatively uneventful. Our fears safely suppressed by the presence of each other, we began to get more adventurous, opening doors and peeking inside. The rooms were all empty, of course. Whatever company had been contracted to clear the place out did a pretty decent job of removing any creepy décor.
Bravado returning by the minute, Evan and Kevin dropped back without Rebecca or me noticing. They began running around, making noises to try and scare us (I’m not gonna lie, it worked until I realized they were gone and probably the cause of all the racket), then returned laughing and breathless to a decidedly paler Rebecca. She seemed to be a lot more put off by the whole place than the rest of us, or at least she didn’t hide it as well. She quietly suggested we leave.
Not to be outdone by the other guys of the group, I told her she was more than welcome to wait in the car if she wanted, but I was gonna stick around for a few more minutes. Exasperated, but defeated, she finally caved and followed us where the GPS was leading—the second floor.
This is where I started to feel genuinely scared. Before, I was just kinda creeped out, but there was something about that whole floor that literally gave me shivers, despite it being a warm summer night. We started opening doors like before, but we were all a lot more sober about it. I guess I wasn’t the only one who was feeling weird. Finally, about midway through the hall, we opened the door to a room, and there, lying in the middle of the floor, was an honest-to-god straightjacket. I’m not bullshitting you, every other room was devoid of objects, but there it was. A fucking straightjacket, in the middle of the floor of some random-ass room in a condemned mental asylum. We all kinda looked at each other with raised eyebrows, as if to say “Uh… guys? You seeing what I’m seeing?”
And of course, trying to be a macho man to show off for Rebecca, I piped up with the most ridiculous idea I could think of at the time.
“Dude, I’m gonna put it on.”
Years of horror flicks and creepypasta should have trained me to NOT put on the creepy straightjacket, in the creepy hall, in the creepy asylum. But teenage dumbfuckery won over, and once the words were out, I couldn’t just wuss out.
Nobody said anything, they just kinda looked at me expectantly, waiting to see if I’d follow through with my boast. Determined not to be called a pussy for the remainder of the night, I walked forward into the room and bent down to pick up the moth-ridden restraining device. As I got closer though, I noticed it wasn’t moth-ridden at all, but was actually in pretty decent condition (that is, compared to the rest of the place, which as I’ve mentioned, was a shambles). I mean, it had a few stains here and there, but it didn’t really smell and it seemed intact enough to put on.
As soon as I picked it up, though, I got this overwhelming sense of dread. You know, that drop in the pit of your stomach right as you go over the lip of a roller coaster? That feeling, in the bottom of your gut that says “I’m gonna die, I just know it.”
Yeah, well I got that. Really strong. And totally ignored it. My desire not to die was outweighed, as it often is in teenagers, by my need to look cool for my friends. So I slipped my hands in the sleeves, one at a time, until it hung loosely from my shoulders.
Now, if you’ve ever seen a straightjacket, you know that you can’t tie it up yourself. The whole point is to essentially cross your arms across your chest and tie the sleeves behind your back to prevent whoever’s inside from moving their arms (presumably, to stop them from hurting themselves or others). So as I stood there in the middle of the room, I called out to Rebecca, “Hey Becca, help me tie this thing off.”
She looked (if you’ll excuse the pun) pale as a ghost, but she managed to squeak out, “I don’t… I don’t think this is a good idea…” But again, after some prodding and encouraging, I convinced her to begin tying the sleeves behind my back. Evan and Kevin just stood in the doorway, expressions a mix of admiration and incredulity. At that point in time, I felt like a badass.
For about three seconds.
As soon as Rebecca finished up the last lace, the door to the cell slammed shut, right in Kevin and Evan’s faces. I never felt a breeze, and when I asked them later, both of them fervently denied closing it themselves. Skeptic that I am, I still chalk it up to us leaving the front door open and changing air pressures and all that. But it scared the piss out of us nonetheless.
Then I felt a pressure on my chest, like someone was sitting on it (or as if someone was pulling the sleeves tighter behind me) and it began to get harder to breathe. I couldn’t even summon enough air to whisper, much less call out for help. My vision narrowed to tiny specks, and I swear I heard someone laughing shrilly as I neared unconsciousness. The pressure increased with a sudden tug, and my world went black.
When I woke up, my vision was foggy. Or at least, I thought it was, until I realized it wasn’t just foggy. It was dark. Like staring through a lens that’s been collecting soot. I blinked a few times, and the darkness waivered, but didn’t dissipate. Now, I’ve passed out and blacked out before, but whenever I woke up, it was nothing like that. Either my vision gradually cleared up, or it was blurry, but never in my life have I been able to recreate the shadowy haze I saw in the asylum that night. Then, from the murky depths, two small pinpoints of light appeared a few inches in front of my face, glaring a lurid red—and a dim echo of the laughter I heard before surrounded me. As soon as they appeared, however, they were replaced by two brilliant shafts of incandescence—Evan and Kevin, shining flashlights down on my face.
The last thing I remember hearing before I lost consciousness was Rebecca’s scream and the door banging open, which probably explains why those two were standing over me with flashlights in hand. I gradually became aware of a dull murmur that I recognized as Rebecca asking me, “Please wake up, please please please wake up,” as she shook me. She just kept saying it over and over again, kept sobbing and shaking me.
When my vision cleared enough, I glanced over and saw that her eyes were completely red, like she’d been crying for a while. Trying to muster some shred of manliness, I found myself speaking in a surprisingly calm voice, given how I was actually feeling. I remember distinctly what I said, word for word.
“Get those fucking flashlights out of my face, you douchebags.”
Expecting a laugh or at least some reciprocal insults, I was kinda shocked when they just looked at each other quizzically, seemingly surprised.
“You’re… you’re okay?” Evan asked incredulously.
“Yeah, why the hell wouldn’t I be? Becca just tied the things too tight, I couldn’t breathe, so I passed out. How long was I out for anyway?” I inquired. Apparently, it had been long enough for them to untie the straightjacket, allowing me to rub a hand across my face.
Another shared look of disbelief.
“Dude,” Kevin began slowly, “You’ve been out for like fifteen minutes. We were about to call 911. We kept shaking you—Evan even tried pinching you so hard he drew blood—but you wouldn’t wake up.”
I felt a cold chill run down my spine, and the straightjacket, hanging limply from my shoulders, suddenly began to feel a bit tighter. Hastening to pull it off, I tried not to look panicked as I threw it to a corner of the room. Rebecca just sat there, still shaking and crying a little bit, and in spite of the ordeal I’d just gone through, I had enough sense to go over and try to comfort her.
We left that room without a word, geocache be damned, and walked back to the car in complete silence (broken only by the occasional sniffle from Rebecca). The sun started coming up, and as I dropped everyone off at their respective homes, we said quiet goodbyes. Rebecca was the last stop before I finally made the trip home myself. Being the gentleman that I am, I walked her to her door, but she paused at the entry and looked me in the eye.
In the light of the gray dawn, I could see her eyes were still reddened from all the crying. She was very quiet, and she said, “I have to ask you something.”
“Yeah sure, what is it?” I said, half expecting another “You sure you’re alright?” like I’d been getting the whole ride home.
She surprised me by asking, “Do you know how long it took Evan and Kevin to get the door open?” Her eyes held a look that I could never forget. It was raw fear. Something happened in that fraction of time between me blacking out and them getting in there that had absolutely terrified her. And seeing that look, I realized. I was blacked out for fifteen minutes. How long was she alone in that room?
“No…” I replied slowly, “how long?”
“Five minutes. They said it took five minutes for them to open that stupid door. I was in there and I saw you, and I saw—“ she broke off, another sob stopping her midsentence. At that point, I didn’t want to know. I still don’t want to know.
I gripped her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Rebecca. It doesn’t matter. No matter what you saw. I’m here, you’re here, we’re both safe. It doesn’t matter. Nothing bad will happen. I promise.”
She just nodded numbly, opened her door, and walked inside her house. The next time I saw her, she was back to her usual self. But whenever I bring up that night to her, she freezes up and turns to stone, refusing to discuss it.
I stand by what I said before. I don’t know what happened in that room. And I don’t ever want to know. But I still have nightmares about those two glowing red lights in the darkness. And sometimes, as I lapse into sleep, I hear faint echoes of shrill laughter following me down into the depths of unconsciousness.
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|
the-happy-ending | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p><em>A possible future…</em></p>
<p>The flexi in Jack's suitcase buzzed for the third time. Sighing, he pulled it out and unrolled it. As was his usual reaction, he was sorry he ever helped invent it.</p>
<p>The note that popped up was a reminder. "TRANSPORT LEAVING T-MINUS 90 MINUTES. PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE." Jack pressed his thumb on the indicated spot, rerolled it, and put it back. He'd make the ship after his appointment.</p>
<p>Driving up to the gates of Site 19 still felt damn peculiar. Jack was used to the days when getting to Site 19 required two hidden tunnels, a parking lot in front of an abandoned hospital, and two elevator rides. The dismantling of the Veil Protocol had any number of benefits for the Foundation, and far more benefits for humankind as a whole. Nevertheless, Jack never could get over the fact that it was simply far less cool to answer a receptionist's page and be waved through. The parking spot was nicer before, too.</p>
<p>There was no receptionist when Jack pulled up to the door, not that he thought there would be one. He had pushed to have the whole system automated, but some piece of legislation required that the Foundation hire a certain number of recent high school graduates. As it was, Jack had to park at the gate, walk up, and pull the gate open himself.</p>
<p>The drive to the building was uneventful. Jack pulled the car around to face towards the gates and put the top down. He brought the keycards with him as he went inside the building.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The halls of Site 19 echoed Jack's footsteps back to him as he walked. Every containment chamber he passed was empty; the rustling sounds of contained humanoids no longer filled the air. The doors were soundproof, but he always seemed to be able to hear them. Now, nothing. The building was empty, save three rooms. Jack knew his destinations by heart.</p>
<p>The first containment chamber was three hallways away. Jack could hear the little beast two and a half hallways before he reached it. Of all the organic nonhumanoid SCPs they had captured over the centuries, this one in particular stood out as an unspeakably annoying creature. Jack removed the AR-68 helmet from the nearby armory and slipped it on, along with one grenade. Walking to the containment chamber, he removed his flexipad and began to narrate.</p>
<p>"By order of the United Nations Secretary of Secure Containment, that being myself, termination order for SCP-1013 has been issued on this day, 25 December 2231, at this time, uh…" Jack checked the clock. "…2243 hours. Termination process begun…now."</p>
<p>Jack cracked open the containment chamber, pulled the pin on the grenade, and threw it in, making sure not to look at the thing inside. A single squawk came out. He slammed the door. <strong>WHUMP</strong>.</p>
<p>"Termination process complete. SCP-1013 decommissioned. Two SCPs remaining."</p>
<hr/>
<p>Jack's next destination lay three floors down. The elevator ride was smooth, just as he remembered. He was glad that some part of this was comfortable. 1013 was a legitimate pleasure to get rid of. It was one of Clef's last requests, actually; Jack remembered it from the wake. This, however, was not going to be pleasant.</p>
<p>SCP-5432 had been contained for half a century now, and she had aged normally during that time. She was sitting on her bed when Jack entered the other end of the airlock.</p>
<p>"Hello, Josephine," Jack said.</p>
<p>Josephine sat quietly, chewing on a fifty-pound note.</p>
<p>"Josephine, it's time. I don't know how well you can understand me, but I'm sorry. I brought you a gift." Jack slipped a wrapped package of $1000 Treasury notes in through the slot.</p>
<p>She perked up considerably. Looking up from where she sat, her eyes gleamed. She dragged herself across the floor with her hands to the airlock and grabbed the notes. Without unwrapping them first, she chewed through the plastic to get to the bills.</p>
<p>Jack began narrating. "SCP-5432, also known as Patient Four in the Great Plague of 2182. Patient Zero apprehended, contained, and decommissioned 3 May 2183." Jack meant that Patient Zero had been drained of his bodily fluids and vivisected in search of a cure. They had killed seven patients doing that. Most of them had belonged to the terrorist group that had created the virus in the first place. Not all of them. And not Josephine.</p>
<p>Jack had laced the bills with cyanide. He had also tripped the morphine gas in her room for this event. She would hardly feel anything. She kept chewing monomaniacally. As she slowed down, her head winding around dizzily, her eyes half-focused on Jack's. "Are…are we…"</p>
<p>"Yes, Josie. I promise."</p>
<p>"Are…are we…are we cool yet?" Josie's half-dead eyes pleaded for the answer. "Are we cool yet? ARE WE COOL YET?" The screeching of her voice was as haunting as ever. Jack's mind flashed back to the days, decades ago, when those words were being screamed down corridors.</p>
<p>"Go to sleep, Josie." Jack narrated into the flexipad, "SCP-5432 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2258 hours."</p>
<p>Her eyes faded for the last time. She lay on the ground, a half-eaten bill hanging from her mouth. Jack walked away.</p>
<hr/>
<p>One last stop. The containment chamber was at the bottom of the building, making the elevator ride a bit farther than before. He hadn't come down this way in a long time, well over a century. Not since the Unveiling. Not since the creature he was here for had arrived.</p>
<p>It used to be kept out of Site 19, back in the old building. One of the greatest benefits of the Unveiling was the scientific research that came with opening Foundation research to the rest of the world and seeing what came back. Since the advancements in containment that had come from that, there hadn't been a breach from this chamber in decades. The elevator slowed to a stop.</p>
<p>Jack exited into a well-lit hallway. There was one room on this floor, at the far end, with a speaker grate attached to a translation device. They had found out some time ago that the beast was always talking, often at telepathic wavelengths or ultrasonic pitches. It had taken years to work out all of the nuances and process it into audible speech, but the result was…interesting.</p>
<p>"GOOD EVENING DOCTOR BRIGHT," the speaker intoned. "WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE TONIGHT."</p>
<p>Jack cleared his throat. "You're more polite than I recall. That's a development."</p>
<p>"YOU ARE STILL FILTH TO ME," the creature said. "MY TEETH STILL ACHE FOR YOUR BLOOD. BUT I AM CONTENT TO WAIT FOR THE OPPORTUNITY. THIS IS THE LONGEST I HAVE EVER BEEN CONTAINED IN ONE PLACE, AND I MUST SHOW SOME RESPECT. I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND, DOCTOR."</p>
<p>"I don't go by Dr. Bright anymore," Jack said. "I'm barely that person anymore. We've all moved on. I'm the only one left alive, anyway."</p>
<p>"THE LIST OF THE DEAD IS LENGTHY, AND I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR SO FEW OF THEM. IT IS SORROWFUL. WHAT SHALL I CALL YOU THEN."</p>
<p>"Just Jack," he said.</p>
<p>"VERY WELL JACK. WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE THIS EVENING."</p>
<p>"I have a gift. For you." Jack said. "It's time to go."</p>
<p>"GO?"</p>
<p>"Go. We're done containing you, and you may leave."</p>
<p>The beast, so far as it could pull off body language, seemed confused.</p>
<p>"No, I'm serious."</p>
<p>"YOU ARE A LIAR AND A SOCIOPATH, JACK. YOU HAVE KILLED AS MANY OR MORE THAN I HAVE AT LEAST IN THE MOST RECENT CENTURIES."</p>
<p>"That's not me anymore," Jack said uncomfortably. "We've changed. The Foundation doesn't exist any more. We don't do those things any more."</p>
<p>"YOU ARE A LIAR EVEN TO YOURSELF. WHY WOULD YOU RELEASE ME."</p>
<p>"Two reasons. First, we live in a remarkable world now. We've traveled to star systems far away, spread ourselves out across two dozen planets. The Earth is used up, drained as far as possible, so we've evacuated the planet. There are less than twenty people left here, and as far as I know, they're all sitting on a ship, waiting for me. After midnight tonight, this planet will be human-free. You won't be a threat anymore. We've even gotten the rest of the SCPs off-world. There's no need to keep you here."</p>
<p>The monster paused. "WHAT IS THE SECOND REASON."</p>
<p>"It wouldn't have been possible without you."</p>
<hr/>
<p>"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, JACK."</p>
<p>"It was a casual containment breach for you. We had trapped you at Site 19 temporarily during…some crisis or another, I can't recall which. You broke out, killed six that day. And in the course of that, you ended up in one containment chamber in particular."</p>
<p>"JACK I DO NOT RECALL THESE EVENTS—"</p>
<p>"Getting to that. You broke into 055's containment chamber. We have no idea what happened next inside there, but two things happened. First, eighteen iterations of you appeared in major cities, wreaking havoc. Not complete copies of you, just imitations; they all died pretty quickly once our task forces arrived. But that was about it for the Veil Protocol after that. So congratulations, I suppose."</p>
<p>"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOU—"</p>
<p>"We've never understood it, but apparently you did something to 055. You reappeared in your chamber after we killed the last copy, forgetting everything. We never particularly wanted to let you in on it. But 055 started putting out energy after that. Just a trickle, then more and more as time went on. We were able to harness it, thanks to the combined efforts of the Foundation, the GOC, the UIU, everybody. We couldn't have done it without global support, the kind we never would have had before Rampage Day. It changed the world. You changed the world, in a good way. For once."</p>
<p>The beast was silent. It was like old times again.</p>
<p>"So, you're free, as of…as soon as I'm out of the building. The programs are prewritten. I hit one button, once I'm safely away, and you can leave as soon as you like."</p>
<p>The beast was silent.</p>
<p>"Yeah, I don't want to mess around with weepy goodbyes either. I hope, and I mean this with all my heart, that we never see each other again." Jack turned to leave.</p>
<p>"JACK."</p>
<p>Jack paused.</p>
<p>"MAY I SEE THE ARTIFACT FOR ONE LAST TIME."</p>
<p>Jack stopped to think if there was any way the lizard could exploit the amulet to its advantage and couldn't think of any. He pulled the amulet out and showed it to the beast. "I'm still in here. Some things don't change."</p>
<p>"THERE ARE ASPECTS OF THAT ARTIFACT THAT YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND. REFRACTIONS OF LIGHT THAT YOU WILL NEVER SEE. THINGS I COULD NOT EXPLAIN TO YOU EVEN WERE I SO INCLINED. 'GOODBYE', I BELIEVE IS THE EXPRESSION." The beast retreated to a corner of its chamber and became quiet.</p>
<p>Jack turned and walked to the elevator. The ride up to the surface was long, and uncomfortable. Once in his car, he opened the flexi, tapped four times, and put it back. He turned the ignition.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Jack was at the spaceport boarding the flight when the flexi vibrated again. He had programmed Site 19's cameras to follow what happened, and the show was apparently over. He watched the footage as the preflight checks were completed.</p>
<p>2345: All containment blocks drop. The monster waits for a moment before springing for the exit. It races to the open elevator and crawls up the shaft.</p>
<p>2354: The creature reaches the ground level, knowing instinctively when it arrives. It rips through the steel door with its teeth and emerges onto the floor of Site 19. It looks from side to side momentarily, then rushes for the enormous glass door. It is standing open.</p>
<p>2356: The lizard arrives outside. There is a moment when it looks at the giant gate and looks…suspicious, almost. It knows its former containers, knows what they are capable of. It knows what Dr. Bright is capable of, wonders how sincere he is about this transformation of his. The pause is just for a second, but all this is present. The lizard could go through the gate, or go around it; crawl over the walls or smash them. When the lizard slowly, tentatively starts snaking towards the gate, Jack believes it has made a decision. It has decided to do something not out of fear, not out of suspicion, but out of hope. It has not known hope in a very, very long time, but perhaps it decides that it is time to do something new.</p>
<p>2358: The lizard reaches the gate. What happens now is unrecorded, is likely unrecordable. This was technology nobody knew about; not the government, not the rest of the Containment Department, nobody. A bright blue flash of light, right when it passes under the gate. Jack doesn't know what it feels like for the beast to become mortal for the first time, but it doesn't have long to know the feeling.</p>
<p>2359: Site 19 warheads detonate. Something else the government didn't know about. Two directly beneath the gate, in fact.</p>
<p>"SCP-682 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2359 hours. Site 19 closed at that time. Send record to headquarters." Dr. Bright tapped the pad again.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/the-happy-ending">The Happy Ending</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-happy-ending">https://scpwiki.com/the-happy-ending</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
//A possible future...//
The flexi in Jack's suitcase buzzed for the third time. Sighing, he pulled it out and unrolled it. As was his usual reaction, he was sorry he ever helped invent it.
The note that popped up was a reminder. "TRANSPORT LEAVING T-MINUS 90 MINUTES. PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE." Jack pressed his thumb on the indicated spot, rerolled it, and put it back. He'd make the ship after his appointment.
Driving up to the gates of Site 19 still felt damn peculiar. Jack was used to the days when getting to Site 19 required two hidden tunnels, a parking lot in front of an abandoned hospital, and two elevator rides. The dismantling of the Veil Protocol had any number of benefits for the Foundation, and far more benefits for humankind as a whole. Nevertheless, Jack never could get over the fact that it was simply far less cool to answer a receptionist's page and be waved through. The parking spot was nicer before, too.
There was no receptionist when Jack pulled up to the door, not that he thought there would be one. He had pushed to have the whole system automated, but some piece of legislation required that the Foundation hire a certain number of recent high school graduates. As it was, Jack had to park at the gate, walk up, and pull the gate open himself.
The drive to the building was uneventful. Jack pulled the car around to face towards the gates and put the top down. He brought the keycards with him as he went inside the building.
------
The halls of Site 19 echoed Jack's footsteps back to him as he walked. Every containment chamber he passed was empty; the rustling sounds of contained humanoids no longer filled the air. The doors were soundproof, but he always seemed to be able to hear them. Now, nothing. The building was empty, save three rooms. Jack knew his destinations by heart.
The first containment chamber was three hallways away. Jack could hear the little beast two and a half hallways before he reached it. Of all the organic nonhumanoid SCPs they had captured over the centuries, this one in particular stood out as an unspeakably annoying creature. Jack removed the AR-68 helmet from the nearby armory and slipped it on, along with one grenade. Walking to the containment chamber, he removed his flexipad and began to narrate.
"By order of the United Nations Secretary of Secure Containment, that being myself, termination order for SCP-1013 has been issued on this day, 25 December 2231, at this time, uh..." Jack checked the clock. "...2243 hours. Termination process begun...now."
Jack cracked open the containment chamber, pulled the pin on the grenade, and threw it in, making sure not to look at the thing inside. A single squawk came out. He slammed the door. **WHUMP**.
"Termination process complete. SCP-1013 decommissioned. Two SCPs remaining."
------
Jack's next destination lay three floors down. The elevator ride was smooth, just as he remembered. He was glad that some part of this was comfortable. 1013 was a legitimate pleasure to get rid of. It was one of Clef's last requests, actually; Jack remembered it from the wake. This, however, was not going to be pleasant.
SCP-5432 had been contained for half a century now, and she had aged normally during that time. She was sitting on her bed when Jack entered the other end of the airlock.
"Hello, Josephine," Jack said.
Josephine sat quietly, chewing on a fifty-pound note.
"Josephine, it's time. I don't know how well you can understand me, but I'm sorry. I brought you a gift." Jack slipped a wrapped package of $1000 Treasury notes in through the slot.
She perked up considerably. Looking up from where she sat, her eyes gleamed. She dragged herself across the floor with her hands to the airlock and grabbed the notes. Without unwrapping them first, she chewed through the plastic to get to the bills.
Jack began narrating. "SCP-5432, also known as Patient Four in the Great Plague of 2182. Patient Zero apprehended, contained, and decommissioned 3 May 2183." Jack meant that Patient Zero had been drained of his bodily fluids and vivisected in search of a cure. They had killed seven patients doing that. Most of them had belonged to the terrorist group that had created the virus in the first place. Not all of them. And not Josephine.
Jack had laced the bills with cyanide. He had also tripped the morphine gas in her room for this event. She would hardly feel anything. She kept chewing monomaniacally. As she slowed down, her head winding around dizzily, her eyes half-focused on Jack's. "Are...are we..."
"Yes, Josie. I promise."
"Are...are we...are we cool yet?" Josie's half-dead eyes pleaded for the answer. "Are we cool yet? ARE WE COOL YET?" The screeching of her voice was as haunting as ever. Jack's mind flashed back to the days, decades ago, when those words were being screamed down corridors.
"Go to sleep, Josie." Jack narrated into the flexipad, "SCP-5432 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2258 hours."
Her eyes faded for the last time. She lay on the ground, a half-eaten bill hanging from her mouth. Jack walked away.
------
One last stop. The containment chamber was at the bottom of the building, making the elevator ride a bit farther than before. He hadn't come down this way in a long time, well over a century. Not since the Unveiling. Not since the creature he was here for had arrived.
It used to be kept out of Site 19, back in the old building. One of the greatest benefits of the Unveiling was the scientific research that came with opening Foundation research to the rest of the world and seeing what came back. Since the advancements in containment that had come from that, there hadn't been a breach from this chamber in decades. The elevator slowed to a stop.
Jack exited into a well-lit hallway. There was one room on this floor, at the far end, with a speaker grate attached to a translation device. They had found out some time ago that the beast was always talking, often at telepathic wavelengths or ultrasonic pitches. It had taken years to work out all of the nuances and process it into audible speech, but the result was...interesting.
"GOOD EVENING DOCTOR BRIGHT," the speaker intoned. "WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE TONIGHT."
Jack cleared his throat. "You're more polite than I recall. That's a development."
"YOU ARE STILL FILTH TO ME," the creature said. "MY TEETH STILL ACHE FOR YOUR BLOOD. BUT I AM CONTENT TO WAIT FOR THE OPPORTUNITY. THIS IS THE LONGEST I HAVE EVER BEEN CONTAINED IN ONE PLACE, AND I MUST SHOW SOME RESPECT. I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND, DOCTOR."
"I don't go by Dr. Bright anymore," Jack said. "I'm barely that person anymore. We've all moved on. I'm the only one left alive, anyway."
"THE LIST OF THE DEAD IS LENGTHY, AND I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR SO FEW OF THEM. IT IS SORROWFUL. WHAT SHALL I CALL YOU THEN."
"Just Jack," he said.
"VERY WELL JACK. WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE THIS EVENING."
"I have a gift. For you." Jack said. "It's time to go."
"GO?"
"Go. We're done containing you, and you may leave."
The beast, so far as it could pull off body language, seemed confused.
"No, I'm serious."
"YOU ARE A LIAR AND A SOCIOPATH, JACK. YOU HAVE KILLED AS MANY OR MORE THAN I HAVE AT LEAST IN THE MOST RECENT CENTURIES."
"That's not me anymore," Jack said uncomfortably. "We've changed. The Foundation doesn't exist any more. We don't do those things any more."
"YOU ARE A LIAR EVEN TO YOURSELF. WHY WOULD YOU RELEASE ME."
"Two reasons. First, we live in a remarkable world now. We've traveled to star systems far away, spread ourselves out across two dozen planets. The Earth is used up, drained as far as possible, so we've evacuated the planet. There are less than twenty people left here, and as far as I know, they're all sitting on a ship, waiting for me. After midnight tonight, this planet will be human-free. You won't be a threat anymore. We've even gotten the rest of the SCPs off-world. There's no need to keep you here."
The monster paused. "WHAT IS THE SECOND REASON."
"It wouldn't have been possible without you."
------
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, JACK."
"It was a casual containment breach for you. We had trapped you at Site 19 temporarily during...some crisis or another, I can't recall which. You broke out, killed six that day. And in the course of that, you ended up in one containment chamber in particular."
"JACK I DO NOT RECALL THESE EVENTS--"
"Getting to that. You broke into 055's containment chamber. We have no idea what happened next inside there, but two things happened. First, eighteen iterations of you appeared in major cities, wreaking havoc. Not complete copies of you, just imitations; they all died pretty quickly once our task forces arrived. But that was about it for the Veil Protocol after that. So congratulations, I suppose."
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOU--"
"We've never understood it, but apparently you did something to 055. You reappeared in your chamber after we killed the last copy, forgetting everything. We never particularly wanted to let you in on it. But 055 started putting out energy after that. Just a trickle, then more and more as time went on. We were able to harness it, thanks to the combined efforts of the Foundation, the GOC, the UIU, everybody. We couldn't have done it without global support, the kind we never would have had before Rampage Day. It changed the world. You changed the world, in a good way. For once."
The beast was silent. It was like old times again.
"So, you're free, as of...as soon as I'm out of the building. The programs are prewritten. I hit one button, once I'm safely away, and you can leave as soon as you like."
The beast was silent.
"Yeah, I don't want to mess around with weepy goodbyes either. I hope, and I mean this with all my heart, that we never see each other again." Jack turned to leave.
"JACK."
Jack paused.
"MAY I SEE THE ARTIFACT FOR ONE LAST TIME."
Jack stopped to think if there was any way the lizard could exploit the amulet to its advantage and couldn't think of any. He pulled the amulet out and showed it to the beast. "I'm still in here. Some things don't change."
"THERE ARE ASPECTS OF THAT ARTIFACT THAT YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND. REFRACTIONS OF LIGHT THAT YOU WILL NEVER SEE. THINGS I COULD NOT EXPLAIN TO YOU EVEN WERE I SO INCLINED. 'GOODBYE', I BELIEVE IS THE EXPRESSION." The beast retreated to a corner of its chamber and became quiet.
Jack turned and walked to the elevator. The ride up to the surface was long, and uncomfortable. Once in his car, he opened the flexi, tapped four times, and put it back. He turned the ignition.
------
Jack was at the spaceport boarding the flight when the flexi vibrated again. He had programmed Site 19's cameras to follow what happened, and the show was apparently over. He watched the footage as the preflight checks were completed.
2345: All containment blocks drop. The monster waits for a moment before springing for the exit. It races to the open elevator and crawls up the shaft.
2354: The creature reaches the ground level, knowing instinctively when it arrives. It rips through the steel door with its teeth and emerges onto the floor of Site 19. It looks from side to side momentarily, then rushes for the enormous glass door. It is standing open.
2356: The lizard arrives outside. There is a moment when it looks at the giant gate and looks...suspicious, almost. It knows its former containers, knows what they are capable of. It knows what Dr. Bright is capable of, wonders how sincere he is about this transformation of his. The pause is just for a second, but all this is present. The lizard could go through the gate, or go around it; crawl over the walls or smash them. When the lizard slowly, tentatively starts snaking towards the gate, Jack believes it has made a decision. It has decided to do something not out of fear, not out of suspicion, but out of hope. It has not known hope in a very, very long time, but perhaps it decides that it is time to do something new.
2358: The lizard reaches the gate. What happens now is unrecorded, is likely unrecordable. This was technology nobody knew about; not the government, not the rest of the Containment Department, nobody. A bright blue flash of light, right when it passes under the gate. Jack doesn't know what it feels like for the beast to become mortal for the first time, but it doesn't have long to know the feeling.
2359: Site 19 warheads detonate. Something else the government didn't know about. Two directly beneath the gate, in fact.
"SCP-682 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2359 hours. Site 19 closed at that time. Send record to headquarters." Dr. Bright tapped the pad again.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-17T04:20:00 | [
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"are-we-cool-yet",
"bittersweet",
"doctor-bright",
"hard-to-destroy-reptile",
"post-apocalyptic",
"tale",
"utopian"
] | The Happy Ending - SCP Foundation | 169 | [
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] | [
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|
the-island-murder-mystery-show | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><a href="/grey-island-getaway">Evan is dead.</a></p>
<p>Marjory found him hanging from the tire swing's rope, with a weird symbol drawn on his back. It looked like some kind of voodoo thing, like witch doctors draw in the dust in shitty horror flicks. It was drawn in blood, but he didn't have a scratch on him, and for some reason that just makes it worse.</p>
<p>I'm really glad I didn't tell anyone about the gun.</p>
<hr/>
<p>William thinks it was Markus, that he's hiding on the island somewhere, that the canoe thing was just a fake to let him disappear. I dunno. He seemed like a pretty okay guy to me.</p>
<p>Marjory is curled in a ball on the couch now, crying her eyes out. Tim is with her, trying to help. He found some candles in one of the drawers, so tonight we'll probably do some kind of funeral… Evan's body is in the entryway, wrapped in the deflated raft from the plane. He was a cute kid. This is fucked up.</p>
<p>All afternoon I sat at the end of the driveway, thinking about how the front half of the plane was just gone, with a perfectly straight edge exactly like the cliff. It seems crazy, but I'm beginning to wonder. Probably best to push that thought aside. We've already got a maniac to deal with.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Just finished Evan's funeral, for what it's worth. We buried him out in the garden by the swing, and tried not to think about the fact that he'd been killed there. Everybody said a few words, just mumbling compliments mostly. It's not like any of us knew him well enough to have anything real to say. Hopefully, once we're rescued he can get a real proper burial with a real funeral back in civilization.</p>
<p>Marjory hasn't stopped crying since she found him. She keeps saying something about the symbol and her brother and trailing off. I'd write more about it, but she's honestly pretty tough to understand, and I think she's just raving anyhow. Marie seems to think she knows more about what happened than she's told us. The whole time we were in the garden she was staring at Marjory, glaring, while the candlelight flickered off a black eye I'm not entirely certain I believe she got in the crash.</p>
<p>William smoked nonstop the whole time, burning through all the cigarettes he had like there was a prize at the bottom of the pack. He was the only one at the service not holding a candle, and the glowing red cherry at the end of his fingers somehow only emphasized the fact that he was standing in darkness. Marjory was the only one crying. I can't help but begin to form some opinions of my own.</p>
<p>After the burial, we all went our separate ways for a while except for Marjory and Tim. I retreated to one of the bedrooms of the house and sat for a while reading a trashy paperback I found on a shelf by the light of an emergency glowstick from the raft. I must have gotten two or three chapters in, but damned if I can say what it was about, or even what the title was. We were all on autopilot, I think, still reeling from the one two punch dealt to us by fucked up fate. Eventually I gave up on the book and just started writing.</p>
<p>I don't know what happened to Evan, but I have a feeling something's going to go down between William and Marie, or between Marie and Marjory. William seems to have focused on Markus- that's a good thing. If Markus isn't here, they can't get violent. Marjory was the first one to find the body, but I don't think she could kill a kid. Tim was on the other end of the island, sitting on the front porch of the house. I could see him, and he could see me, so nobody suspects us. I don't get the impression Marie's suspicion is faked, which leaves William. Could he be faking his rage at Markus to cover up a murder? Why the fuck would he kill his own son? I don't want to believe that. What did happen to Markus, anyway?</p>
<p><a href="/corn-starch">Regardless, I'm keeping this gun with me at all times from now on.</a></p>
</blockquote>
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<p>"<a href="/the-island-murder-mystery-show">Chapter Two: The Island Murder Mystery Show</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-island-murder-mystery-show">https://scpwiki.com/the-island-murder-mystery-show</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> [[[grey-island-getaway|Evan is dead.]]]
>
> Marjory found him hanging from the tire swing's rope, with a weird symbol drawn on his back. It looked like some kind of voodoo thing, like witch doctors draw in the dust in shitty horror flicks. It was drawn in blood, but he didn't have a scratch on him, and for some reason that just makes it worse.
>
> I'm really glad I didn't tell anyone about the gun.
>
> -----------------------------------------
>
> William thinks it was Markus, that he's hiding on the island somewhere, that the canoe thing was just a fake to let him disappear. I dunno. He seemed like a pretty okay guy to me.
>
> Marjory is curled in a ball on the couch now, crying her eyes out. Tim is with her, trying to help. He found some candles in one of the drawers, so tonight we'll probably do some kind of funeral... Evan's body is in the entryway, wrapped in the deflated raft from the plane. He was a cute kid. This is fucked up.
>
> All afternoon I sat at the end of the driveway, thinking about how the front half of the plane was just gone, with a perfectly straight edge exactly like the cliff. It seems crazy, but I'm beginning to wonder. Probably best to push that thought aside. We've already got a maniac to deal with.
>
> ---------------------------------------
>
> Just finished Evan's funeral, for what it's worth. We buried him out in the garden by the swing, and tried not to think about the fact that he'd been killed there. Everybody said a few words, just mumbling compliments mostly. It's not like any of us knew him well enough to have anything real to say. Hopefully, once we're rescued he can get a real proper burial with a real funeral back in civilization.
>
> Marjory hasn't stopped crying since she found him. She keeps saying something about the symbol and her brother and trailing off. I'd write more about it, but she's honestly pretty tough to understand, and I think she's just raving anyhow. Marie seems to think she knows more about what happened than she's told us. The whole time we were in the garden she was staring at Marjory, glaring, while the candlelight flickered off a black eye I'm not entirely certain I believe she got in the crash.
>
> William smoked nonstop the whole time, burning through all the cigarettes he had like there was a prize at the bottom of the pack. He was the only one at the service not holding a candle, and the glowing red cherry at the end of his fingers somehow only emphasized the fact that he was standing in darkness. Marjory was the only one crying. I can't help but begin to form some opinions of my own.
>
> After the burial, we all went our separate ways for a while except for Marjory and Tim. I retreated to one of the bedrooms of the house and sat for a while reading a trashy paperback I found on a shelf by the light of an emergency glowstick from the raft. I must have gotten two or three chapters in, but damned if I can say what it was about, or even what the title was. We were all on autopilot, I think, still reeling from the one two punch dealt to us by fucked up fate. Eventually I gave up on the book and just started writing.
>
> I don't know what happened to Evan, but I have a feeling something's going to go down between William and Marie, or between Marie and Marjory. William seems to have focused on Markus- that's a good thing. If Markus isn't here, they can't get violent. Marjory was the first one to find the body, but I don't think she could kill a kid. Tim was on the other end of the island, sitting on the front porch of the house. I could see him, and he could see me, so nobody suspects us. I don't get the impression Marie's suspicion is faked, which leaves William. Could he be faking his rage at Markus to cover up a murder? Why the fuck would he kill his own son? I don't want to believe that. What did happen to Markus, anyway?
>
> [[[corn-starch|Regardless, I'm keeping this gun with me at all times from now on.]]]
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-07-18T22:13:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"first-person",
"journal",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Chapter Two: The Island Murder Mystery Show - SCP Foundation | 32 | [
"grey-island-getaway",
"corn-starch",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 10980798 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-island-murder-mystery-show |
|
the-long-con | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
<span style="font-size:0%;">Written by Sabituski </span>
<p>Two old men sat at a dinner table, directly across from each other. Above, an old glass chandelier hangs, ornamented with beautiful lights. On the north wall stands an impossibly large portrait of the same two men – shaking hands and smiling, their once jet black hair now dull gray.</p>
<p>There's the sound of cutlery moving about, of cups being lifted and then replaced.</p>
<p>“Keats,” one says.</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“We need to stop.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Oh! I agree completely, the Oracle stock is played out and useless to us now. We should look to invest in clean -”</p>
<p>“Not stocks, Keats.”</p>
<p>Both men put their cutlery down in unison and look at each other. They've been friends for so long that neither manages to muster up one hundred percent of the steel possible in their gaze.</p>
<p>“What are you talking about, Bill? I have to say, your train of thought is sometimes too fast for me to catch.”</p>
<p>“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”</p>
<p>“I'm afraid I don't.”</p>
<p>“I guess I have to spell it out for you, then.”</p>
<p>“I suppose.”</p>
<p>And here the first speaker -Old Wild Bill, if that matters- looks genuinely angry. He almost stands, thinks better of it, and stops himself. Silence hangs about the room like a condemned man.</p>
<p>“You…this, Keats.” He spreads his arms out around him in exasperation, showing off their grand surroundings. Indeed, the room seems better suited for the upper class streets of London, Washington, Tokyo, or Moscow. Who'd believe it was buried meters deep in Australian dirt? Who'd believe above these men's heads was a statue that would kill you, an immortal lizard, and perhaps worst of all, something red? Who'd believe that below them, even deeper still, was a nuclear warhead with a 20 megaton yield?</p>
<p>As it turns out, quite a lot of people.</p>
<p>“Are you unsatisfied with the Retreat Room, Bill?”</p>
<p>“Listen to me, you little shit.” Bill had taken this tone with the other man only a handful of times in their long, long acquittance, and it slaps Keats awake.</p>
<p>Old Wild Bill stands, and in that moment, he no longer is an old man, but the warrior once called Laughing Bull. His hands, tough black leathery things, come down hard on the table. "I've known you for a long time, William. I know you better than your old whore of a mother knows you. I have stood behind you in all your endeavors; even the ones that were monstrous. It was by my will that my old tribe did not rip your scalp off on the spot when you came riding into our camp. I talked to you, befriended you; you were inquisitive and intelligent, but lacking in humanity."</p>
<p>The other man rolls his eyes and scoffs at the word "humanity".</p>
<p>"It's true. I followed you because…I cared for you, Keats. You were a good friend, despite your greed. But I will not let you hold the world for ransom any longer."</p>
<p>Keats merely takes up a napkin and dabs at his chin and mouth.</p>
<p>"Have you nothing to say for yourself?"</p>
<p>“I'm waiting for you to finish this tired little tirade. Or would you rather me continue this story? Should I recount the tale of how the metal in your backwards little tribe's sacred 'relic' responded to my touch? Or should I yell loudly about what we found there? We could take this out in the hall, if you please.”</p>
<p>"The Factory is a mistake, Keats. It is…" He searches for the right word. "…not a thing of man. We are not meant to create in such a way."</p>
<p>"You are correct about one thing there, at least. It's not of man. It is mine. The Factory is my will made reality. And an effective tool to impose my reality on anyone who cares to disagree."</p>
<p>"You're mad."</p>
<p>"Insults now, is it?"</p>
<p>"Do you realize how old we are, Keats? Why won't you see reason? I am two hundred and ten today. I have watched my entire family die. Ever since you created that damn water -"</p>
<p>“Ah, the Fountain of Youth. Not my most graceful or original creation, but it works.”</p>
<p>Bill's rage was growing. He just looked at the other man and gritted his teeth. Keats noted this and grinned shallowly.</p>
<p>“And who would you tell about this grand conspiracy theory, Bill? The other O5? They are mine. A man's creations can never turn against him. You would know that, wouldn't you, Bill? You're the one who produced the most humans with my Factory. What were their names, again? Alto and Jack? Oh, and there was the one that looked like your son. The old you broke. 'Doctor' Gears, was it?"</p>
<p>“Shut up, Keats."</p>
<p>"I think not. You see, I have known of your growing dissent for some time, and I have planned this moment. Perfectly, I might add. Do you think I would honestly let you walk in here one day and end the world's greatest and longest con? No, Bill. There are still countries to bribe, blackmail, and ruin. There is still money and power out there that I do not yet have. Do you realize what leaders will pay to keep their people safe and their rule secure? I simply cannot allow you to ruin this job for me, despite old friendships." Keat's voice had slowly descended in tone; where there was once affable enjoyment had been replaced with cold stillness.</p>
<p>"I'll kill you, William Keats. And then I'll kill your toys."</p>
<p>“Big words from an old Indian. Excuse me, Native American.”</p>
<p>“You piece of shit -”</p>
<p>Keats had been thumbing the action on his gun since Bill had begun speaking. Two shots rang out, and Wild Bill suddenly found he no longer had knees. There was a scream, and Keats stood, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. In his other hand was a smoking matte-black revolver.</p>
<p>“And history repeats, it seems. The noble English have once again prevailed against our savage foes. ” He presses an intercom button built into the table, and a quiet speaker crackles to life.</p>
<p>“Yes, Mr. One?” An extremely chipper female voice echos throughout the room.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Escot? Which Sites are Alto Clef and Jack Bright currently stationed at?”</p>
<p>“One minute please, sir.” Keyboard taps. “Dr. Clef is stationed at Site 19 sir, but he is currently visiting Dr. Bright at Site 23.”</p>
<p>“Ahhh, 23. The renegades. How convenient; three birds with a single stone. Mrs. Escot, please arrange for SCP-173 and one of our cloning devices to be transferred to Site 23. Once they are inside, please remotely seal the exits and arrange for the two to interact. You have my permission to use our sleeper agents.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir! Sir, shall I detonate Site 23's nuclear warhead afterward?”</p>
<p>“Hmmm…no, but please ensure that the Site's entrance is buried. And see to it that a cleaning crew is set down to the Retreat Room. Tell them to bring mops.”</p>
<p>“Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” Click. The speaker turns off.</p>
<p>Wild Bill lays on the floor, bleeding and barely holding onto consciousness. Keats walks over and stands over him, the gun still in his hand.</p>
<p>“Any pithy last words, Bill?”</p>
<p>Bill's left hand weakly extends a middle finger.</p>
<p>“How predictable.” There is a single crack, and the world's second oldest man dies.</p>
<p>Keats looks at the broken body of his only friend, shrugs, and pockets the gun. He removes a cigarette and a lighter from his breast pocket, and lights up. The smell of tobacco mixes with the smell of gun smoke, and for a brief second, William Keats, pride of his father and light in his mother's eyes, feels a deep sense of nostalgia and accomplishment.</p>
<p>“You ran a good con. Happy birthday, Bill.”</p>
<p>He throws the lit cigarette unto the other man's body and leaves the room.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later, a crew in orange jumpsuits with mops enters the same room, and wordlessly cleans up the body. Thirty minutes later, every single man and woman in Site 23 is trying not to blink. An hour later, and Keats is sitting across from the President of the United States and calmly informing him how easily SCP-682 could be transported into Washington.</p>
<p>The next day, a large amount of funds are transferred into the Foundation's coffers.</p>
<p>Ignoring death and tragedy, the con, and the Foundation, goes on.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/the-long-con">The Long Con</a>" by Sabitsuki, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-long-con">https://scpwiki.com/the-long-con</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
[[size 0%]]Written by Sabituski [[/size]]
Two old men sat at a dinner table, directly across from each other. Above, an old glass chandelier hangs, ornamented with beautiful lights. On the north wall stands an impossibly large portrait of the same two men – shaking hands and smiling, their once jet black hair now dull gray.
There's the sound of cutlery moving about, of cups being lifted and then replaced.
“Keats,” one says.
“Hm?”
“We need to stop.”
“Oh? Oh! I agree completely, the Oracle stock is played out and useless to us now. We should look to invest in clean -”
“Not stocks, Keats.”
Both men put their cutlery down in unison and look at each other. They've been friends for so long that neither manages to muster up one hundred percent of the steel possible in their gaze.
“What are you talking about, Bill? I have to say, your train of thought is sometimes too fast for me to catch.”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”
“I'm afraid I don't.”
“I guess I have to spell it out for you, then.”
“I suppose.”
And here the first speaker -Old Wild Bill, if that matters- looks genuinely angry. He almost stands, thinks better of it, and stops himself. Silence hangs about the room like a condemned man.
“You...this, Keats.” He spreads his arms out around him in exasperation, showing off their grand surroundings. Indeed, the room seems better suited for the upper class streets of London, Washington, Tokyo, or Moscow. Who'd believe it was buried meters deep in Australian dirt? Who'd believe above these men's heads was a statue that would kill you, an immortal lizard, and perhaps worst of all, something red? Who'd believe that below them, even deeper still, was a nuclear warhead with a 20 megaton yield?
As it turns out, quite a lot of people.
“Are you unsatisfied with the Retreat Room, Bill?”
“Listen to me, you little shit.” Bill had taken this tone with the other man only a handful of times in their long, long acquittance, and it slaps Keats awake.
Old Wild Bill stands, and in that moment, he no longer is an old man, but the warrior once called Laughing Bull. His hands, tough black leathery things, come down hard on the table. "I've known you for a long time, William. I know you better than your old whore of a mother knows you. I have stood behind you in all your endeavors; even the ones that were monstrous. It was by my will that my old tribe did not rip your scalp off on the spot when you came riding into our camp. I talked to you, befriended you; you were inquisitive and intelligent, but lacking in humanity."
The other man rolls his eyes and scoffs at the word "humanity".
"It's true. I followed you because...I cared for you, Keats. You were a good friend, despite your greed. But I will not let you hold the world for ransom any longer."
Keats merely takes up a napkin and dabs at his chin and mouth.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
“I'm waiting for you to finish this tired little tirade. Or would you rather me continue this story? Should I recount the tale of how the metal in your backwards little tribe's sacred 'relic' responded to my touch? Or should I yell loudly about what we found there? We could take this out in the hall, if you please.”
"The Factory is a mistake, Keats. It is..." He searches for the right word. "...not a thing of man. We are not meant to create in such a way."
"You are correct about one thing there, at least. It's not of man. It is mine. The Factory is my will made reality. And an effective tool to impose my reality on anyone who cares to disagree."
"You're mad."
"Insults now, is it?"
"Do you realize how old we are, Keats? Why won't you see reason? I am two hundred and ten today. I have watched my entire family die. Ever since you created that damn water -"
“Ah, the Fountain of Youth. Not my most graceful or original creation, but it works.”
Bill's rage was growing. He just looked at the other man and gritted his teeth. Keats noted this and grinned shallowly.
“And who would you tell about this grand conspiracy theory, Bill? The other O5? They are mine. A man's creations can never turn against him. You would know that, wouldn't you, Bill? You're the one who produced the most humans with my Factory. What were their names, again? Alto and Jack? Oh, and there was the one that looked like your son. The old you broke. 'Doctor' Gears, was it?"
“Shut up, Keats."
"I think not. You see, I have known of your growing dissent for some time, and I have planned this moment. Perfectly, I might add. Do you think I would honestly let you walk in here one day and end the world's greatest and longest con? No, Bill. There are still countries to bribe, blackmail, and ruin. There is still money and power out there that I do not yet have. Do you realize what leaders will pay to keep their people safe and their rule secure? I simply cannot allow you to ruin this job for me, despite old friendships." Keat's voice had slowly descended in tone; where there was once affable enjoyment had been replaced with cold stillness.
"I'll kill you, William Keats. And then I'll kill your toys."
“Big words from an old Indian. Excuse me, Native American.”
“You piece of shit -”
Keats had been thumbing the action on his gun since Bill had begun speaking. Two shots rang out, and Wild Bill suddenly found he no longer had knees. There was a scream, and Keats stood, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. In his other hand was a smoking matte-black revolver.
“And history repeats, it seems. The noble English have once again prevailed against our savage foes. ” He presses an intercom button built into the table, and a quiet speaker crackles to life.
“Yes, Mr. One?” An extremely chipper female voice echos throughout the room.
“Mrs. Escot? Which Sites are Alto Clef and Jack Bright currently stationed at?”
“One minute please, sir.” Keyboard taps. “Dr. Clef is stationed at Site 19 sir, but he is currently visiting Dr. Bright at Site 23.”
“Ahhh, 23. The renegades. How convenient; three birds with a single stone. Mrs. Escot, please arrange for SCP-173 and one of our cloning devices to be transferred to Site 23. Once they are inside, please remotely seal the exits and arrange for the two to interact. You have my permission to use our sleeper agents.”
“Yes, sir! Sir, shall I detonate Site 23's nuclear warhead afterward?”
“Hmmm...no, but please ensure that the Site's entrance is buried. And see to it that a cleaning crew is set down to the Retreat Room. Tell them to bring mops.”
“Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” Click. The speaker turns off.
Wild Bill lays on the floor, bleeding and barely holding onto consciousness. Keats walks over and stands over him, the gun still in his hand.
“Any pithy last words, Bill?”
Bill's left hand weakly extends a middle finger.
“How predictable.” There is a single crack, and the world's second oldest man dies.
Keats looks at the broken body of his only friend, shrugs, and pockets the gun. He removes a cigarette and a lighter from his breast pocket, and lights up. The smell of tobacco mixes with the smell of gun smoke, and for a brief second, William Keats, pride of his father and light in his mother's eyes, feels a deep sense of nostalgia and accomplishment.
“You ran a good con. Happy birthday, Bill.”
He throws the lit cigarette unto the other man's body and leaves the room.
Ten minutes later, a crew in orange jumpsuits with mops enters the same room, and wordlessly cleans up the body. Thirty minutes later, every single man and woman in Site 23 is trying not to blink. An hour later, and Keats is sitting across from the President of the United States and calmly informing him how easily SCP-682 could be transported into Washington.
The next day, a large amount of funds are transferred into the Foundation's coffers.
Ignoring death and tragedy, the con, and the Foundation, goes on.
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>
|author=Sabitsuki]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-06-03T21:48:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"doctor-clef",
"factory",
"tale"
] | The Long Con - SCP Foundation | 25 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:secure-facilities-locations-2",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"factory-hub",
"bargain-bin-of-direct-to-forum-sequels"
] | [] | 10399139 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-long-con |
|
the-manager | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
Good afternoon, Everett. May I call you Everett? Dr. Mann seems so impersonal. It's a fine summer day, isn't it? I'd offer you a drink, but it seems you're the host today.
<p>Don't be so shy. You want to know about the Factory, right? Don't worry, I'll tell you plenty. You can still torture me later, of course. I'm afraid my screaming circuits are a little rusty, but I'll put in the effort. For you.</p>
<p>So what did you want to know? Perhaps the rundown on our upcoming products? There's a line of action figures coming up that I'm particularly proud of. We've got a new series of adult toys, and a couple others - don't want to give away too much, but let's just say there's nothing we can't make candy-coated.</p>
<p>Come now. Don't be so dramatic. We're hardly the worst problem you have - I wouldn't even call us a problem. We're just trying to keep you on your toes. At worst we're your court jesters, your Friday night entertainment.</p>
<p>Tell me you didn't find the monkeys and the liquid rock charming. Or the God series. The anti-gravity device - how could that fail to tickle you? The contact lenses were practically benevolent - doesn't everyone at the Foundation want to see the world for how it really is? The silly putty - don't deny your researchers got some laughs out of that. I've seen your testing logs, with those poor, hapless D-Classes. The pencil sharpeners, those really were a gift, considering the uses you've put them to. …Oh? You're one of the Foundation's most brilliant stars now, Everett. I've heard stories… You can't tell me a few baby-faced schoolchildren still phase you.</p>
<p>Oh, of course that's what you meant. No, we haven't infiltrated your organization. Infiltration implies we're the enemy, that we actually need to <em>spy</em> on you.</p>
<p>They work with you every day, why don't you ask them? How about Jack, eh? Certainly worked with more than his share of Factory items. And his lovely little necklace - I'm sure you know the Foundation has since acquired a few more of those things. Even if there's… flaws… in the production line. Didn't you ever wonder…</p>
<p>No, I see you're not ready to believe that one. That's alright. Loyalty is a virtue. It's true, you really have no reason to trust me.</p>
<p>Oh, is that what this is about? Someone told you a little story. Was it the one with the faeries? Dear me, I've struck a nerve. I can see the seed of doubt was already there. Then perhaps you really don't want to hear that the best parts of that story are true. And the parts that aren't - well, don't worry, those only get better. You can't be told <em>too</em> much too fast. Don't want you to end up like poor Kondraki.</p>
<p>You look unimpressed. I'm sorry, was that too dramatic? I try to save the drama for our products. But sometimes I just can't help myself. Look - you're important to us. Before you came along, where were we? Stuck mostly dealing in… oh no, wait, I'm not supposed to tell you that, yet. For now, let's just say they were hard times. We want you around. You're not our first love, but you're the best.</p>
<p>We're not going to destroy the world, Everett. That isn't the point. We're just capitalists with a sense of humor. We want to add a little spice, a little flavor to the proceedings.</p>
<p>We hold ourselves back, you see. We want to make sure you can handle us. For now. Soon we won't need to keep the kid gloves on.</p>
<p>Of course that isn't a threat. We're the Factory. We produce, we don't posture.</p>
<p>You're right. We've got plans. Big ones, it's true. Tell you what - if you do a good job torturing me, I'll drop you a few spoilers. You've got to go the extra mile, though. As I said, I've heard stories about you, Everett. They say there are few limits to how far you'll go, when given the proper motivation. I'll be disappointed if you just waterboard me or chop off a few of my extra limbs. And be quick about it. I can't stay with you much longer.</p>
<p>Before you go, indulge me with one more question. About that story, Everett - the faerie story. Did he tell you he thought - at first - that he had us tamed? That he did it all for the good of mankind?</p>
<p>Ah, I can see I'm right. I <em>knew</em> he was still a sentimental man. It warms my entirely metaphorical heart.</p>
<p>The future is a brilliant place, Everett. You'll love it. We'll get there, together. I promise.<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/the-manager">The Manager</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-manager">https://scpwiki.com/the-manager</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Good afternoon, Everett. May I call you Everett? Dr. Mann seems so impersonal. It's a fine summer day, isn't it? I'd offer you a drink, but it seems you're the host today.
Don't be so shy. You want to know about the Factory, right? Don't worry, I'll tell you plenty. You can still torture me later, of course. I'm afraid my screaming circuits are a little rusty, but I'll put in the effort. For you.
So what did you want to know? Perhaps the rundown on our upcoming products? There's a line of action figures coming up that I'm particularly proud of. We've got a new series of adult toys, and a couple others - don't want to give away too much, but let's just say there's nothing we can't make candy-coated.
Come now. Don't be so dramatic. We're hardly the worst problem you have - I wouldn't even call us a problem. We're just trying to keep you on your toes. At worst we're your court jesters, your Friday night entertainment.
Tell me you didn't find the monkeys and the liquid rock charming. Or the God series. The anti-gravity device - how could that fail to tickle you? The contact lenses were practically benevolent - doesn't everyone at the Foundation want to see the world for how it really is? The silly putty - don't deny your researchers got some laughs out of that. I've seen your testing logs, with those poor, hapless D-Classes. The pencil sharpeners, those really were a gift, considering the uses you've put them to. ...Oh? You're one of the Foundation's most brilliant stars now, Everett. I've heard stories... You can't tell me a few baby-faced schoolchildren still phase you.
Oh, of course that's what you meant. No, we haven't infiltrated your organization. Infiltration implies we're the enemy, that we actually need to //spy// on you.
They work with you every day, why don't you ask them? How about Jack, eh? Certainly worked with more than his share of Factory items. And his lovely little necklace - I'm sure you know the Foundation has since acquired a few more of those things. Even if there's... flaws... in the production line. Didn't you ever wonder...
No, I see you're not ready to believe that one. That's alright. Loyalty is a virtue. It's true, you really have no reason to trust me.
Oh, is that what this is about? Someone told you a little story. Was it the one with the faeries? Dear me, I've struck a nerve. I can see the seed of doubt was already there. Then perhaps you really don't want to hear that the best parts of that story are true. And the parts that aren't - well, don't worry, those only get better. You can't be told //too// much too fast. Don't want you to end up like poor Kondraki.
You look unimpressed. I'm sorry, was that too dramatic? I try to save the drama for our products. But sometimes I just can't help myself. Look - you're important to us. Before you came along, where were we? Stuck mostly dealing in... oh no, wait, I'm not supposed to tell you that, yet. For now, let's just say they were hard times. We want you around. You're not our first love, but you're the best.
We're not going to destroy the world, Everett. That isn't the point. We're just capitalists with a sense of humor. We want to add a little spice, a little flavor to the proceedings.
We hold ourselves back, you see. We want to make sure you can handle us. For now. Soon we won't need to keep the kid gloves on.
Of course that isn't a threat. We're the Factory. We produce, we don't posture.
You're right. We've got plans. Big ones, it's true. Tell you what - if you do a good job torturing me, I'll drop you a few spoilers. You've got to go the extra mile, though. As I said, I've heard stories about you, Everett. They say there are few limits to how far you'll go, when given the proper motivation. I'll be disappointed if you just waterboard me or chop off a few of my extra limbs. And be quick about it. I can't stay with you much longer.
Before you go, indulge me with one more question. About that story, Everett - the faerie story. Did he tell you he thought - at first - that he had us tamed? That he did it all for the good of mankind?
Ah, I can see I'm right. I //knew// he was still a sentimental man. It warms my entirely metaphorical heart.
The future is a brilliant place, Everett. You'll love it. We'll get there, together. I promise.
@@ @@
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"_licensebox",
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the-one-who-devours-souls | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The One Who Devours Souls arrives in the bleak, gray hours of the morning, when all good men lie afearing their beds. He (for it is a he, though the strange raiments it wears, and the viscous fluids in its hair make its sex vague) steps from his carriage, a cursed device made for kings in distant lands and bought by the persecution of righteous men, and walks, measured and even as old age, to the threshold, where he strikes the door but thrice. He calls my name, and chills run down my spine, as though death itself were upon me. Death would, in fact, be a blessing, compared to the torment this creature intends for me.</p>
<p>I shake my head, but he strikes three times again, and says my name. I quail in my chair, staring bleakly at the place she once sat beside me, before the doom befell me. Three times again, and paid for all. Thrice three, and I am compelled to rise, to unbolt the door, and let the creature in.</p>
<p>He takes my hand in his, his grip like a leech's. My hand falls back to my side, my strength gone. I fall back to my seat, and he takes the other. The place where she once sat. Does he know? He must. He knows all that is in my house, from attic to basement, room to room. There is little that could have escaped his notice. His lists.</p>
<p>He speaks and his voice is like unto the droning of insects, and I can feel a burning madness in my mind. How could his voice have beguiled others so? And yet it had, for what other explanation could there be? How else could my situation, once so full of fortune, have turned to Jobian loss and regret? The words, it was his words! Nothing left his mouth that was not carefully selected, the words placed one after the other like the stones of a wall, seeming so innocuous until you noticed the traps he had lain, and then it was too late.</p>
<p>He lifts the container at his side, and places it reverently on the table, like an idol placed just so before a sacrifice is laid screaming on the altar. The latches are opened with an ominous click, and from the darkness thus revealed, he pulls out several documents, their words arcane and their meanings as treacherous as a pit of vipers.</p>
<p>"Read," he commands. I try, knowing how much is at stake, knowing that one missed word will ruin me, even beyond the state I find myself in, but my mind can make no sense of the twisted sentences. I read, and re-read, and can no more tell you what I see than I can recall the vows I once made to her. Finally, I give up. My eyes hollow, I stare up at him, searching for some trace of humanity in that dead visage, some remnant of charity or pity. He returns my gaze, and I look away, unable to meet those cold, reptilian eyes.</p>
<p>"Sign here," he says, gesturing to a line. I find a pen in my hand, though I cannot recall having picked it up. Numbly, as though I were only watching it happen, as though I were not an active participant, I sign my name in an unsteady script. More lines are singled out for my name, my one true name, and so I give him power over me.</p>
<p>"Thank you, Mister Johnson," he says, picking up the briefcase. "Your ex-wife will be expecting the first alimony check no later than thirty days. Good day."</p>
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<p>"<a href="/the-one-who-devours-souls">The One Who Devours Souls</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-one-who-devours-souls">https://scpwiki.com/the-one-who-devours-souls</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
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The One Who Devours Souls arrives in the bleak, gray hours of the morning, when all good men lie afearing their beds. He (for it is a he, though the strange raiments it wears, and the viscous fluids in its hair make its sex vague) steps from his carriage, a cursed device made for kings in distant lands and bought by the persecution of righteous men, and walks, measured and even as old age, to the threshold, where he strikes the door but thrice. He calls my name, and chills run down my spine, as though death itself were upon me. Death would, in fact, be a blessing, compared to the torment this creature intends for me.
I shake my head, but he strikes three times again, and says my name. I quail in my chair, staring bleakly at the place she once sat beside me, before the doom befell me. Three times again, and paid for all. Thrice three, and I am compelled to rise, to unbolt the door, and let the creature in.
He takes my hand in his, his grip like a leech's. My hand falls back to my side, my strength gone. I fall back to my seat, and he takes the other. The place where she once sat. Does he know? He must. He knows all that is in my house, from attic to basement, room to room. There is little that could have escaped his notice. His lists.
He speaks and his voice is like unto the droning of insects, and I can feel a burning madness in my mind. How could his voice have beguiled others so? And yet it had, for what other explanation could there be? How else could my situation, once so full of fortune, have turned to Jobian loss and regret? The words, it was his words! Nothing left his mouth that was not carefully selected, the words placed one after the other like the stones of a wall, seeming so innocuous until you noticed the traps he had lain, and then it was too late.
He lifts the container at his side, and places it reverently on the table, like an idol placed just so before a sacrifice is laid screaming on the altar. The latches are opened with an ominous click, and from the darkness thus revealed, he pulls out several documents, their words arcane and their meanings as treacherous as a pit of vipers.
"Read," he commands. I try, knowing how much is at stake, knowing that one missed word will ruin me, even beyond the state I find myself in, but my mind can make no sense of the twisted sentences. I read, and re-read, and can no more tell you what I see than I can recall the vows I once made to her. Finally, I give up. My eyes hollow, I stare up at him, searching for some trace of humanity in that dead visage, some remnant of charity or pity. He returns my gaze, and I look away, unable to meet those cold, reptilian eyes.
"Sign here," he says, gesturing to a line. I find a pen in my hand, though I cannot recall having picked it up. Numbly, as though I were only watching it happen, as though I were not an active participant, I sign my name in an unsteady script. More lines are singled out for my name, my one true name, and so I give him power over me.
"Thank you, Mister Johnson," he says, picking up the briefcase. "Your ex-wife will be expecting the first alimony check no later than thirty days. Good day."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
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| 2011-11-08T01:44:00 | [
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|
the-orb-is-the-key | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Excerpts from the personal diary of Nikola Tesla, March 18th, 1901, regarding SCP-627, obtained from his apartment on January 7th, 1943 by SCP Agent [EXPUNGED]</p>
<p>Warden bought me the land. The deal is in its final stages and construction will begin sometime in the winter. The proposed laboratory has ample room, and a direct access to the rail line.<br/>
The man thinks I'm going to boom the local economy and that a city will spring up because of my work. He doesn't know why I'm really here and what I'm set to accomplish.</p>
<p>Free energy. Producing enough electricity that we will no longer need wires. Isolated nations could be brought to the modern age through the work of one simple machine.<br/>
The orb is the key. I don't know where Jack got it. I just know that there's a perpetual motion to it, and that I've been unable to destroy it and find out what is inside. Striking it with a hammer was useless.<br/>
Using a cutting torch only made it warm to the touch. Having someone drive a railroad spike into it bent the spike. Throughout all the tests I've done and ran on this creation, it still continues to roll by itself, in the rough span of a meter.</p>
<p>Nothing is seeming to animate this. To the ear, there's nothing. It's normally cool as any stone or glass is to the touch, save the rough edges of the flecks of blue material on the surface.<br/>
I've done everything I can short of smashing it with an industrial pr</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Smashing it with an industrial press caused severe damage to the press. I am now short fifty dollars to pay for the damages.</p>
<p>June 18th, 1901</p>
<p>"Wardenclyffe."<br/>
The man thinks that my ambition is going to put his name on the map. He has no idea what I have in store for the world. The ball still rolls on the smooth stone floor of the laboratory space, and the sound can get agitating in the dead of the night. I've begun to design a machine that will use the perpetual motion of this orb in order to produce energy, refining it, and focusing it into a coil of iron and copper, using one of my coil designs from earlier modified appropriately. I'm going to need workers if I'm going to power the seaboard. Work shall begin post-haste.</p>
<p>Edison arrived at the lab the other day. The man, while brilliant, is backwards and not as much of a dreamer as I. He may have won over the masses, but I do not need popularity in order to fulfill my goal.<br/>
Popularity is the need of lesser men. DC current and AC current will be meaningless when my project succeeds. We shared a glass of tea and my assistant rushed him away to leave when workers arrived with a spool of copper wire.</p>
<p>Insufferable. Why would you electrocute an elephant just to prove a man wrong? Elephants don't deserve to be electrocuted. The man is an ass, and this emotion is most certainly resentment.<br/>
I'm allowed emotions! I can resent the man all I please, because our rivalry is chicken seed in comparison to what is to come!</p>
<p>That poor elephant.</p>
<p>Ball rolls up obstacles. Placed hand in way, rolled up and over hand. Placed brick in way, rolled over brick.<br/>
Placed in front of assistant. Rolled up assistant's leg, up torso and across face, dropped to the opposite side. Not doing that again.<br/>
Attempts to slow it down and render its direction askew with wooden blocks also futile. Weighing it down with my hand stops it, but</p>
<p>August 19th, 1901</p>
<p>Rudimentary test with coil success. Static discharge safe if grounded and when outside 20 feet.<br/>
More tests on orb this morning after breakfast. Idea hit me when I woke if I could constrict the size of the meter circumference of the orb's path.<br/>
Constructed circle of iron using scrap metal, and ..ironically, a path painted by the orb when covered in grease paint. Iron circle to constrict path of orb to that of a foot, as opposed to the usual 1m.<br/>
Test was a resounding success. Marked speed increase and increase in acceleration. Difficult getting grease paint off.<br/>
Orb continued at speed until iron ring was removed, then resumed at one meter.</p>
<p>To call myself puzzled is an understatement. I'd give anything to be able to see what's inside of this small orb of stone. Going to test this via the extremes come Sunday.<br/>
I need to get okay from local police, assistant can do that. Continuing to design coil apparatus and "tower" for orb project. Workers are beginning to construct the base and all things are looking well.<br/>
I find myself not eating, too busy working. I need to remedy this and slow down for my health, but I'm so close, I can feel it in my very soul. I can help the world, perhaps bring in a new day for civilization.</p>
<p>And the orb is the key.</p>
<p>Sunday, August 24th, 1901</p>
<p>FRUSTRATED</p>
<p>HITTING ORB WITH STEAM LOCOMOTIVE DERAILED LOCOMOTIVE</p>
<p>GOING TO SLEEP, TOO FRUSTRATED TO KEEP TRAIN OF THOUGHT</p>
<p>WHY - GOD DAMNED TRAIN WAS SUPPOSED TO SPLIT IT</p>
<p>NEVER AGAIN</p>
<p>IF A BLOODY TRAIN CAN'T CRACK THIS THING OPEN THEN NOTHING ON EARTH CAN</p>
<p>DOES NOT MATTER, PLAN CONTINUES</p>
<p>September 11th, 1901</p>
<p>Found myself sleeping at workbench. Assistant roused me from my sleep, I asked him what time it was.<br/>
I'd been working into the early dawn hours and still I'm not making appropriate progress. I need to keep the edge in the race for free energy.<br/>
I have the orb, but Edison may resort to espionage and sabotage. It's not beneath the man if he'll willingly slander my works like he has in the past.<br/>
He has the fluke of creating the lightbulb? What if someone else made the light bulb and he took it?</p>
<p>Paranoia must be due to lack of sleep.</p>
<p>I hate the damn sound that orb makes when it rolls on sheet metal. Copper containment must be in tube form in final design.</p>
<p>Copper and iron.</p>
<p>December 31st, 1901</p>
<p>A new year is dawning. A new year, and soon my preliminary designs will be finalized, and construction will begin.</p>
<p>The tower will be tall, over a hundred feet, using wood stabilizers. The idea is the project has to be large, in order to reach the effect necessary for global empowerment.<br/>
George and I spoke about the money issues. I told him I needed to leave the lab to get to the city and entrusted him with the orb.</p>
<p>Before I left, I meditated in the laboratory, looking over one of my electrical coils arc electricity through the room.<br/>
How can I be wrong when I can -see- the fruits of my designs? I can -see- my designs working?</p>
<p>I know I'm right. I have to be right, or all of this work is for nothing.</p>
<p>January 7th, 1902</p>
<p>My enemies have been very successful in painting me as a poet and visionary.<br/>
I've at Wardenclyffe for the past few days, thinking of moving laboratory from Houston Street here.</p>
<p>Tower is still under construction but construction is going very well.<br/>
I need to be able to think. I need the air around here to clear my head and I'm frustrated and scared out of my mind of the possible outcomes of the device.<br/>
I could power the entire world with this, or I could ignite the atmosphere in flames and kill all life on earth, or absolutely nothing could happen. I need to try.<br/>
Mankind has lived in the darkness for too long.</p>
<p>A tubing system has been tested with the orb, and the orb's conductivity, or rather the motion it has, has given the system a strong electrical charge. I need to constrict and focus.<br/>
I am not a madman. I am a man with vision and the will to see that vision come to fruition.</p>
<p>Why must I remind myself as such?</p>
<p>I worry the project has taken a toll on my mental faculties.</p>
<p>I can't worry now. I have to see this through.</p>
<p>May 4th, 1902</p>
<p>Tower needs about a year before the first test of the design.<br/>
One year. Worried about money issues. A lot is riding on my success.<br/>
George had his workers carry in the last of the laboratory equipment to the facility today.<br/>
The man's a good friend, but I worry that he may seek employment elsewhere if the money dries out.</p>
<p>This is why I must succeed. If I don't, I'm going to be in destitution, in debt to men with more pull than I.<br/>
Word came from the Colorado Springs of the sale of the grounds. It doesn't matter. That laboratory has nothing to give me anymore.</p>
<p>All work is now to be done in Wardenclyffe. Nothing ties me to Houston Street anymore. I can work here in solitude and without interruption.</p>
<p>The orb is the key.</p>
<p>An iron tube, seven inches in diameter, will wrap around a wooden beam in the center of the tower, wrapped in copper wire. Once the electrical charge is built up, it will shoot up the wire and be amplified by the sphere at the top of the tower. The electricity and static charge will then be capable of powering anywhere in the world by 'wobbling' the planet's magnetosphere. I've spent over fifteen years working on this design. It has to work.</p>
<p>July 10th, 1902</p>
<p>Today is my birthday.</p>
<p>The test firing begins one year from now.</p>
<p>The plan is finalized. All I need to do is complete the tower.</p>
<p>Money is running dangerously low.<br/>
JP Morgan and my backers have voiced their doubt.<br/>
They will be shown the way. Everyone will.</p>
<p>I've read of a scientist in Germany, an up-and-comer in the world of physics, who <em>might</em> be able to assist me.<br/>
The project won't survive without something commercial. I have to leave this project financially sound.</p>
<p>Nearly a million has been spent. The great undertaking is nearly complete.<br/>
The orb is the key.</p>
<p>August 30th, 1902</p>
<p>I haven't slept for over eighty hours. I have to finish the project. Everything is in place.<br/>
The [incomprehensible scribbles and a coffee stain] mustn't malfunction.</p>
<p>November 5th, 1902</p>
<p>Saw a film today, Le Voyage dans la lune. The movie is about a group of travelers who shoot to the moon in a giant bullet-shaped craft. They encounter space aliens, and manage to get their way back home. I'm not sure where I found the copy, but I allowed myself time to view it in the means of my work. I'd heard rumors that Edison's technicians have been spreading the film about and not giving the director his due cuts. This strikes me JUST as what Thomas would do.</p>
<p>My hatred and rivalry for this man knows no bounds. I will out shadow him with my design. The Tower shall bring in a new age of humanity and Thomas Alva Edison will be left in the dust!<br/>
Marconi and I have discussed obtaining the last bit of funds I need for my tower. He seems hesitant and I can see it in his eyes when I talk to him the doubt others share.</p>
<p>I have no room for doubt. No room.</p>
<p>His assistance is vital, however. The tower is constructed. We will begin preparations for test firing over the spring. For now, I need to take a moment to rest.<br/>
Pigeon flew into arc of one of the coils earlier today and reminded me of dangers of electricity. Going to miss her. She was one of my favorites of the flock I keep.<br/>
Buried pigeon in shoebox beside oak tree near laboratory.</p>
<p>January 1st, 1903</p>
<p>došli peniaze na financovanie projektu</p>
<p>treba mimoriadnych finančných prostriedkov z podporovateľov</p>
<p>oni mi dal ešte poslednú šancu</p>
<p>Potrebujem šesť mesiacov</p>
<p>pitnej problémy preč</p>
<p>Orb je kľúčom</p>
<p>Febuary 10th, 1903</p>
<p>Testing the conductivity today.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>Test went well. An odd resonance and sound from the tower. Hum?<br/>
Need to investigate. Resonance is either a good thing or a bad thing.<br/>
Workers and pigeons find sound incredibly unnerving.</p>
<p>Workers are frightened by the scale of the project. Some of them have voiced their conerns.<br/>
I tell them they're safe, and that the majority of the current is going into the earth, as per the project's ultimate design.<br/>
The majority of them are calmed by this, but some still show hesitance when I flip the switch for conductivity tests.</p>
<p>The government agents arrived again this morning. They're asking me what's powering the tower, and why I need the carbon tube ring.<br/>
I ask them what agency they belong to. They tell me they're part of a new unusual incident investigation organization of the Secret Service.<br/>
They don't seem very bright. I tell them the 'truth' and back my claims up with old diagrams that they couldn't understand and that were of no use to me.</p>
<p>They thanked me for the tea I served them and left. That was a close one. I need to prepare for more scrutiny from outside forces.</p>
<p>March 18th, 1903</p>
<p>Rolled the orb in chalk and drew a circle on the ground. Washed it off and threw it at a wall as hard as I could. The wall dented, the orb is fine.<br/>
I doubt this small stone is from our planet. It's so very, very durable, and I'll never be able to find out why it works the way it does. The 'why' no longer matters.<br/>
The 'what' does. What does it do. It runs in a circle on its own. It speeds up the tighter its path is constricted. The ring will be small and the energy it will produce will be enough.<br/>
I washed the orb of the chalky dust and drew a map of the globe in the circle I'd drawn earlier.</p>
<p>The great marble we live on has some parallels with this little orb. Flecked with blue, spinning forever and ever without a care, in a perpetual circle.</p>
<p>It's almost ready.</p>
<p>Two months.</p>
<p>July 9th</p>
<p>Running out of money. First test could be my last. I've asked the workers today to prepare for the undertaking of their lives, and that all the work we've done will pay off within twenty four hours.<br/>
The faint of heart left after that speech. Only a dozen, two dozen perhaps remain.</p>
<p>God see me through this.<br/>
I'm scared out of my mind, and I'm worried I may not survive the next twenty four hours. The orb's capabilities are largely untouched. George has warned the local police, and they're blocking off a five mile radius around the already isolated laboratory. Tomorrow, I make history.</p>
<p>July 10th</p>
<p>The forest has been destroyed. The lab is on fire. The tower was too focused. The electricity shot up the tower and was focused in such a way that it punched through the atmosphere in an arc-like beam of light. It vaporized seventeen men that were too close. I miscalculated everything. The shock wave knocked everything not bolted down off of its feet and set fire to the forest that wasn't knocked down. Some of the men are deafened and blinded. Word is from my associates overseas that they've detected the precise distance the beam traveled.</p>
<p>It burned a crack into the face of the planet Mars.</p>
<p>God forgive me for what I've done.</p>
<p>I never meant for this. I wanted to help humanity.</p>
<p>Men have arrived to douse the flames. They've taken the orb.</p>
<p>God forgive me.</p>
<p>I never wanted this.<br/>
[The remainder of the page has been smeared with tears.]<br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
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<p>"<a href="/the-orb-is-the-key">The Orb is the Key</a>" by TexasBigfoot, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-orb-is-the-key">https://scpwiki.com/the-orb-is-the-key</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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Excerpts from the personal diary of Nikola Tesla, March 18th, 1901, regarding SCP-627, obtained from his apartment on January 7th, 1943 by SCP Agent [EXPUNGED]
Warden bought me the land. The deal is in its final stages and construction will begin sometime in the winter. The proposed laboratory has ample room, and a direct access to the rail line.
The man thinks I'm going to boom the local economy and that a city will spring up because of my work. He doesn't know why I'm really here and what I'm set to accomplish.
Free energy. Producing enough electricity that we will no longer need wires. Isolated nations could be brought to the modern age through the work of one simple machine.
The orb is the key. I don't know where Jack got it. I just know that there's a perpetual motion to it, and that I've been unable to destroy it and find out what is inside. Striking it with a hammer was useless.
Using a cutting torch only made it warm to the touch. Having someone drive a railroad spike into it bent the spike. Throughout all the tests I've done and ran on this creation, it still continues to roll by itself, in the rough span of a meter.
Nothing is seeming to animate this. To the ear, there's nothing. It's normally cool as any stone or glass is to the touch, save the rough edges of the flecks of blue material on the surface.
I've done everything I can short of smashing it with an industrial pr
-
Smashing it with an industrial press caused severe damage to the press. I am now short fifty dollars to pay for the damages.
June 18th, 1901
"Wardenclyffe."
The man thinks that my ambition is going to put his name on the map. He has no idea what I have in store for the world. The ball still rolls on the smooth stone floor of the laboratory space, and the sound can get agitating in the dead of the night. I've begun to design a machine that will use the perpetual motion of this orb in order to produce energy, refining it, and focusing it into a coil of iron and copper, using one of my coil designs from earlier modified appropriately. I'm going to need workers if I'm going to power the seaboard. Work shall begin post-haste.
Edison arrived at the lab the other day. The man, while brilliant, is backwards and not as much of a dreamer as I. He may have won over the masses, but I do not need popularity in order to fulfill my goal.
Popularity is the need of lesser men. DC current and AC current will be meaningless when my project succeeds. We shared a glass of tea and my assistant rushed him away to leave when workers arrived with a spool of copper wire.
Insufferable. Why would you electrocute an elephant just to prove a man wrong? Elephants don't deserve to be electrocuted. The man is an ass, and this emotion is most certainly resentment.
I'm allowed emotions! I can resent the man all I please, because our rivalry is chicken seed in comparison to what is to come!
That poor elephant.
Ball rolls up obstacles. Placed hand in way, rolled up and over hand. Placed brick in way, rolled over brick.
Placed in front of assistant. Rolled up assistant's leg, up torso and across face, dropped to the opposite side. Not doing that again.
Attempts to slow it down and render its direction askew with wooden blocks also futile. Weighing it down with my hand stops it, but
August 19th, 1901
Rudimentary test with coil success. Static discharge safe if grounded and when outside 20 feet.
More tests on orb this morning after breakfast. Idea hit me when I woke if I could constrict the size of the meter circumference of the orb's path.
Constructed circle of iron using scrap metal, and ..ironically, a path painted by the orb when covered in grease paint. Iron circle to constrict path of orb to that of a foot, as opposed to the usual 1m.
Test was a resounding success. Marked speed increase and increase in acceleration. Difficult getting grease paint off.
Orb continued at speed until iron ring was removed, then resumed at one meter.
To call myself puzzled is an understatement. I'd give anything to be able to see what's inside of this small orb of stone. Going to test this via the extremes come Sunday.
I need to get okay from local police, assistant can do that. Continuing to design coil apparatus and "tower" for orb project. Workers are beginning to construct the base and all things are looking well.
I find myself not eating, too busy working. I need to remedy this and slow down for my health, but I'm so close, I can feel it in my very soul. I can help the world, perhaps bring in a new day for civilization.
And the orb is the key.
Sunday, August 24th, 1901
FRUSTRATED
HITTING ORB WITH STEAM LOCOMOTIVE DERAILED LOCOMOTIVE
GOING TO SLEEP, TOO FRUSTRATED TO KEEP TRAIN OF THOUGHT
WHY - GOD DAMNED TRAIN WAS SUPPOSED TO SPLIT IT
NEVER AGAIN
IF A BLOODY TRAIN CAN'T CRACK THIS THING OPEN THEN NOTHING ON EARTH CAN
DOES NOT MATTER, PLAN CONTINUES
September 11th, 1901
Found myself sleeping at workbench. Assistant roused me from my sleep, I asked him what time it was.
I'd been working into the early dawn hours and still I'm not making appropriate progress. I need to keep the edge in the race for free energy.
I have the orb, but Edison may resort to espionage and sabotage. It's not beneath the man if he'll willingly slander my works like he has in the past.
He has the fluke of creating the lightbulb? What if someone else made the light bulb and he took it?
Paranoia must be due to lack of sleep.
I hate the damn sound that orb makes when it rolls on sheet metal. Copper containment must be in tube form in final design.
Copper and iron.
December 31st, 1901
A new year is dawning. A new year, and soon my preliminary designs will be finalized, and construction will begin.
The tower will be tall, over a hundred feet, using wood stabilizers. The idea is the project has to be large, in order to reach the effect necessary for global empowerment.
George and I spoke about the money issues. I told him I needed to leave the lab to get to the city and entrusted him with the orb.
Before I left, I meditated in the laboratory, looking over one of my electrical coils arc electricity through the room.
How can I be wrong when I can -see- the fruits of my designs? I can -see- my designs working?
I know I'm right. I have to be right, or all of this work is for nothing.
January 7th, 1902
My enemies have been very successful in painting me as a poet and visionary.
I've at Wardenclyffe for the past few days, thinking of moving laboratory from Houston Street here.
Tower is still under construction but construction is going very well.
I need to be able to think. I need the air around here to clear my head and I'm frustrated and scared out of my mind of the possible outcomes of the device.
I could power the entire world with this, or I could ignite the atmosphere in flames and kill all life on earth, or absolutely nothing could happen. I need to try.
Mankind has lived in the darkness for too long.
A tubing system has been tested with the orb, and the orb's conductivity, or rather the motion it has, has given the system a strong electrical charge. I need to constrict and focus.
I am not a madman. I am a man with vision and the will to see that vision come to fruition.
Why must I remind myself as such?
I worry the project has taken a toll on my mental faculties.
I can't worry now. I have to see this through.
May 4th, 1902
Tower needs about a year before the first test of the design.
One year. Worried about money issues. A lot is riding on my success.
George had his workers carry in the last of the laboratory equipment to the facility today.
The man's a good friend, but I worry that he may seek employment elsewhere if the money dries out.
This is why I must succeed. If I don't, I'm going to be in destitution, in debt to men with more pull than I.
Word came from the Colorado Springs of the sale of the grounds. It doesn't matter. That laboratory has nothing to give me anymore.
All work is now to be done in Wardenclyffe. Nothing ties me to Houston Street anymore. I can work here in solitude and without interruption.
The orb is the key.
An iron tube, seven inches in diameter, will wrap around a wooden beam in the center of the tower, wrapped in copper wire. Once the electrical charge is built up, it will shoot up the wire and be amplified by the sphere at the top of the tower. The electricity and static charge will then be capable of powering anywhere in the world by 'wobbling' the planet's magnetosphere. I've spent over fifteen years working on this design. It has to work.
July 10th, 1902
Today is my birthday.
The test firing begins one year from now.
The plan is finalized. All I need to do is complete the tower.
Money is running dangerously low.
JP Morgan and my backers have voiced their doubt.
They will be shown the way. Everyone will.
I've read of a scientist in Germany, an up-and-comer in the world of physics, who //might// be able to assist me.
The project won't survive without something commercial. I have to leave this project financially sound.
Nearly a million has been spent. The great undertaking is nearly complete.
The orb is the key.
August 30th, 1902
I haven't slept for over eighty hours. I have to finish the project. Everything is in place.
The [incomprehensible scribbles and a coffee stain] mustn't malfunction.
November 5th, 1902
Saw a film today, Le Voyage dans la lune. The movie is about a group of travelers who shoot to the moon in a giant bullet-shaped craft. They encounter space aliens, and manage to get their way back home. I'm not sure where I found the copy, but I allowed myself time to view it in the means of my work. I'd heard rumors that Edison's technicians have been spreading the film about and not giving the director his due cuts. This strikes me JUST as what Thomas would do.
My hatred and rivalry for this man knows no bounds. I will out shadow him with my design. The Tower shall bring in a new age of humanity and Thomas Alva Edison will be left in the dust!
Marconi and I have discussed obtaining the last bit of funds I need for my tower. He seems hesitant and I can see it in his eyes when I talk to him the doubt others share.
I have no room for doubt. No room.
His assistance is vital, however. The tower is constructed. We will begin preparations for test firing over the spring. For now, I need to take a moment to rest.
Pigeon flew into arc of one of the coils earlier today and reminded me of dangers of electricity. Going to miss her. She was one of my favorites of the flock I keep.
Buried pigeon in shoebox beside oak tree near laboratory.
January 1st, 1903
došli peniaze na financovanie projektu
treba mimoriadnych finančných prostriedkov z podporovateľov
oni mi dal ešte poslednú šancu
Potrebujem šesť mesiacov
pitnej problémy preč
Orb je kľúčom
Febuary 10th, 1903
Testing the conductivity today.
—
Test went well. An odd resonance and sound from the tower. Hum?
Need to investigate. Resonance is either a good thing or a bad thing.
Workers and pigeons find sound incredibly unnerving.
Workers are frightened by the scale of the project. Some of them have voiced their conerns.
I tell them they're safe, and that the majority of the current is going into the earth, as per the project's ultimate design.
The majority of them are calmed by this, but some still show hesitance when I flip the switch for conductivity tests.
The government agents arrived again this morning. They're asking me what's powering the tower, and why I need the carbon tube ring.
I ask them what agency they belong to. They tell me they're part of a new unusual incident investigation organization of the Secret Service.
They don't seem very bright. I tell them the 'truth' and back my claims up with old diagrams that they couldn't understand and that were of no use to me.
They thanked me for the tea I served them and left. That was a close one. I need to prepare for more scrutiny from outside forces.
March 18th, 1903
Rolled the orb in chalk and drew a circle on the ground. Washed it off and threw it at a wall as hard as I could. The wall dented, the orb is fine.
I doubt this small stone is from our planet. It's so very, very durable, and I'll never be able to find out why it works the way it does. The 'why' no longer matters.
The 'what' does. What does it do. It runs in a circle on its own. It speeds up the tighter its path is constricted. The ring will be small and the energy it will produce will be enough.
I washed the orb of the chalky dust and drew a map of the globe in the circle I'd drawn earlier.
The great marble we live on has some parallels with this little orb. Flecked with blue, spinning forever and ever without a care, in a perpetual circle.
It's almost ready.
Two months.
July 9th
Running out of money. First test could be my last. I've asked the workers today to prepare for the undertaking of their lives, and that all the work we've done will pay off within twenty four hours.
The faint of heart left after that speech. Only a dozen, two dozen perhaps remain.
God see me through this.
I'm scared out of my mind, and I'm worried I may not survive the next twenty four hours. The orb's capabilities are largely untouched. George has warned the local police, and they're blocking off a five mile radius around the already isolated laboratory. Tomorrow, I make history.
July 10th
The forest has been destroyed. The lab is on fire. The tower was too focused. The electricity shot up the tower and was focused in such a way that it punched through the atmosphere in an arc-like beam of light. It vaporized seventeen men that were too close. I miscalculated everything. The shock wave knocked everything not bolted down off of its feet and set fire to the forest that wasn't knocked down. Some of the men are deafened and blinded. Word is from my associates overseas that they've detected the precise distance the beam traveled.
It burned a crack into the face of the planet Mars.
God forgive me for what I've done.
I never meant for this. I wanted to help humanity.
Men have arrived to douse the flames. They've taken the orb.
God forgive me.
I never wanted this.
[The remainder of the page has been smeared with tears.]
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|
the-other-side | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The gravel beneath his feet protested with a crunch as Rufus T. Heckle exited the alleyway, face-first into the acrid street smoke. He was not a very well-dressed man, though he held a distinct noble air around him, one that sent flies spiralling over his head and rats scurrying under dumpsters in shame when he coughed, throat smarting at the smog. But it was not the rats and flies and smog that occupied Rufus's mind as he approached the corner of 3rd and King's. It was the words the youngster had said at their last meeting three days ago, the cryptic "final message before death" every detective inevitably faces once or twice in his career. <em>The Other Side is always just around the corner.</em></p>
<p><em>It's a cafe, an inn, a safehouse, though not in the usual sense</em>, the youngster had said. <em>They say it's a very important place, the kind where the guy you're looking for might frequent.</em> Rufus might have mentioned something about his job being very unlike the "usual sense", but let him continue. The youngster had nothing much left to say, though, and forty-six hours later his roommate found his set of clothes heaped over his shoes, at the start of a large bloody smear ending abruptly at the east window. It was the same window that, from two stories above, overlooked Rufus as he trod round the corner store, pausing only to scoop a handful of large pebbles from the sidewalk. "The Other Side is always just around the corner," he mouthed, like a forgotten nursery rhyme. "Just around the corner."</p>
<p>One, two. Three, four. As if in a dream, he dropped them almost ritualistically as he rounded the block into the back alley, two before the corner, two after the corner. Crunch the gravel. Cough at the smoke from the street. There seemed to be a certain rhythm to it. <em>I am doing this. Why am I doing this?</em> He didn't even know if he was thinking anymore, the second round around the block nothing but a deep revenant calling from an ancient OCD. Corner store, here come the pebbles. One, two. <em>Tie my shoe.</em> Like a forgotten nursery rhyme. Three, four, knock on the door, and sure enough there at the side of the building was a pair of clear glass doors, tucked in low like the one from Alice in Wonderland. It even seemed just as small, cowering from the world in its cosy brick cubbyhole, and Rufus subconsciously stooped as he went through it. Above him, "The Other Side Cafe" hung daintily in embossed italics from velvety rope.</p>
<p>It was an elegant affair, with glowing orbs keeping sentinel along the walls. Gas lamps? In this day and age? The checkerboard floor was odd too, shining like marble yet creaking like old wood when stepped on. Around him, patrons dined and drank, occasionally flickering (what?) like Chinese mask performers to reveal…something. Whatever it was, it left him with the strange mental image of a pale shell-less crab in the moonlight, grotesque yet familiar. The whole place was…how would he put it? Otherworldly.</p>
<p>There was a two-seater near the corner, below a warm orb-light, and a genteel middle-aged man was sitting at it. There seemed to be something innately <em>different</em> about him, something that stood out, yet did not stand out from the contours of his face to the shapes of his shoes. Rufus immediately made a mental note of his appearance, and to his suprise found that he couldn't. Sure, the gentleman was probably forty-ish, with the look of a chap one'd probably find on a park bench feeding pidgeons somewhere. His attire did not just reek of "drab", it utterly defined it. It kept in the quiet of its seams, like the one guy at the party, the diplomatic one who never talked too much to anybody, and it was perfectly boring, even indescribable in its inanity. That was it. The drab man in the chair, the boringly impossible, impossibly boring man, he defied description, and he expected Rufus to sit down with him. No words, no signals. Just an expectation.</p>
<p>"I suppose you know why I'm here?" said Rufus as he sidled in smoothly, though it was an empty assertion of power, a perfectly scripted line from an old noir movie.</p>
<p><em>You're dealing with events way over your head here, kiddo. Best you stay out of this.</em> said the impossible man. Except he didn't say it like that, he said instead, "Yes."</p>
<p>Extending a hand (perfectly indescribable, thought Rufus), he greeted. "I'm the Proprietor." Even the way he said it sounded capital. "I hear about things from the patrons here and there, and I couldn't help but expect your arrival. Yves must have told you about the place."</p>
<p>Rufus took his hand. "I'm Ryan Gore." Carefully chosen alias here, though deep inside he knew it wouldn't hide a thing from this oddly dull man. "Yves, that was his name? The kid who got killed?"</p>
<p>"Killed? Hardly, though I can imagine he wish he were, Mister Rufus."</p>
<p>They were both silent for a moment, as a maid in a gas mask passed by with tea. <em>Need a cup, sweetie?</em> she breathed. "No milk, one sugar, Rosie," said the Proprietor. Rufus merely smiled and waved no, thanks. Rosie the gas mask maid might have smiled back, and she set down a steaming teacup from her tray before giving a curt nod to the Proprietor and moving on.</p>
<p>"So, what about the other cases? The gypsy woman on the twenty-second, the park vagrant on the twenty-fifth, what happened to them?" implored Rufus.</p>
<p>"Same as the kid. What did you expect?"</p>
<p>"Who killed…took them?"</p>
<p>"Can't say for sure. Lots of people come and go through the Other Side, and it gets hard to keep track of who entered where from here. This is where the lines get thin, after all. I built this establishment on a rift, Mister Rufus, and it bleeds onto people, leaves a stain. If you're looking for the guy who took those people, following those stains would be very helpful indeed. Given the nature of the crimes, wouldn't you say he'd continue hunting round the same neighbourhood?" Proprietor took a long sip of his coffee.</p>
<p>"Aha. Typical serial killer. How do you suppose I find this…stain?"</p>
<p>"Why, just look at the patrons around you, Mister Rufus. Hell, there's even one trailing down your neck as we speak."</p>
<p>Rufus glanced at his reflection on the immaculate checkerboard floor. Sure enough, a muddy streak was running from the end of his left ear down to the collarbone, looking more like a birthmark than anything now. He scratched at it almost instinctively.</p>
<p>"Well, there you go. It's been nice talking to you, Mister Rufus, but sadly that's all the help I can afford to give to a stranger. Goodbye." The Proprietor might have smiled a bit here.</p>
<p>"Thank you for the help."</p>
<p>"Oh, there's no reason to thank me," said Proprietor. "Trust me. There won't be any."</p>
<p>Rufus Heckle got up, tucked his chair in, and headed for the door before deciding to ignore the last bit. He was a detective, for what it was worth, and by God if he didn't do what he was paid to do. <em>Good day to you, sir</em>, breathed a maid as she held the door open for him.</p>
<p>He exited the Other Side Cafe, breathing in the last fumes of warmth from within.</p>
<p>"And a good day it shall be," he proclaimed to no one in particular. It echoed off the blank brick wall behind him, as he headed off into the cold.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/the-other-side">The Other Side</a>" by minmin, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-other-side">https://scpwiki.com/the-other-side</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The gravel beneath his feet protested with a crunch as Rufus T. Heckle exited the alleyway, face-first into the acrid street smoke. He was not a very well-dressed man, though he held a distinct noble air around him, one that sent flies spiralling over his head and rats scurrying under dumpsters in shame when he coughed, throat smarting at the smog. But it was not the rats and flies and smog that occupied Rufus's mind as he approached the corner of 3rd and King's. It was the words the youngster had said at their last meeting three days ago, the cryptic "final message before death" every detective inevitably faces once or twice in his career. //The Other Side is always just around the corner.//
//It's a cafe, an inn, a safehouse, though not in the usual sense//, the youngster had said. //They say it's a very important place, the kind where the guy you're looking for might frequent.// Rufus might have mentioned something about his job being very unlike the "usual sense", but let him continue. The youngster had nothing much left to say, though, and forty-six hours later his roommate found his set of clothes heaped over his shoes, at the start of a large bloody smear ending abruptly at the east window. It was the same window that, from two stories above, overlooked Rufus as he trod round the corner store, pausing only to scoop a handful of large pebbles from the sidewalk. "The Other Side is always just around the corner," he mouthed, like a forgotten nursery rhyme. "Just around the corner."
One, two. Three, four. As if in a dream, he dropped them almost ritualistically as he rounded the block into the back alley, two before the corner, two after the corner. Crunch the gravel. Cough at the smoke from the street. There seemed to be a certain rhythm to it. //I am doing this. Why am I doing this?// He didn't even know if he was thinking anymore, the second round around the block nothing but a deep revenant calling from an ancient OCD. Corner store, here come the pebbles. One, two. //Tie my shoe.// Like a forgotten nursery rhyme. Three, four, knock on the door, and sure enough there at the side of the building was a pair of clear glass doors, tucked in low like the one from Alice in Wonderland. It even seemed just as small, cowering from the world in its cosy brick cubbyhole, and Rufus subconsciously stooped as he went through it. Above him, "The Other Side Cafe" hung daintily in embossed italics from velvety rope.
It was an elegant affair, with glowing orbs keeping sentinel along the walls. Gas lamps? In this day and age? The checkerboard floor was odd too, shining like marble yet creaking like old wood when stepped on. Around him, patrons dined and drank, occasionally flickering (what?) like Chinese mask performers to reveal...something. Whatever it was, it left him with the strange mental image of a pale shell-less crab in the moonlight, grotesque yet familiar. The whole place was...how would he put it? Otherworldly.
There was a two-seater near the corner, below a warm orb-light, and a genteel middle-aged man was sitting at it. There seemed to be something innately //different// about him, something that stood out, yet did not stand out from the contours of his face to the shapes of his shoes. Rufus immediately made a mental note of his appearance, and to his suprise found that he couldn't. Sure, the gentleman was probably forty-ish, with the look of a chap one'd probably find on a park bench feeding pidgeons somewhere. His attire did not just reek of "drab", it utterly defined it. It kept in the quiet of its seams, like the one guy at the party, the diplomatic one who never talked too much to anybody, and it was perfectly boring, even indescribable in its inanity. That was it. The drab man in the chair, the boringly impossible, impossibly boring man, he defied description, and he expected Rufus to sit down with him. No words, no signals. Just an expectation.
"I suppose you know why I'm here?" said Rufus as he sidled in smoothly, though it was an empty assertion of power, a perfectly scripted line from an old noir movie.
//You're dealing with events way over your head here, kiddo. Best you stay out of this.// said the impossible man. Except he didn't say it like that, he said instead, "Yes."
Extending a hand (perfectly indescribable, thought Rufus), he greeted. "I'm the Proprietor." Even the way he said it sounded capital. "I hear about things from the patrons here and there, and I couldn't help but expect your arrival. Yves must have told you about the place."
Rufus took his hand. "I'm Ryan Gore." Carefully chosen alias here, though deep inside he knew it wouldn't hide a thing from this oddly dull man. "Yves, that was his name? The kid who got killed?"
"Killed? Hardly, though I can imagine he wish he were, Mister Rufus."
They were both silent for a moment, as a maid in a gas mask passed by with tea. //Need a cup, sweetie?// she breathed. "No milk, one sugar, Rosie," said the Proprietor. Rufus merely smiled and waved no, thanks. Rosie the gas mask maid might have smiled back, and she set down a steaming teacup from her tray before giving a curt nod to the Proprietor and moving on.
"So, what about the other cases? The gypsy woman on the twenty-second, the park vagrant on the twenty-fifth, what happened to them?" implored Rufus.
"Same as the kid. What did you expect?"
"Who killed...took them?"
"Can't say for sure. Lots of people come and go through the Other Side, and it gets hard to keep track of who entered where from here. This is where the lines get thin, after all. I built this establishment on a rift, Mister Rufus, and it bleeds onto people, leaves a stain. If you're looking for the guy who took those people, following those stains would be very helpful indeed. Given the nature of the crimes, wouldn't you say he'd continue hunting round the same neighbourhood?" Proprietor took a long sip of his coffee.
"Aha. Typical serial killer. How do you suppose I find this...stain?"
"Why, just look at the patrons around you, Mister Rufus. Hell, there's even one trailing down your neck as we speak."
Rufus glanced at his reflection on the immaculate checkerboard floor. Sure enough, a muddy streak was running from the end of his left ear down to the collarbone, looking more like a birthmark than anything now. He scratched at it almost instinctively.
"Well, there you go. It's been nice talking to you, Mister Rufus, but sadly that's all the help I can afford to give to a stranger. Goodbye." The Proprietor might have smiled a bit here.
"Thank you for the help."
"Oh, there's no reason to thank me," said Proprietor. "Trust me. There won't be any."
Rufus Heckle got up, tucked his chair in, and headed for the door before deciding to ignore the last bit. He was a detective, for what it was worth, and by God if he didn't do what he was paid to do. //Good day to you, sir//, breathed a maid as she held the door open for him.
He exited the Other Side Cafe, breathing in the last fumes of warmth from within.
"And a good day it shall be," he proclaimed to no one in particular. It echoed off the blank brick wall behind him, as he headed off into the cold.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-12T17:04:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"tale"
] | The Other Side - SCP Foundation | 21 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 12200052 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-other-side |
|
the-pond | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>"Remind me again why we drove this thing."</p>
<p>Katie thumps the steering wheel, hard, as it sticks again. This time, thankfully, unsticking it doesn't swerve the Winnebago into traffic. "Because it's a hell of a lot cheaper than hotels, and I for one don't have the money to take this trip any other way."</p>
<p>Rena remains unconvinced, slouched in the threadbare passenger's seat with her arms crossed. "In that case, remind me why we're taking this trip."</p>
<p>Katie raises an eyebrow and casts a significant glance towards the back of the vehicle. Rena glances over her shoulder. Alex is still back there, curled like a cat on the ‘Bago's thin sofa. He's angelic when he sleeps; she can so easily forget.</p>
<p>She sighs heavily and goes back to staring out the windshield. "Right."</p>
<p>They don't speak again for another ten miles. Even then, the uncomfortable silence only breaks when a deeper-than-usual pothole makes the old vehicle buck under them, actually slamming Rena's head into the ceiling. She yelps loudly, swearing between clenched teeth.</p>
<p>"Quiet!" Katie hisses, throwing another glance over her shoulder. "He's still <em>asleep</em> for Christ's sake!"</p>
<p>Rena, clutching her aching head, growls unintelligibly. "Please tell me there's a stop ahead."</p>
<p>Katie glances at her, back to the boy stirring on the sofa, and pulls into the right lane. "We'll get some gas. I've gotta fill up anyway, if we want to make it to the Badlands by tomorrow."</p>
<p>They exit the highway into an utterly forgettable little town. Barely more than a knot of buildings snagged on the juncture of highway and old prairie road, it nonetheless has what they're looking for: a gas station and a rest stop. Katie pulls the creaking, clanking old RV up to the pump and lets its laboring engine shudder gratefully to a halt.</p>
<p>"The real trick will be getting it started again," Rena mutters, clambering out her door. "I'm going to the john."</p>
<p>"I'll fill it up. Grab a bag of chips on your way back, will you?"</p>
<p>Rena returns in a few minutes, marginally refreshed and bearing chips, to find that Katie has moved the old RV to the edge of the parking lot. Inside, she and Alex are sitting side-by-side on the sofa. The boy leans against her, shivering a little under her arm but smiling at whatever story she’s telling.</p>
<p>"Hey," Rena called, leaning on the doorframe. "How you doing, kid?"</p>
<p>Alex looks up. "Rena! Hey, you brought chips!" He takes the proffered bag and tears it open. Around a mouthful of potato: "Thanks."</p>
<p>Katie tightens her arm gently, squeezing the boy a little closer. "Alex was just telling me about his dream."</p>
<p>Rena feels the corners of her mouth pull down. "Oh?"</p>
<p>"Dinosaurs riding rocket ships." A relieved grin. "Just the usual."</p>
<p>Rena relaxes. "Sounds like fun."</p>
<p>"Yeah, it was okay," Alex interjects, crunching down on another chip. "I'm getting kinda stiff though. Can we get out for a walk?"</p>
<p>"I saw a pond over past the bathrooms," Rena offers.</p>
<p>"Oh, cool! Frogs?" The boy worms out from under Katie's arm and is on his feet in a flash.</p>
<p>Rena can't help her grin. "Yeah, probably. Come on, let's go see."</p>
<p>The three of them stroll across the parking lot, sharing the chips and laughing. Alex's innocent happiness has already washed away much of the wear on Rena's nerves; by the time they pass the bathrooms and round the cinder-block wall, she's fresh and happy again.</p>
<p>As they round the corner, Alex takes in the scene: an old pond, scummed over with duckweed and algae, set like a dull sheet of green plastic between high grassy banks. Katie made sure he's wearing old clothes and his rubber boots, ready for a brief adventure; with her nod of permission, he clambers down the shallowest of the banks to stand by the water's edge.</p>
<p>Mud, greenish-brown, sticky, and studded with the pathetic tiny leaves of washed-ashore duckweed. Reeds. A discarded beer can. The pond is perfectly flat.</p>
<p>Alex frowns, peers narrowly into the water at his feet. "Uh, Mom? There's something in here."</p>
<p>Katie and Rena bend closer. "Like what, hon?" Katie asks.</p>
<p>"It's got really big eyes."</p>
<p>Rena stares into the water. She can't see anything unusual — just a lot of duckweed. The water's opaque, impenetrable.</p>
<p>"Wow," Alex breathes, "look at it! Mom, wow!" His eyes are tracking upwards, following something Rena can't see as it rises out of the pond. "That's the biggest frog I've ever <em>seen!</em>"</p>
<p>Grinning hugely, the boy starts walking forward straight into the mire.</p>
<p>"Alex!" Katie snaps. "Come back!"</p>
<p>"Aw, Mom." The boy glances over his shoulder. His smile is pure childhood: he's seen his prize, and only it will now suffice. "It's just a frog!"</p>
<p>And before they can say anything else, he sets off at a run. Green water and duckweed splash up around him as he disappears completely under the pond.</p>
<p>Rena screams. Katie is already bolting forward, tearing off her jacket. "ALEX!" she howls. "Come back!"</p>
<p>In her horror, she's utterly focused on the ripples left by the vanished boy. All she can think is to bring him back.</p>
<p>Otherwise, she might have seen the water bending.</p>
<p>At the center of the pond, it dents downwards. The edges curve up, raising the water level on the banks an inch — a few inches — a foot. The whole surface of the pond warps into a shallow cone. There's a ringing in the air, a crystalline whine too high to hear. Distant growl of bending metal. Squealing brakes.</p>
<p>A car knocks Katie off her feet.</p>
<p>It had been a middle-aged white sedan. Now it's a half-ton projectile, pulled into the pond like iron filings to an industrial magnet. Katie is gone in an eyeblink.</p>
<p>Another car, and another. They rocket out of the parking lot and slam into the cold green water, bullet-fast but not leaving so much as a ripple. The next one takes Rena with it. The next is their Winnebago.</p>
<p>The ringing fades. Slowly the pond settles back into its banks.</p>
<p>Green water, grassy mounds. Hulks of years-rusted cars, half-submerged. No trace of the three newcomers.</p>
<p>All is quiet again.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/the-pond">The Pond</a>" by Photosynthetic, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-pond">https://scpwiki.com/the-pond</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
"Remind me again why we drove this thing."
Katie thumps the steering wheel, hard, as it sticks again. This time, thankfully, unsticking it doesn't swerve the Winnebago into traffic. "Because it's a hell of a lot cheaper than hotels, and I for one don't have the money to take this trip any other way."
Rena remains unconvinced, slouched in the threadbare passenger's seat with her arms crossed. "In that case, remind me why we're taking this trip."
Katie raises an eyebrow and casts a significant glance towards the back of the vehicle. Rena glances over her shoulder. Alex is still back there, curled like a cat on the ‘Bago's thin sofa. He's angelic when he sleeps; she can so easily forget.
She sighs heavily and goes back to staring out the windshield. "Right."
They don't speak again for another ten miles. Even then, the uncomfortable silence only breaks when a deeper-than-usual pothole makes the old vehicle buck under them, actually slamming Rena's head into the ceiling. She yelps loudly, swearing between clenched teeth.
"Quiet!" Katie hisses, throwing another glance over her shoulder. "He's still //asleep// for Christ's sake!"
Rena, clutching her aching head, growls unintelligibly. "Please tell me there's a stop ahead."
Katie glances at her, back to the boy stirring on the sofa, and pulls into the right lane. "We'll get some gas. I've gotta fill up anyway, if we want to make it to the Badlands by tomorrow."
They exit the highway into an utterly forgettable little town. Barely more than a knot of buildings snagged on the juncture of highway and old prairie road, it nonetheless has what they're looking for: a gas station and a rest stop. Katie pulls the creaking, clanking old RV up to the pump and lets its laboring engine shudder gratefully to a halt.
"The real trick will be getting it started again," Rena mutters, clambering out her door. "I'm going to the john."
"I'll fill it up. Grab a bag of chips on your way back, will you?"
Rena returns in a few minutes, marginally refreshed and bearing chips, to find that Katie has moved the old RV to the edge of the parking lot. Inside, she and Alex are sitting side-by-side on the sofa. The boy leans against her, shivering a little under her arm but smiling at whatever story she’s telling.
"Hey," Rena called, leaning on the doorframe. "How you doing, kid?"
Alex looks up. "Rena! Hey, you brought chips!" He takes the proffered bag and tears it open. Around a mouthful of potato: "Thanks."
Katie tightens her arm gently, squeezing the boy a little closer. "Alex was just telling me about his dream."
Rena feels the corners of her mouth pull down. "Oh?"
"Dinosaurs riding rocket ships." A relieved grin. "Just the usual."
Rena relaxes. "Sounds like fun."
"Yeah, it was okay," Alex interjects, crunching down on another chip. "I'm getting kinda stiff though. Can we get out for a walk?"
"I saw a pond over past the bathrooms," Rena offers.
"Oh, cool! Frogs?" The boy worms out from under Katie's arm and is on his feet in a flash.
Rena can't help her grin. "Yeah, probably. Come on, let's go see."
The three of them stroll across the parking lot, sharing the chips and laughing. Alex's innocent happiness has already washed away much of the wear on Rena's nerves; by the time they pass the bathrooms and round the cinder-block wall, she's fresh and happy again.
As they round the corner, Alex takes in the scene: an old pond, scummed over with duckweed and algae, set like a dull sheet of green plastic between high grassy banks. Katie made sure he's wearing old clothes and his rubber boots, ready for a brief adventure; with her nod of permission, he clambers down the shallowest of the banks to stand by the water's edge.
Mud, greenish-brown, sticky, and studded with the pathetic tiny leaves of washed-ashore duckweed. Reeds. A discarded beer can. The pond is perfectly flat.
Alex frowns, peers narrowly into the water at his feet. "Uh, Mom? There's something in here."
Katie and Rena bend closer. "Like what, hon?" Katie asks.
"It's got really big eyes."
Rena stares into the water. She can't see anything unusual -- just a lot of duckweed. The water's opaque, impenetrable.
"Wow," Alex breathes, "look at it! Mom, wow!" His eyes are tracking upwards, following something Rena can't see as it rises out of the pond. "That's the biggest frog I've ever //seen!//"
Grinning hugely, the boy starts walking forward straight into the mire.
"Alex!" Katie snaps. "Come back!"
"Aw, Mom." The boy glances over his shoulder. His smile is pure childhood: he's seen his prize, and only it will now suffice. "It's just a frog!"
And before they can say anything else, he sets off at a run. Green water and duckweed splash up around him as he disappears completely under the pond.
Rena screams. Katie is already bolting forward, tearing off her jacket. "ALEX!" she howls. "Come back!"
In her horror, she's utterly focused on the ripples left by the vanished boy. All she can think is to bring him back.
Otherwise, she might have seen the water bending.
At the center of the pond, it dents downwards. The edges curve up, raising the water level on the banks an inch -- a few inches -- a foot. The whole surface of the pond warps into a shallow cone. There's a ringing in the air, a crystalline whine too high to hear. Distant growl of bending metal. Squealing brakes.
A car knocks Katie off her feet.
It had been a middle-aged white sedan. Now it's a half-ton projectile, pulled into the pond like iron filings to an industrial magnet. Katie is gone in an eyeblink.
Another car, and another. They rocket out of the parking lot and slam into the cold green water, bullet-fast but not leaving so much as a ripple. The next one takes Rena with it. The next is their Winnebago.
The ringing fades. Slowly the pond settles back into its banks.
Green water, grassy mounds. Hulks of years-rusted cars, half-submerged. No trace of the three newcomers.
All is quiet again.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-01-21T02:20:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | The Pond - SCP Foundation | 16 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 7101979 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-pond |
|
the-red-woodsman | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>The forest somehow seemed to get darker the closer the two men got to their destination. Agrippa kept reminding himself that the solstice had been three days prior, and the sun simply chose to fall sooner than in earlier months. But the feeling of menace these woods held for him never passed. Agrippa didn't like the woods. Most of his people, at least the other Class II's, usually didn't. Ari, his companion, liked it less than Agrippa did.</p>
<p>Ari never slowed down, though. Agrippa couldn't tell what he was thinking, as per usual. Ari was always the headstrong type, even back in the creches. It was a small act of the gods that he was never thrown out and stuck in some Class III pod to spend the rest of his life drooling and building roads. Maybe if the creche had had a different headmistress, he would have been, but Professor Allgrass wasn't about to let Ari get the best of her. For all that Ari was unspeakably stupid, he was undeniably brilliant. He matriculated at the bottom of the legion (Agrippa didn't come out much higher), but he made it. Two centurions, born and bred to Advance the Greater Reason. Agrippa chuckled and spat.</p>
<p>"What's so funny now?" Ari asked.</p>
<p>"You, coming out of the best plutoborn creche in all of Sylvanos, and can't help getting lost in the woods."</p>
<p>"We're not lost. We're looking for someone who generally mislikes being found."</p>
<p>"If the Integrators get to him first, you know what happens to us, right?" Agrippa asked. "You know what happens to the movement if we lose the Woodsman?"</p>
<p>"The Woodsman's not the primary goal, though," Ari said.</p>
<p>"Yes, you've been hinting at that," Agrippa said. "He has some kind of weapon, right? Something from the other world?"</p>
<p>"Well, there's no way of knowing," Ari said, "but that's what we're told, and Milephanes himself wouldn't have asked us out here without good cause." Both Ari and Agrippa preened a bit at that; Milephanes was starting to be something of a folk hero, even among those outside the Movement, and <em>they</em> were his chosen instrument for this mission.</p>
<p>"Of course not. Whatever it is, the NatPhi kids at Alexylva want it, so it has to be valuable," Agrippa said. "But what I'm saying is, do you know what happens if the Integrators find us before we find it?"</p>
<p>"You mean, we'll get a medal?"</p>
<p>"Ari, we'll get the black bile scraped out of our brains, be thrown in front of a target, and be used for practice by our old classmates. The ones you used to love to humiliate, remember?"</p>
<p>"They humiliated themselves. I just pointed it out more than they liked."</p>
<p>Agrippa wasn't in the mood to banter. He heard a sound just over the next hill. He stopped Ari and signaled to him that they should take cover. The two men split up and took positions behind trees, ten yards apart, and became completely silent. They watched the hillside, and waited.</p>
<p>Integrators. Four soldiers, surgically augmented to be more machine than human. Forget the Braincaps; Agrippa has seen the schematics for all the technology stuck inside these men. Not even men, anymore; sexual organs removed, gender identity (along with every other mission-irrelevant thought) wiped. They moved with the speed of insects attacking an enemy anthill. Two of them were even walking on all fours, catlike. Agrippa had heard rumors that they could see in infrared, that they could hear human blood from inside the body, that they could smell souls. <em>But you can never believe the propaganda those University kids throw out,</em> he thought. The Integrators passed by without looking.</p>
<p>Even Ari's implacable smile was gone for a minute. "We have to hurry."</p>
<p>"Yeah. Which way?"</p>
<p>"Follow me."</p>
<hr/>
<p>The Red Woodsman's hut (<em>hovel's more like it,</em> Agrippa thought) lay some ways away from where the Integrators had been heading, the only factor that gave the two any comfort under the circumstances. Ari snuck up to the door and rapped out a pre-arranged code while Agrippa stood watch. When the door creaked open, Ari waved Agrippa forward, then ducked inside. Agrippa hurried over and closed the door behind him.</p>
<p>The smell was even worse than Agrippa had imagined. Whatever food the Woodsman had been living on for so long, he was apparently a little less demanding about its freshness. The stench of rotten meat filled the single room, and Agrippa was glad that the only window was blocked off. Not that the candlelight was helping much.</p>
<p>The Woodsman was old, very old. Much older than Agrippa had imagined, judging from the ancient gaze in his pupilless eyes. Ari acted nonplussed, but it was clear he was surprised. They had hoped to find the legendary hermit, hoped he would be able to lead them in their uprising. They had talked to some of the other Guardians in their legion, even a couple of Class I University students. They all agreed that there was only one person who might have the knowledge on how to bring down their government, and certainly one such as the Woodsman would have motive enough. The Woodsman was the last of his people. Now it was clear that he wasn't going to last much longer either.</p>
<p>"Welcome, white devils," the Woodsman said. "I trust your trip was…uneventful?" He turned and stumbled towards a small mound that was clearly his principal furniture in the shack, waving a thin branch on the ground to feel his way through the room.</p>
<p>"Yes, sir, very peaceful, sir," Ari said. Odd how he never spoke that way to his own commanders.</p>
<p>The Woodsman's cracked face smiled slightly. "Who's the other? You said someone was here, and he's breathing loud enough I'm afraid he'll die before I do."</p>
<p>Ari chuckled nervously. Agrippa said in a shaky voice, "The name's Agrippa Widewater, sir. Friend of Aristotle's. He's spoken of you."</p>
<p>"Yes, this devil mentioned you to me as well." The Woodsman's blank eyes seemed to fix on Agrippa's as he smiled.</p>
<p>Agrippa cleared his throat. "Um…devil?"</p>
<p>The Woodsman registered no surprise. "Yes, devil. White devil. I work with Aristotle here because he is less stupid than his countrymen, and with you because of his word that I should. But your people disgust me." He leaned forward as he spoke. "I may well be the last of my people. Do you know of my people?"</p>
<p>Agrippa shook his head, then realized his mistake and said, "No, no, I'm afraid not. The forest people?"</p>
<p>The Woodsman snorted. "Gods, no. Do you know nothing of your history?"</p>
<p>"Yes, certainly. We came to this land many hundreds of years ago and found your kind here. We tried to bring you into our Empire, but our diseases wiped most of you out—"</p>
<p>"Let me stop you before you embarrass yourself further," the Woodsman said, no longer smiling. "The white barbarians that spawned you came to this land, and found <em>my</em> people's red barbarian neighbors. The desert dwellers in the south, the snow people of the north, the grasseaters of the east. Many of us died of your sicknesses, yes, but our towns lived on. We allied with your people as you killed our enemies, then ran as you slaughtered us for our land. You stole our words, our medicines—<em>I</em> likely enough had kin named Widewater, back when I had kin—and then shoved us around the continent like marbles.</p>
<p>"<em>My</em> people were the people of the cave country, the Tsalagi. Our homes were east of here; you ground us out like burning embers. I am Adahy, and I may be the last of my people, and I may not; I have no way of knowing. My eyes are gone, and I shall die soon, but I have one gift to pass on, and the only ones—" The Woodsman paused at this last part "—the only ones I have to pass that gift to are two white devils. I will give you this gift from the world beyond this one, but let an old man have his regrets."</p>
<p>Agrippa had no response to any of this. Ari, smart little beast that he was, rose to his feet and fell to one knee before the blind hermit. "And let me pledge, sir, the enduring thanks of the better world your gift will bring about."</p>
<p>The Woodsman seemed sated. "Better for someone, anyway. Very well, I suppose you should be getting on, then. The box is on that little shelf there, beside the door." He pointed at a small brown box, oddly out of place in some imperceptible way; Agrippa had noticed it immediately upon entering. Something about the box's construction reeked of the unnatural. He walked across the room and picked it up.</p>
<p>"You may leave as soon as is prudent, travelers," Adahy said, and retreated to a small alcove.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Ari and Agrippa had run for what seemed like hours before they reached the end of the woodline and approached their barracks. They snuck into the building, nodding at the guard they had already bribed into silence. Of course, he likely thought they were just out fondling some <em>pórnoi</em> in the pleasure district; the question wasn't asked, so long as the gold was forthcoming. The package was hidden until Ari pulled it out from under his tunic. They looked at the artifact, awe-filled in spite of its obvious cheap construction. Of course, the Phitransimun Combine wasn't known for its craftsmanship for most of its postal service; only high-grade objects were treated with real care. And this was clearly a postal container of some sort; the label was recognizable, the alphabet somewhat decipherable, even if neither Ari nor Agrippa knew where anyplace was called "Omaha."</p>
<p>Agrippa tried to gingerly pry open the wood-pulp container, but the adherent holding the flaps in place caused part of it to rip. Ari took the box from his hands and pulled the rest of the pulp apart. "The covering isn't important; it's what's inside that counts."</p>
<p>Working his way through the pulp coverings and the endless layers of clear, elastic paper air pockets used for padding (<em>what</em> amazing <em>skills these outworlders have,</em> Agrippa thought, as he gathered up the scraps falling from Ari's hands), Ari uncovered a small booklet.</p>
<p>"Wait, where's the weapon?" Agrippa said.</p>
<p>Ari flipped through the pages. "I have no idea. But maybe Milephanes will."</p>
<hr/>
<p>The booklet that was brought to Milephanes was never translated into the language of their people, but Milephanes had learned how to read the offworlders' speech well enough by this point. He knew that the phrase "UNITED STATES" was important immediately; that was an important empire in the other-realm, and powerful. And while it took some research to learn what "CONSTITUTION" meant in this sense, he immediately took great interest in the concept of a "DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE."</p>
<hr/>
<blockquote>
<p>COMMUNIQUE<br/>
FROM AGENT ███████ ("PROFESSOR ALPHA" , MTF P-1)<br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">TO RESEARCHER ESKOBAR<br/>
HEAD OF RESEARCH<br/>
ALEXYLVA UNIVERSITY</span><br/>
<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">FWD: TO SENIOR RESEARCHER ███████<br/>
SITE 38 DIRECTOR</span><br/>
FWD: TO OVERWATCH COMMAND</p>
<p>PRIORITY TWO ALERT</p>
<p>TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:</p>
<p>ANOMALOUS OBJECT ACQUIRED AT ██° ██.█████' N ██° ██.████ W AT 0330 THIS DAY. OBJECT: TYPE THREE CLASSIFICATION (DELIVERY ARTIFACT, UNREMARKABLE MAKE). CONTENTS: TWO HUNDRED FIFTY (250) COPIES OF IDENTICAL SHEET OF PAPER. FULL CONTENTS INCLUDED IN APPENDIX OF REPORT. NOTABLE EXCERPTS, TRANSLATED APPROXIMATELY INTO STANDARD ENGLISH:</p>
<p>"We hold these [facts?] to be [clear?]: that all mans is to be treated as the same as one another, that the sands of time and nature's winds have left those that survive to be worthy of certain rights, including life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Governments are instituted among men with power given to be from the will of those men, and when any ruler seeks to defy that will, it is to those men to see that ruler's blood spilled from sea to sea, and to choose new ruler to make men safe and [pleased?]"</p>
<hr/>
<p>"The history of current Regent of Novomundus tells to us that he is such ruler and cannot be suffered for further living. Let the truth be known [followed by a long series of political complaints, including "Making for that womenfolk can steal the glory and pride of man, rightful ruler of woman and beast," "Releasing among our people the great scourge, the [integrators?], the half-machines, that our children may find themselves prey in our homes," and "Making of many childrens idiots and slaves against all laws of natural order."]"</p>
<hr/>
<p>"We, therefore, the Representatives of the united People of Novomundus, take arms against the injustices listed above and swear our lives that these cruelties be not endured any longer. The Gods of our ancestors, they that support us, may do so; but let it be known that whosoever stands in our way is to be annihilated. We shall destroy everyone who opposes, and let their carcasses pile up to realm of heavens. If all the gods in heaven and the demons, and the good and bad people all oppose us, we shall not relent. We shall not yield.</p>
<p>—Milephanes of Sylvanos"</p>
</blockquote>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/the-red-woodsman">The Red Woodsman</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-red-woodsman">https://scpwiki.com/the-red-woodsman</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
The forest somehow seemed to get darker the closer the two men got to their destination. Agrippa kept reminding himself that the solstice had been three days prior, and the sun simply chose to fall sooner than in earlier months. But the feeling of menace these woods held for him never passed. Agrippa didn't like the woods. Most of his people, at least the other Class II's, usually didn't. Ari, his companion, liked it less than Agrippa did.
Ari never slowed down, though. Agrippa couldn't tell what he was thinking, as per usual. Ari was always the headstrong type, even back in the creches. It was a small act of the gods that he was never thrown out and stuck in some Class III pod to spend the rest of his life drooling and building roads. Maybe if the creche had had a different headmistress, he would have been, but Professor Allgrass wasn't about to let Ari get the best of her. For all that Ari was unspeakably stupid, he was undeniably brilliant. He matriculated at the bottom of the legion (Agrippa didn't come out much higher), but he made it. Two centurions, born and bred to Advance the Greater Reason. Agrippa chuckled and spat.
"What's so funny now?" Ari asked.
"You, coming out of the best plutoborn creche in all of Sylvanos, and can't help getting lost in the woods."
"We're not lost. We're looking for someone who generally mislikes being found."
"If the Integrators get to him first, you know what happens to us, right?" Agrippa asked. "You know what happens to the movement if we lose the Woodsman?"
"The Woodsman's not the primary goal, though," Ari said.
"Yes, you've been hinting at that," Agrippa said. "He has some kind of weapon, right? Something from the other world?"
"Well, there's no way of knowing," Ari said, "but that's what we're told, and Milephanes himself wouldn't have asked us out here without good cause." Both Ari and Agrippa preened a bit at that; Milephanes was starting to be something of a folk hero, even among those outside the Movement, and //they// were his chosen instrument for this mission.
"Of course not. Whatever it is, the NatPhi kids at Alexylva want it, so it has to be valuable," Agrippa said. "But what I'm saying is, do you know what happens if the Integrators find us before we find it?"
"You mean, we'll get a medal?"
"Ari, we'll get the black bile scraped out of our brains, be thrown in front of a target, and be used for practice by our old classmates. The ones you used to love to humiliate, remember?"
"They humiliated themselves. I just pointed it out more than they liked."
Agrippa wasn't in the mood to banter. He heard a sound just over the next hill. He stopped Ari and signaled to him that they should take cover. The two men split up and took positions behind trees, ten yards apart, and became completely silent. They watched the hillside, and waited.
Integrators. Four soldiers, surgically augmented to be more machine than human. Forget the Braincaps; Agrippa has seen the schematics for all the technology stuck inside these men. Not even men, anymore; sexual organs removed, gender identity (along with every other mission-irrelevant thought) wiped. They moved with the speed of insects attacking an enemy anthill. Two of them were even walking on all fours, catlike. Agrippa had heard rumors that they could see in infrared, that they could hear human blood from inside the body, that they could smell souls. //But you can never believe the propaganda those University kids throw out,// he thought. The Integrators passed by without looking.
Even Ari's implacable smile was gone for a minute. "We have to hurry."
"Yeah. Which way?"
"Follow me."
------
The Red Woodsman's hut (//hovel's more like it,// Agrippa thought) lay some ways away from where the Integrators had been heading, the only factor that gave the two any comfort under the circumstances. Ari snuck up to the door and rapped out a pre-arranged code while Agrippa stood watch. When the door creaked open, Ari waved Agrippa forward, then ducked inside. Agrippa hurried over and closed the door behind him.
The smell was even worse than Agrippa had imagined. Whatever food the Woodsman had been living on for so long, he was apparently a little less demanding about its freshness. The stench of rotten meat filled the single room, and Agrippa was glad that the only window was blocked off. Not that the candlelight was helping much.
The Woodsman was old, very old. Much older than Agrippa had imagined, judging from the ancient gaze in his pupilless eyes. Ari acted nonplussed, but it was clear he was surprised. They had hoped to find the legendary hermit, hoped he would be able to lead them in their uprising. They had talked to some of the other Guardians in their legion, even a couple of Class I University students. They all agreed that there was only one person who might have the knowledge on how to bring down their government, and certainly one such as the Woodsman would have motive enough. The Woodsman was the last of his people. Now it was clear that he wasn't going to last much longer either.
"Welcome, white devils," the Woodsman said. "I trust your trip was...uneventful?" He turned and stumbled towards a small mound that was clearly his principal furniture in the shack, waving a thin branch on the ground to feel his way through the room.
"Yes, sir, very peaceful, sir," Ari said. Odd how he never spoke that way to his own commanders.
The Woodsman's cracked face smiled slightly. "Who's the other? You said someone was here, and he's breathing loud enough I'm afraid he'll die before I do."
Ari chuckled nervously. Agrippa said in a shaky voice, "The name's Agrippa Widewater, sir. Friend of Aristotle's. He's spoken of you."
"Yes, this devil mentioned you to me as well." The Woodsman's blank eyes seemed to fix on Agrippa's as he smiled.
Agrippa cleared his throat. "Um...devil?"
The Woodsman registered no surprise. "Yes, devil. White devil. I work with Aristotle here because he is less stupid than his countrymen, and with you because of his word that I should. But your people disgust me." He leaned forward as he spoke. "I may well be the last of my people. Do you know of my people?"
Agrippa shook his head, then realized his mistake and said, "No, no, I'm afraid not. The forest people?"
The Woodsman snorted. "Gods, no. Do you know nothing of your history?"
"Yes, certainly. We came to this land many hundreds of years ago and found your kind here. We tried to bring you into our Empire, but our diseases wiped most of you out--"
"Let me stop you before you embarrass yourself further," the Woodsman said, no longer smiling. "The white barbarians that spawned you came to this land, and found //my// people's red barbarian neighbors. The desert dwellers in the south, the snow people of the north, the grasseaters of the east. Many of us died of your sicknesses, yes, but our towns lived on. We allied with your people as you killed our enemies, then ran as you slaughtered us for our land. You stole our words, our medicines—//I// likely enough had kin named Widewater, back when I had kin—and then shoved us around the continent like marbles.
"//My// people were the people of the cave country, the Tsalagi. Our homes were east of here; you ground us out like burning embers. I am Adahy, and I may be the last of my people, and I may not; I have no way of knowing. My eyes are gone, and I shall die soon, but I have one gift to pass on, and the only ones—" The Woodsman paused at this last part "—the only ones I have to pass that gift to are two white devils. I will give you this gift from the world beyond this one, but let an old man have his regrets."
Agrippa had no response to any of this. Ari, smart little beast that he was, rose to his feet and fell to one knee before the blind hermit. "And let me pledge, sir, the enduring thanks of the better world your gift will bring about."
The Woodsman seemed sated. "Better for someone, anyway. Very well, I suppose you should be getting on, then. The box is on that little shelf there, beside the door." He pointed at a small brown box, oddly out of place in some imperceptible way; Agrippa had noticed it immediately upon entering. Something about the box's construction reeked of the unnatural. He walked across the room and picked it up.
"You may leave as soon as is prudent, travelers," Adahy said, and retreated to a small alcove.
--------
Ari and Agrippa had run for what seemed like hours before they reached the end of the woodline and approached their barracks. They snuck into the building, nodding at the guard they had already bribed into silence. Of course, he likely thought they were just out fondling some //pórnoi// in the pleasure district; the question wasn't asked, so long as the gold was forthcoming. The package was hidden until Ari pulled it out from under his tunic. They looked at the artifact, awe-filled in spite of its obvious cheap construction. Of course, the Phitransimun Combine wasn't known for its craftsmanship for most of its postal service; only high-grade objects were treated with real care. And this was clearly a postal container of some sort; the label was recognizable, the alphabet somewhat decipherable, even if neither Ari nor Agrippa knew where anyplace was called "Omaha."
Agrippa tried to gingerly pry open the wood-pulp container, but the adherent holding the flaps in place caused part of it to rip. Ari took the box from his hands and pulled the rest of the pulp apart. "The covering isn't important; it's what's inside that counts."
Working his way through the pulp coverings and the endless layers of clear, elastic paper air pockets used for padding (//what// amazing //skills these outworlders have,// Agrippa thought, as he gathered up the scraps falling from Ari's hands), Ari uncovered a small booklet.
"Wait, where's the weapon?" Agrippa said.
Ari flipped through the pages. "I have no idea. But maybe Milephanes will."
------
The booklet that was brought to Milephanes was never translated into the language of their people, but Milephanes had learned how to read the offworlders' speech well enough by this point. He knew that the phrase "UNITED STATES" was important immediately; that was an important empire in the other-realm, and powerful. And while it took some research to learn what "CONSTITUTION" meant in this sense, he immediately took great interest in the concept of a "DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE."
------
> COMMUNIQUE
> FROM AGENT ███████ ("PROFESSOR ALPHA" , MTF P-1)
> --TO RESEARCHER ESKOBAR
> HEAD OF RESEARCH
> ALEXYLVA UNIVERSITY--
> --FWD: TO SENIOR RESEARCHER ███████
> SITE 38 DIRECTOR--
> FWD: TO OVERWATCH COMMAND
>
> PRIORITY TWO ALERT
>
> TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
>
> ANOMALOUS OBJECT ACQUIRED AT ██° ██.█████' N ██° ██.████ W AT 0330 THIS DAY. OBJECT: TYPE THREE CLASSIFICATION (DELIVERY ARTIFACT, UNREMARKABLE MAKE). CONTENTS: TWO HUNDRED FIFTY (250) COPIES OF IDENTICAL SHEET OF PAPER. FULL CONTENTS INCLUDED IN APPENDIX OF REPORT. NOTABLE EXCERPTS, TRANSLATED APPROXIMATELY INTO STANDARD ENGLISH:
>
> "We hold these [facts?] to be [clear?]: that all mans is to be treated as the same as one another, that the sands of time and nature's winds have left those that survive to be worthy of certain rights, including life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Governments are instituted among men with power given to be from the will of those men, and when any ruler seeks to defy that will, it is to those men to see that ruler's blood spilled from sea to sea, and to choose new ruler to make men safe and [pleased?]"
>
> --------
>
> "The history of current Regent of Novomundus tells to us that he is such ruler and cannot be suffered for further living. Let the truth be known [followed by a long series of political complaints, including "Making for that womenfolk can steal the glory and pride of man, rightful ruler of woman and beast," "Releasing among our people the great scourge, the [integrators?], the half-machines, that our children may find themselves prey in our homes," and "Making of many childrens idiots and slaves against all laws of natural order."]"
>
> ------
>
> "We, therefore, the Representatives of the united People of Novomundus, take arms against the injustices listed above and swear our lives that these cruelties be not endured any longer. The Gods of our ancestors, they that support us, may do so; but let it be known that whosoever stands in our way is to be annihilated. We shall destroy everyone who opposes, and let their carcasses pile up to realm of heavens. If all the gods in heaven and the demons, and the good and bad people all oppose us, we shall not relent. We shall not yield.
>
> --Milephanes of Sylvanos"
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-12-08T16:17:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"alexylva",
"tale"
] | The Red Woodsman - SCP Foundation | 68 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"wayward",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"alexylva-university-hub"
] | [] | 12182299 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-red-woodsman |
|
the-three-words-no-man-wants-to-hear | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<br/>
There are three words no man ever wants to hear come out of the mouth of a girl they've been planning to leave.
<p>"She was glorious when we met. I remember distinctly the way the crazy orange of the sunset reflected in her gray eyes, giving them an otherworldly tint that somehow managed to make her perfect smile all the more beautiful. I'd been walking the dock, bored, looking for nothing in particular, when I heard her laugh harmonize with the waves, and looked up to see the most incredibly gorgeous girl I had ever seen smiling at me with her toes in the water. Boom. Lust at first sight.</p>
<p>She stayed beautiful for the rest of the evening, and then for the rest of the night. I'm not generally a second date kind of guy, but for her? Hell, I'd stick around. Days turned to weeks turned to months, et cetera. You know how it goes. Never thought I'd wind up in any kind of long-term relationship, but hey. Sex is sex, and steady is steady.</p>
<p>Thing is, over time, she got… Eh, I'll call it clingy. Yeah, Yeah, I know, that's to be expected. Sure. Like I said, I'm just not the kind of guy who's comfortable with that. She'd get suspicious, almost threatening. I'd come home late, and "baby, where have you <em>been</em>?", every time, like she wanted to catch me at something. Started asking my friends questions, too. Not cool.</p>
<p>Here's an example. One night, I go to Angelo's, help him set up the gallery for his next show. Took us a little longer then we expected, maybe half an hour. No big deal. I get home, she's on my couch, gray eyes brimming with tears. Now, I suppose I should explain- She didn't live with me. No sir. To this day I have no fuckin' clue how she got in there, but there she was, looking at me with those big pretty eyes. "Baby, you never called. Where were you?"</p>
<p>Before I can even answer, my phone rings, and it's Angelo. "Yo, how'd your girl get my number, huh? I told you, if you gotta' have people callin' me, give 'em the gallery number." I just hung up. She'd called him while I was driving home. It wasn't long after that that Angelo stopped answering my calls. Fickle bastard.</p>
<p>So, I start thinking about getting out. I've been tied down too long, yanno? And that's when it happens. Three words, unexpected, cutting right to the primal quick.</p>
<p>It was a normal enough night. I'd been working at a local movie theater for change, and stopped to flirt with the new ticket girl, and one thing led to another led to I'm headed home late. So it goes. Shit, don't look at me like that. Can't a man have a life? I don't tell you how to run your personal shit.</p>
<p>Anyway, I walk in, and the first thing I see is a broken glass near the door. Cheap wine all over the floor. Weird. So I walk cautious and loud, making damn sure whoever it is knows I'm home, and I'm a fuckin' big guy. And there she is.</p>
<p>She's leaning up against the kitchen counter, smiling, like she's glad to see me. And she looks up at me with those big yellow eyes, and says three words that damn near stop my heart."</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>"You should run."</p>
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">...</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<hr/>
<p>Doctor Sander sighed and clicked off the portable recorder on his desk. "All right, D-1254. That's enough for now. Go on back to your dormitory." He motioned to the guards at the door, and they moved swiftly to escort the man in the orange jumpsuit out of the small office.</p>
<p>With another resigned sigh, Sander pulled a fresh memo from a pad and began to write.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SCP-3701-E victim designated D-1254, convicted of two counts of murder, one Angelo Dimuccio, 32-year-old male, one Toni Williams, 27-year-old female. He doesn't seem to remember doing the male, and from the sound of it, he didn't even think the girl was human at the time. Some kind of monster, trying to kill him.</p>
<p>The effect seems to extend to memory as well as perception. He doesn't recall his hallucinations as such, nor does he question the likelihood of their events. Beyond that, no lasting effect of SCP-3701-E has manifested, and D-1254 will be terminated at the end of the month as per normal protocols.</p>
<p>This is the fourth victim of 3701-E in two months. I'm recommending research into the cause of the hallucinations and delusions be made a Keter level priority, at least until we can figure out what it is and contain it.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Sander added the memo to a growing pile on his desk and rubbed his temples, then got up to go for coffee.<br/></p>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>
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<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/the-three-words-no-man-wants-to-hear">Three Words No Man Wants To Hear</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-three-words-no-man-wants-to-hear">https://scpwiki.com/the-three-words-no-man-wants-to-hear</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
There are three words no man ever wants to hear come out of the mouth of a girl they've been planning to leave.
"She was glorious when we met. I remember distinctly the way the crazy orange of the sunset reflected in her gray eyes, giving them an otherworldly tint that somehow managed to make her perfect smile all the more beautiful. I'd been walking the dock, bored, looking for nothing in particular, when I heard her laugh harmonize with the waves, and looked up to see the most incredibly gorgeous girl I had ever seen smiling at me with her toes in the water. Boom. Lust at first sight.
She stayed beautiful for the rest of the evening, and then for the rest of the night. I'm not generally a second date kind of guy, but for her? Hell, I'd stick around. Days turned to weeks turned to months, et cetera. You know how it goes. Never thought I'd wind up in any kind of long-term relationship, but hey. Sex is sex, and steady is steady.
Thing is, over time, she got... Eh, I'll call it clingy. Yeah, Yeah, I know, that's to be expected. Sure. Like I said, I'm just not the kind of guy who's comfortable with that. She'd get suspicious, almost threatening. I'd come home late, and "baby, where have you //been//?", every time, like she wanted to catch me at something. Started asking my friends questions, too. Not cool.
Here's an example. One night, I go to Angelo's, help him set up the gallery for his next show. Took us a little longer then we expected, maybe half an hour. No big deal. I get home, she's on my couch, gray eyes brimming with tears. Now, I suppose I should explain- She didn't live with me. No sir. To this day I have no fuckin' clue how she got in there, but there she was, looking at me with those big pretty eyes. "Baby, you never called. Where were you?"
Before I can even answer, my phone rings, and it's Angelo. "Yo, how'd your girl get my number, huh? I told you, if you gotta' have people callin' me, give 'em the gallery number." I just hung up. She'd called him while I was driving home. It wasn't long after that that Angelo stopped answering my calls. Fickle bastard.
So, I start thinking about getting out. I've been tied down too long, yanno? And that's when it happens. Three words, unexpected, cutting right to the primal quick.
It was a normal enough night. I'd been working at a local movie theater for change, and stopped to flirt with the new ticket girl, and one thing led to another led to I'm headed home late. So it goes. Shit, don't look at me like that. Can't a man have a life? I don't tell you how to run your personal shit.
Anyway, I walk in, and the first thing I see is a broken glass near the door. Cheap wine all over the floor. Weird. So I walk cautious and loud, making damn sure whoever it is knows I'm home, and I'm a fuckin' big guy. And there she is.
She's leaning up against the kitchen counter, smiling, like she's glad to see me. And she looks up at me with those big yellow eyes, and says three words that damn near stop my heart."
...
"You should run."
[[collapsible show="..." hide=" "]]
------------------------------------------------------------
Doctor Sander sighed and clicked off the portable recorder on his desk. "All right, D-1254. That's enough for now. Go on back to your dormitory." He motioned to the guards at the door, and they moved swiftly to escort the man in the orange jumpsuit out of the small office.
With another resigned sigh, Sander pulled a fresh memo from a pad and began to write.
> SCP-3701-E victim designated D-1254, convicted of two counts of murder, one Angelo Dimuccio, 32-year-old male, one Toni Williams, 27-year-old female. He doesn't seem to remember doing the male, and from the sound of it, he didn't even think the girl was human at the time. Some kind of monster, trying to kill him.
>
> The effect seems to extend to memory as well as perception. He doesn't recall his hallucinations as such, nor does he question the likelihood of their events. Beyond that, no lasting effect of SCP-3701-E has manifested, and D-1254 will be terminated at the end of the month as per normal protocols.
>
> This is the fourth victim of 3701-E in two months. I'm recommending research into the cause of the hallucinations and delusions be made a Keter level priority, at least until we can figure out what it is and contain it.
Sander added the memo to a growing pile on his desk and rubbed his temples, then got up to go for coffee.
[[/collapsible]]
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
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| 2011-02-03T20:50:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Three Words No Man Wants To Hear - SCP Foundation | 38 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 7318855 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-three-words-no-man-wants-to-hear |
|
the-woven-man | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Once upon a time, there was a tailor of well-repute, who resided in a cottage some distance from the town square. He was known to be the best at his art, and his fingers moved like rippling water, manipulating even the finest of fibre and thread into intricate lines of motion that, so the story goes, could bring tapestry to life. Now, we know little truth in that fact. But the thing everyone agrees on is that one day, the tailor sighed.</p>
<p>For he had grown old over the years, and his hands were no longer the systematic swift swirling of small ripples, but the choppy churning of deep lakes. As always, his finished products were magnificent in detail and his commissions rolled in, but there lacked the spark, the swift precision that was his hallmark and pride and joy in his early days.</p>
<p>So the master tailor decided to search for an apprentice. Notices were put up, word was spread, and soon hopeful pupils by the coachload were hiking up the path to the master tailor's cottage, which was secluded so as to aid his concentration on his work. The tailor welcomed his candidates with open arms, and directed them each to a private room where they were shown a needle and as much as they required of the tailor's finest thread. Thinner than a horsehair and flimsier than rotten flax but shining silver which seemed to animate in the cold winter light. The task was to weave a single sheet of shimmering, moving silver, which could not be broken by human means. The tailor could accomplish this with ease, and even demonstrated it in front of the rapt students-to-be.</p>
<p>Naturally, many forfeited after testing the thread, and though there were some who came close, with a twist and a snap, their hard work would come undone by the stern-faced tailor. You have failed, he would say for the hundredth time that day, and the candidate would sigh, pack up and go.</p>
<p>Now this continued for a week, but among the many hopefuls, none were able to replicate what the tailor had taken years to learn and even longer to master. As he showed another dejected candidate through the door, he thought to himself. "I can weave shimmering dragons, flying through the moving tapestry sky; I can weave live fire-flies with their glowing dances onto impossible textures of coats. If I cannot find a man worthy enough to be my student, I shall weave one myself! For nothing knows the fine flow of needle and thread better than one made of needle and thread himself."</p>
<p>The next day, the tailor locked his gate and blocked out his windows. Taking a bundle of fine white cotton, he began to weave. In and out, through holes impossible to find and even harder to thread, into three dimensions he constructed a matrix of interwoven thread, and with a final tuck completed a solid bone out of impossibly locked cotton. More and more he sewed, until a complete man's frame was formed. Then he bounded to the frame, by way of hooks and needles, countless numbers of springy red fibres, dyed with the blood of goats and bewitched by an old gypsy he once met in his earlier days. Slowly, the woven muscles twisted and snaked round one another until they stretched taut on the white cotton bone, and twitched with excited tension. But the tailor pressed his hand to the jumpy threads and said, "Lie still. It's not time yet."</p>
<p>With thin catgut he sewed infinitesimal compartments, until the structure resembled a human lung, and he placed it in the open quivering ribcage. In several swift movements of his needle he connected dripping red thread to fleshy catgut and woven bone, and painfully but surely the muscles contracted. His creation took a shuddering, shallow first breath.</p>
<p>For the veins and arteries he threaded numerous hollow yarns through the strands of interwoven red tendons, into linen bone and within breathing chest, and at the center of it all placed a little sewing-machine mechanism, driven by clockwork held fast with craftsman's glue and a live starpiece. Feeding silk through the heart, he wound up the pulsing starpiece, starting off the mechanism with a muted titter-tatter. Through the hollow veins life's silk coursed, bringing movement and vigour to the limbs. But there was yet no mind to control it, and the creation did not rise.</p>
<p>Using a sheet of smooth pink silk, he stitched skin to muscle, covering the exposed rawness with a layer of thread so warm and smooth to the touch one could have mistaken it for a real person. With embellishments crafted from marble he slid fingernails into raw pulsing nailbeds, and teeth into dry gums. The hair was spun with the finest gold thread the tailor could afford, falling over clear glass eyes filled with bella-donna dew for sight. He left a small opening at the base of the skull, for he had not yet thought of how to weave a sentient soul.</p>
<p>Finally, among his vaults of disused material he discovered a strange colourless spool of thread which somehow shimmered with light more than even his most delicate silver. It was fine, but somehow not too thin, and so strong that he needed a carving-knife to sever it, but felt in his hands and needle that in all his years of practice and self-training, this thread was spun for his talented fingers alone.</p>
<p>In the pale moonlight he began to cast the thread into a single piece of textile. But the more he spun, the more he deviated and the needle twisted and turned, forwards and backwards into ways not even he could comprehend. It was as if the thread was compelling him, forcing his fingers into complex loops and maneuvers until he lost track of everything and all that remained was an indeterminate bundle in his hands, chaotic yet somehow orderly, which seemed to change its shape depending on from which angle he looked at it. His needle was also warped and bent double into a smooth curve, although he could not remember it doing so while he was sewing.</p>
<p>Carefully, gingerly, he lowered the strange dreamy bundle into the cavity of the skull, and stitched up the hole with a single movement. The glass eyes grew a little less opaque, and the tick-tick-tick of the clockwork heart quickened, and the woven man came to life.</p>
<p>That was the story he told the townsfolk, as he brought the woven man to the market the next day. Silk pulsing through threaded veins, it spoke and breathed and acted like a human being. In fact, so engrossed was the master tailor at his project that he did not realise he had created the woven man entirely in his own image. The townsfolk were amazed, and expressed joy at the tailor having another hand to help about in the never-ending work and commissions.</p>
<p>The days went by, and soon enough the woven man grew to be as proficient as the master tailor was in his prime. The master tailor, on the other hand, slowed and declined, and instead preferred to spend his evenings at the local barhouse with a few friends, a deck of cards and a mug of vodka while his creation toiled away and practiced. One night in a drunken rage, he threw down his cards and exclaimed, "I should never have made that blasted woven monster in the first place! Why, I would have trained a respectable born-and-bred man instead, one smart enough not to overtake his master at his own art!"</p>
<p>Late in the night, the town sentry recalled hearing a scuffle in the tailor's cottage. By the next morning, only one man was seen at the market, carrying his own wares. "What happened to the other one?" they asked.</p>
<p>"Tried to murder me in my sleep, that traitorous bastard."</p>
<p>"Where is he now?"</p>
<p>The tailor turned to them. "I killed him. Torn him apart. Strung his sinews into a bonfire, then set him alight with his burning bones."</p>
<p>The townsfolk asked little about that fateful night. The master tailor was apparently driven by the death of his doppelganger, and proceeded to generate tapestries the likes of which no one had ever seen before.</p>
<p>But no man is immortal, and even the master tailor's rippling fingers could not save him from Death. Now this is where the story gets strange, for when they cremated his body in the town square, his body burned like dry cotton on a summer day, and at the bottom of his ashes was a single clockwork sewing-machine mechanism, winding down to the tune of a dead starpiece.</p>
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<p>"<a href="/the-woven-man">The Woven Man</a>" by minmin, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-woven-man">https://scpwiki.com/the-woven-man</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Once upon a time, there was a tailor of well-repute, who resided in a cottage some distance from the town square. He was known to be the best at his art, and his fingers moved like rippling water, manipulating even the finest of fibre and thread into intricate lines of motion that, so the story goes, could bring tapestry to life. Now, we know little truth in that fact. But the thing everyone agrees on is that one day, the tailor sighed.
For he had grown old over the years, and his hands were no longer the systematic swift swirling of small ripples, but the choppy churning of deep lakes. As always, his finished products were magnificent in detail and his commissions rolled in, but there lacked the spark, the swift precision that was his hallmark and pride and joy in his early days.
So the master tailor decided to search for an apprentice. Notices were put up, word was spread, and soon hopeful pupils by the coachload were hiking up the path to the master tailor's cottage, which was secluded so as to aid his concentration on his work. The tailor welcomed his candidates with open arms, and directed them each to a private room where they were shown a needle and as much as they required of the tailor's finest thread. Thinner than a horsehair and flimsier than rotten flax but shining silver which seemed to animate in the cold winter light. The task was to weave a single sheet of shimmering, moving silver, which could not be broken by human means. The tailor could accomplish this with ease, and even demonstrated it in front of the rapt students-to-be.
Naturally, many forfeited after testing the thread, and though there were some who came close, with a twist and a snap, their hard work would come undone by the stern-faced tailor. You have failed, he would say for the hundredth time that day, and the candidate would sigh, pack up and go.
Now this continued for a week, but among the many hopefuls, none were able to replicate what the tailor had taken years to learn and even longer to master. As he showed another dejected candidate through the door, he thought to himself. "I can weave shimmering dragons, flying through the moving tapestry sky; I can weave live fire-flies with their glowing dances onto impossible textures of coats. If I cannot find a man worthy enough to be my student, I shall weave one myself! For nothing knows the fine flow of needle and thread better than one made of needle and thread himself."
The next day, the tailor locked his gate and blocked out his windows. Taking a bundle of fine white cotton, he began to weave. In and out, through holes impossible to find and even harder to thread, into three dimensions he constructed a matrix of interwoven thread, and with a final tuck completed a solid bone out of impossibly locked cotton. More and more he sewed, until a complete man's frame was formed. Then he bounded to the frame, by way of hooks and needles, countless numbers of springy red fibres, dyed with the blood of goats and bewitched by an old gypsy he once met in his earlier days. Slowly, the woven muscles twisted and snaked round one another until they stretched taut on the white cotton bone, and twitched with excited tension. But the tailor pressed his hand to the jumpy threads and said, "Lie still. It's not time yet."
With thin catgut he sewed infinitesimal compartments, until the structure resembled a human lung, and he placed it in the open quivering ribcage. In several swift movements of his needle he connected dripping red thread to fleshy catgut and woven bone, and painfully but surely the muscles contracted. His creation took a shuddering, shallow first breath.
For the veins and arteries he threaded numerous hollow yarns through the strands of interwoven red tendons, into linen bone and within breathing chest, and at the center of it all placed a little sewing-machine mechanism, driven by clockwork held fast with craftsman's glue and a live starpiece. Feeding silk through the heart, he wound up the pulsing starpiece, starting off the mechanism with a muted titter-tatter. Through the hollow veins life's silk coursed, bringing movement and vigour to the limbs. But there was yet no mind to control it, and the creation did not rise.
Using a sheet of smooth pink silk, he stitched skin to muscle, covering the exposed rawness with a layer of thread so warm and smooth to the touch one could have mistaken it for a real person. With embellishments crafted from marble he slid fingernails into raw pulsing nailbeds, and teeth into dry gums. The hair was spun with the finest gold thread the tailor could afford, falling over clear glass eyes filled with bella-donna dew for sight. He left a small opening at the base of the skull, for he had not yet thought of how to weave a sentient soul.
Finally, among his vaults of disused material he discovered a strange colourless spool of thread which somehow shimmered with light more than even his most delicate silver. It was fine, but somehow not too thin, and so strong that he needed a carving-knife to sever it, but felt in his hands and needle that in all his years of practice and self-training, this thread was spun for his talented fingers alone.
In the pale moonlight he began to cast the thread into a single piece of textile. But the more he spun, the more he deviated and the needle twisted and turned, forwards and backwards into ways not even he could comprehend. It was as if the thread was compelling him, forcing his fingers into complex loops and maneuvers until he lost track of everything and all that remained was an indeterminate bundle in his hands, chaotic yet somehow orderly, which seemed to change its shape depending on from which angle he looked at it. His needle was also warped and bent double into a smooth curve, although he could not remember it doing so while he was sewing.
Carefully, gingerly, he lowered the strange dreamy bundle into the cavity of the skull, and stitched up the hole with a single movement. The glass eyes grew a little less opaque, and the tick-tick-tick of the clockwork heart quickened, and the woven man came to life.
That was the story he told the townsfolk, as he brought the woven man to the market the next day. Silk pulsing through threaded veins, it spoke and breathed and acted like a human being. In fact, so engrossed was the master tailor at his project that he did not realise he had created the woven man entirely in his own image. The townsfolk were amazed, and expressed joy at the tailor having another hand to help about in the never-ending work and commissions.
The days went by, and soon enough the woven man grew to be as proficient as the master tailor was in his prime. The master tailor, on the other hand, slowed and declined, and instead preferred to spend his evenings at the local barhouse with a few friends, a deck of cards and a mug of vodka while his creation toiled away and practiced. One night in a drunken rage, he threw down his cards and exclaimed, "I should never have made that blasted woven monster in the first place! Why, I would have trained a respectable born-and-bred man instead, one smart enough not to overtake his master at his own art!"
Late in the night, the town sentry recalled hearing a scuffle in the tailor's cottage. By the next morning, only one man was seen at the market, carrying his own wares. "What happened to the other one?" they asked.
"Tried to murder me in my sleep, that traitorous bastard."
"Where is he now?"
The tailor turned to them. "I killed him. Torn him apart. Strung his sinews into a bonfire, then set him alight with his burning bones."
The townsfolk asked little about that fateful night. The master tailor was apparently driven by the death of his doppelganger, and proceeded to generate tapestries the likes of which no one had ever seen before.
But no man is immortal, and even the master tailor's rippling fingers could not save him from Death. Now this is where the story gets strange, for when they cremated his body in the town square, his body burned like dry cotton on a summer day, and at the bottom of his ashes was a single clockwork sewing-machine mechanism, winding down to the tune of a dead starpiece.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-05-19T10:40:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"creepypasta",
"tale"
] | The Woven Man - SCP Foundation | 68 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
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"archived:foundation-tales",
"algorithm-curated-recommendations"
] | [] | 10110672 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-woven-man |
|
this-place-seems-so-familiar | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<blockquote>
<p><a href="/corn-starch">It's just me and Tim now.</a></p>
<p>Everyone else is gone.</p>
<p>He came up to tell me. William and Marie dug up Evan's body, took the life raft, and left. We're alone. On the upside, this means more food for us… I'm still hoping someone will come along and find us here. I want to know more about who owns this place, why it's so strange. Is the cliff really some sort of pier? Or is it something stranger?</p>
<p>I can't help thinking about how the front half of the plane just vanished, how the seam was so straight and perfect… How it looked just like the cliff at the end of the island Tim is sitting on dangling his feet over the water as he fishes to kill time. Perfectly straight edges… I think I'm beginning to understand. In a scary science fiction sort of way, it makes sense.</p>
<p>It's impossible, but… I think I unders</p>
</blockquote>
<p><em><strong>Researcher's Note:</strong> Document 1057-E-Stephen was discovered in the upper floor bedroom of a beachside rental home on the peninsula at[REDACTED]. The site was brought to the attention of the Foundation by a caretaker, who arrived to mow the lawn to find a male corpse, minus the legs and with the arms removed just below the elbows, lying in the middle of the driveway. Study of this document as well as [REDACTED]dentifies the body as Timothy Zwicky, who has been missing since the loss of ████████ flight ████ out of San Diego in March of ████. Neighbors report not seeing anyone enter or leave the house since the caretaker's last visit. Note that the house is not, nor has it ever been, located on an island. The "cliff" described in this account does not exist.</em></p>
<p><em>The body of a woman identified as Marjory Vinnigio, also listed as missing following the disappearance of flight ███, was found in the house. Cause of death appears to be multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body.</em></p>
<p><em>Of particular interest to the Foundation is the fact that no passenger named "Stephen" is listed on Flight ███'s manifest. No other persons were found in the house, and the identity of this document's author is currently unknown.</em></p>
<p><em>Case 1057-E is open for all researchers with interest in contributing, to both evidence gathering and analysis. Personnel who wish to assist should contact doctor Vanheissen, and requisition documents 1057-E-Timothy, 1057-E-Ma[DATA EXPUNGED]</em><br/>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>
<div class="licensebox">
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<p>Cite this page as:</p>
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<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/this-place-seems-so-familiar">Chapter Five: This Place Seems So Familiar</a>" by tunedtoadeadchannel, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/this-place-seems-so-familiar">https://scpwiki.com/this-place-seems-so-familiar</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
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[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
> [[[corn-starch|It's just me and Tim now.]]]
>
> Everyone else is gone.
>
> He came up to tell me. William and Marie dug up Evan's body, took the life raft, and left. We're alone. On the upside, this means more food for us... I'm still hoping someone will come along and find us here. I want to know more about who owns this place, why it's so strange. Is the cliff really some sort of pier? Or is it something stranger?
>
> I can't help thinking about how the front half of the plane just vanished, how the seam was so straight and perfect... How it looked just like the cliff at the end of the island Tim is sitting on dangling his feet over the water as he fishes to kill time. Perfectly straight edges... I think I'm beginning to understand. In a scary science fiction sort of way, it makes sense.
>
> It's impossible, but... I think I unders
//**Researcher's Note:** Document 1057-E-Stephen was discovered in the upper floor bedroom of a beachside rental home on the peninsula at[REDACTED]. The site was brought to the attention of the Foundation by a caretaker, who arrived to mow the lawn to find a male corpse, minus the legs and with the arms removed just below the elbows, lying in the middle of the driveway. Study of this document as well as [REDACTED]dentifies the body as Timothy Zwicky, who has been missing since the loss of ████████ flight ████ out of San Diego in March of ████. Neighbors report not seeing anyone enter or leave the house since the caretaker's last visit. Note that the house is not, nor has it ever been, located on an island. The "cliff" described in this account does not exist.//
//The body of a woman identified as Marjory Vinnigio, also listed as missing following the disappearance of flight ███, was found in the house. Cause of death appears to be multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body.//
//Of particular interest to the Foundation is the fact that no passenger named "Stephen" is listed on Flight ███'s manifest. No other persons were found in the house, and the identity of this document's author is currently unknown.//
//Case 1057-E is open for all researchers with interest in contributing, to both evidence gathering and analysis. Personnel who wish to assist should contact doctor Vanheissen, and requisition documents 1057-E-Timothy, 1057-E-Ma[DATA EXPUNGED]//
@@ @@
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-07-21T20:14:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"mystery",
"tale"
] | Chapter Five: This Place Seems So Familiar - SCP Foundation | 40 | [
"corn-starch",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
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"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 11149232 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/this-place-seems-so-familiar |
|
to-catch-a-witch | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>OMG! So, liek, <a href="/scp-777-j">darkblade</a> posted this <a class="newpage" href="/saving-sigurros-potter">REALLY REALLY good story</a> last year n I jst wanted 2 write in his world, ya know? Many thanks to my beta readers: MannW/Plan, AteredCliffs, and Cappuccino! U all r teh best!</p>
<p><strong>To Catch A Witch: The War-Lich Cycle: Episode One: So Be It</strong></p>
<p>A white streak of lightening cut through the night sky, illuminating an ever changing face for the briefest of moments. In that second, the man had appeared as a vulpine demon, snarling in the falling rain. It was an appropriate image for Sir Clef, the last on the Light Knights that opposed the appointment of Jack Bright, Lord of Spite, the previous High War-Lich of the Schips Foundation, a group of American wizards whose original purpose had been twisted by his evil.</p>
<p>Sir Clef, originally stationed in the British quadrant, was now investigating the fall of the Schips due to one particularly meddlesome little wizard: Harry Potter.</p>
<p>Since Harry had perfected the Life Spell, a magic capable of returning those dead to life, so long as they weren’t gay, he had brought back many of those slain by Voldemort, including Albus Dumbledore. The two of them had raided Schips, the group responsible for the protection of the United States’ most valuable magical artifacts. Before Bright’s dark, venomous hands closed on the neck of the wizarding group, it had been mostly passive, and after his death, it was pretty much unevil again. Though, there were still loose ends to tie up. It was a dirty, difficult job—and only the dirtiest and most difficult were asked to do it. And no one was more difficult and dirty than Sir Clef.</p>
<p>But there was a problem. The young wizard had stolen back the American Chosen One, his sister, and taken her back with him to Britain. Sir Clef had no choice. He had to get her back; his Lord and Master demanded it.</p>
<p>“So be it,” he thought.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Clef entered the bleak chamber of the Schips greatest prisoner: Threfor Threed, the Demon Warlock. He drew his black broadsword—Ookoolayla, the Song Ender—and stood before the beast, prepared to strike him down.</p>
<p>“Yes, Sir Clef,” the gnarled old man spoke. “You’ve come to me for the secrets of demonic power at last? I have such wonderful things to show you.”</p>
<p>“Silence yourself, warlock,” said Clef, glaring at his old, grizzled foe. “You will submit yourself to my authority, lest I smite thee.”</p>
<p>The demon consorter laughed, then looked at his ancient nemesis, glaring. “So be it, Clef,” he muttered. “Return my wand, and I will help you recapture the chosen child. But mark me—if I am betrayed, our bloods will mingle on the ground and water the thorns.”</p>
<p>Clef spat. “Temp me not, rapist of the pure souls,” he said. “Do as I command, and you shall have your freedom.”</p>
<p>“So be it,” cackled the ancient man, his voice echoing through the cell like a death knee on the eve of a Winter’s morn.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sir Clef entered the man’s cell; he had once been a trusted companion…before his burning. Now, he was one of the few imprisoned by Schips willingly, for his ability for harm was far too great. He sat in his cell, the walls flaking with ashes.</p>
<p>“Sir Gerald,” said Clef, looking at his old companion. “I needest thee, for by your power alone may I check the Giant Hagrid.”</p>
<p>Gerald looked at him. “I am no longer a Sir,” he said, mournfully and sadly. “I am only Gerald. But I will help thee, Clef.”</p>
<p>Clef looked at him. “You’ll always be a sir to me,” he said, bowing his head slightly to his cursed companion.</p>
<p>“We go to recapture the chosen one?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Clef. “My master commands it.”</p>
<p>“Then so be it,” said Gerald, his words sounding very familiar to the ending of the last section.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Clef stood on the beach at the Cliffs of Dover, staring through a magic portal. Suddenly, Harry, Dumbledore, and Hagrid strode through it, resplendent in their magical force and power. Harry looked at Clef imperiously, as everyone squared off against each other. It was so totally awesome looking.</p>
<p>Then, they started fighting, each of them shouting “SO BE IT!”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Threfor Threed stood across from Albus Dumbledore, both of the ancient powers hurling magics at each other.</p>
<p>“STUPIFY!” shouted Threfor Threed, directing his demonic forces through his wand—made of demon horn and nightmare hair—at Dumbledore.</p>
<p>“NEGATORY!” responded Dumbledore, deflecting the magic. “Why, Threfor Threed? You were among the best of us? Why did you turn evil?”</p>
<p>“Because!” he shouted. “I loved you Albus! I loved you, and you only gave me spite in return!”</p>
<p>“For the last time!” Dumbledore said. “I’m totally not gay!”</p>
<p>“LIAR!” shouted Threfor Threed, hurling deadly power.</p>
<p>“So be it,” said Dumbledore.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Gerald looked up at the giant, a grim smile frowning across his face. “Please, Giant. I do not wish to do this!”</p>
<p>Hagrid looked at him. “I canna let ya take the girl,” shouted Hagrid. “She’s ‘appy ‘ere wit’ us!”</p>
<p>“Then you leave me no choice,” said Gerald, activating his hidden power. He suddenly burst into flames, for when Gerald had been burned years ago, he was infected with lycanthropy, turning him into a Werepyre.</p>
<p>His arms extended, his body ablaze as he screamed.</p>
<p>“So be it,” said Hagrid.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Clef drew his black blade, pacing around Harry. The other two were checked by his companions, and he had to defeat Harry quickly. Clef charged the young man, swinging wildly.</p>
<p>“No!” shouted Harry. “You cannot have her!”</p>
<p>“But without her,” said Clef, “the apocalypse will happen!”</p>
<p>“No!” said Harry, his wand reshaping into a blade of crimson and gold, the colors of his house. “I will not allow you to take her.</p>
<p>“So be it,” said Clef.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Harry and Clef fought for a while, their blades bouncing off each other, sparks of power flying between them. Suddenly, Harry saw an opening, diving in to cut Clef’s leg.</p>
<p>“Ow!” said Clef, dropping his blade and falling. “Master! I’ve failed!”</p>
<p>Harry raised his sword to strike the killing blow, but it was stopped—by a long, silver blade.</p>
<p>Harry looked over, his jaw quivering slightly. “D..d…Darkblade!” he shouted, jumping back.</p>
<p>Darkblade stepped over Clef to guard him. “You tried, my servant,” he said, protecting Clef. “I will stop him now!”</p>
<p>Then, Harry and Darkblade started fighting, their blades clashing. Darkblade was holding back, for he knew Harry only had his sister’s best intentions at heart, but he still defended himself. He blocked and parried, then, somehow, Harry’s blade sneaked by Darkblade’s, cutting his shoulder deeply.</p>
<p>Darkblade merely looked at Harry, a single drop of blood falling to the earth from his arm cut, then glared, swinging his sword sharply and slicing the sword of Harry into two pieces. Harry looked at his sword, then to Darkblade.</p>
<p>“I won’t stop!” said Harry. “She’s my sister, and I must protect her!”</p>
<p>“No,” said Darkblade. “She has a greater purpose, one Jack Bright kept her from. We must take her to America to protect her. You can come if you want.”</p>
<p>Harry looked at Darkblade, knowing he was right. “So be it,” he said.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The twisted, malformed creature appeared with a snap, echong through the heavily exploded landscape. With glee, he slunk over the shrapnel and holes, inhaling the scent of death and blood. The clinging flavor of rotting viscera clung to him, and a single string of saliva slipped from the crack of his mouth.</p>
<p>He made his way to the middle of the battlefield, grinning wickedly, looking for his prize. He saw it there, glistening on the ground: the single drop of Darkblade’s blood.</p>
<p>He opened up a pouch and poured a small pile of ashes on the blood, cackling as they smoked, then burned, then suddenly reformed into a tall, imperious man—a silver and ruby necklace around his neck.</p>
<p>“Ahh,” said War-Lich Bright. “After all these years, I’m free! It’s time to conquer earth!”</p>
<p>He looked down at his minion, who was supposed to be Yoric, if you didn’t guess that yet. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” he said, smirking as power ran through his body, his own forces amplified by the blood of the most powerful servant of good.</p>
<p>And across the world, Darkblade suddenly turned, looking to the east, knowing that the apocalypse he was meant to stop had begun.</p>
<p>“So be it,” he said, a single tear sliding down his impassive cheek.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
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<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/to-catch-a-witch">To Catch A Witch</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/to-catch-a-witch">https://scpwiki.com/to-catch-a-witch</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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</div>
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<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
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</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
OMG! So, liek, [[[scp-777-j |darkblade]]] posted this [[[Saving Sigurrós Potter |REALLY REALLY good story]]] last year n I jst wanted 2 write in his world, ya know? Many thanks to my beta readers: MannW/Plan, AteredCliffs, and Cappuccino! U all r teh best!
**To Catch A Witch: The War-Lich Cycle: Episode One: So Be It**
A white streak of lightening cut through the night sky, illuminating an ever changing face for the briefest of moments. In that second, the man had appeared as a vulpine demon, snarling in the falling rain. It was an appropriate image for Sir Clef, the last on the Light Knights that opposed the appointment of Jack Bright, Lord of Spite, the previous High War-Lich of the Schips Foundation, a group of American wizards whose original purpose had been twisted by his evil.
Sir Clef, originally stationed in the British quadrant, was now investigating the fall of the Schips due to one particularly meddlesome little wizard: Harry Potter.
Since Harry had perfected the Life Spell, a magic capable of returning those dead to life, so long as they weren’t gay, he had brought back many of those slain by Voldemort, including Albus Dumbledore. The two of them had raided Schips, the group responsible for the protection of the United States’ most valuable magical artifacts. Before Bright’s dark, venomous hands closed on the neck of the wizarding group, it had been mostly passive, and after his death, it was pretty much unevil again. Though, there were still loose ends to tie up. It was a dirty, difficult job—and only the dirtiest and most difficult were asked to do it. And no one was more difficult and dirty than Sir Clef.
But there was a problem. The young wizard had stolen back the American Chosen One, his sister, and taken her back with him to Britain. Sir Clef had no choice. He had to get her back; his Lord and Master demanded it.
“So be it,” he thought.
-----
Clef entered the bleak chamber of the Schips greatest prisoner: Threfor Threed, the Demon Warlock. He drew his black broadsword—Ookoolayla, the Song Ender—and stood before the beast, prepared to strike him down.
“Yes, Sir Clef,” the gnarled old man spoke. “You’ve come to me for the secrets of demonic power at last? I have such wonderful things to show you.”
“Silence yourself, warlock,” said Clef, glaring at his old, grizzled foe. “You will submit yourself to my authority, lest I smite thee.”
The demon consorter laughed, then looked at his ancient nemesis, glaring. “So be it, Clef,” he muttered. “Return my wand, and I will help you recapture the chosen child. But mark me—if I am betrayed, our bloods will mingle on the ground and water the thorns.”
Clef spat. “Temp me not, rapist of the pure souls,” he said. “Do as I command, and you shall have your freedom.”
“So be it,” cackled the ancient man, his voice echoing through the cell like a death knee on the eve of a Winter’s morn.
-----
Sir Clef entered the man’s cell; he had once been a trusted companion…before his burning. Now, he was one of the few imprisoned by Schips willingly, for his ability for harm was far too great. He sat in his cell, the walls flaking with ashes.
“Sir Gerald,” said Clef, looking at his old companion. “I needest thee, for by your power alone may I check the Giant Hagrid.”
Gerald looked at him. “I am no longer a Sir,” he said, mournfully and sadly. “I am only Gerald. But I will help thee, Clef.”
Clef looked at him. “You’ll always be a sir to me,” he said, bowing his head slightly to his cursed companion.
“We go to recapture the chosen one?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Clef. “My master commands it.”
“Then so be it,” said Gerald, his words sounding very familiar to the ending of the last section.
----
Clef stood on the beach at the Cliffs of Dover, staring through a magic portal. Suddenly, Harry, Dumbledore, and Hagrid strode through it, resplendent in their magical force and power. Harry looked at Clef imperiously, as everyone squared off against each other. It was so totally awesome looking.
Then, they started fighting, each of them shouting “SO BE IT!”
----
Threfor Threed stood across from Albus Dumbledore, both of the ancient powers hurling magics at each other.
“STUPIFY!” shouted Threfor Threed, directing his demonic forces through his wand—made of demon horn and nightmare hair—at Dumbledore.
“NEGATORY!” responded Dumbledore, deflecting the magic. “Why, Threfor Threed? You were among the best of us? Why did you turn evil?”
“Because!” he shouted. “I loved you Albus! I loved you, and you only gave me spite in return!”
“For the last time!” Dumbledore said. “I’m totally not gay!”
“LIAR!” shouted Threfor Threed, hurling deadly power.
“So be it,” said Dumbledore.
----
Gerald looked up at the giant, a grim smile frowning across his face. “Please, Giant. I do not wish to do this!”
Hagrid looked at him. “I canna let ya take the girl,” shouted Hagrid. “She’s ‘appy ‘ere wit’ us!”
“Then you leave me no choice,” said Gerald, activating his hidden power. He suddenly burst into flames, for when Gerald had been burned years ago, he was infected with lycanthropy, turning him into a Werepyre.
His arms extended, his body ablaze as he screamed.
“So be it,” said Hagrid.
----
Clef drew his black blade, pacing around Harry. The other two were checked by his companions, and he had to defeat Harry quickly. Clef charged the young man, swinging wildly.
“No!” shouted Harry. “You cannot have her!”
“But without her,” said Clef, “the apocalypse will happen!”
“No!” said Harry, his wand reshaping into a blade of crimson and gold, the colors of his house. “I will not allow you to take her.
“So be it,” said Clef.
----
Harry and Clef fought for a while, their blades bouncing off each other, sparks of power flying between them. Suddenly, Harry saw an opening, diving in to cut Clef’s leg.
“Ow!” said Clef, dropping his blade and falling. “Master! I’ve failed!”
Harry raised his sword to strike the killing blow, but it was stopped—by a long, silver blade.
Harry looked over, his jaw quivering slightly. “D..d…Darkblade!” he shouted, jumping back.
Darkblade stepped over Clef to guard him. “You tried, my servant,” he said, protecting Clef. “I will stop him now!”
Then, Harry and Darkblade started fighting, their blades clashing. Darkblade was holding back, for he knew Harry only had his sister’s best intentions at heart, but he still defended himself. He blocked and parried, then, somehow, Harry’s blade sneaked by Darkblade’s, cutting his shoulder deeply.
Darkblade merely looked at Harry, a single drop of blood falling to the earth from his arm cut, then glared, swinging his sword sharply and slicing the sword of Harry into two pieces. Harry looked at his sword, then to Darkblade.
“I won’t stop!” said Harry. “She’s my sister, and I must protect her!”
“No,” said Darkblade. “She has a greater purpose, one Jack Bright kept her from. We must take her to America to protect her. You can come if you want.”
Harry looked at Darkblade, knowing he was right. “So be it,” he said.
----
The twisted, malformed creature appeared with a snap, echong through the heavily exploded landscape. With glee, he slunk over the shrapnel and holes, inhaling the scent of death and blood. The clinging flavor of rotting viscera clung to him, and a single string of saliva slipped from the crack of his mouth.
He made his way to the middle of the battlefield, grinning wickedly, looking for his prize. He saw it there, glistening on the ground: the single drop of Darkblade’s blood.
He opened up a pouch and poured a small pile of ashes on the blood, cackling as they smoked, then burned, then suddenly reformed into a tall, imperious man—a silver and ruby necklace around his neck.
“Ahh,” said War-Lich Bright. “After all these years, I’m free! It’s time to conquer earth!”
He looked down at his minion, who was supposed to be Yoric, if you didn’t guess that yet. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” he said, smirking as power ran through his body, his own forces amplified by the blood of the most powerful servant of good.
And across the world, Darkblade suddenly turned, looking to the east, knowing that the apocalypse he was meant to stop had begun.
“So be it,” he said, a single tear sliding down his impassive cheek.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
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|
transcript-found-on-storage-level-b-8 | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>“There, it's on.”</p>
<p>“Alright, settle please, settle. Ladies and gentlemen, I call this meeting to order. There are no new faces, so I will forgo introductions and proceed directly to business.”</p>
<p>“All work and no play…”</p>
<p>“Keeps us all alive. May I? Thank you. The last control theory has failed. Again. What's more, it does not appear to be vanishing quietly as was hoped, and may pose a serious issue in the immediate future. I would remind the group that I stated on the outset that Colonel Marshall lacked the self-sacrifice needed for-”</p>
<p>“Yes, you told us so. And?”</p>
<p>“Indeed. The direct identity of his backers are still under investigation, but it appears he intends to utilize his seized resources for simple profit. While unsettling, I think it's agreed that this is one of the more low-impact outcomes. In the light of previous failures, it-”</p>
<p>“Sir, with respect, I think newest members may be unaware of our past…track record.”</p>
<p>“…indeed. While a exhaustive history will be counter-productive, I think a recap of the currently active issues is in order. Our outside control theories break down in to two basic sets, official and independent. Lights, please?”</p>
<p><em>several seconds of silence, followed by humming</em></p>
<p>“Our currently longest-running theory was based on several, older theories. It was enacted after a review of the failing modern theories, with the hope that a more direct and simple strategy would be more effective.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“The initial start up was very promising, and the intuitive nature and direct involvement of the small team allowed for exceptional mobility and response. However, there were rapid…complications. It appears the direct involvement with the-”</p>
<p>“English, for pity's sake.”</p>
<p>“…We put too much power in to too few hands. What's more, the concentration created something of a…ah…cross-pollination issue, so to speak.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“Mother of christ.”</p>
<p>“I think not, but who's to say. Yes, this is theorized to be the current force behind the team designated 'Serpent's Hand'. It appears to be self-aware, however it is unknown if it exerts a form of mental dominance, or simply attracts fanatics. It also appears to be out of phase with normal timespace, hence our inability to pin down the location.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“It also appears that certain documents and items lapsed in to the public arena. With this-”</p>
<p>“What are we looking at here? Is that Lydecker standing-”</p>
<p>“Yes, it appears he underwent a…'religious awakening' and attempted to seed a cult of worship. It fell through rather rapidly, thanks in a large part to our suppression efforts, however seeds of this ideology keep cropping up. The greatest of which appears to be rooted near Mexico City, however it is still relatively minor and centered around a decommissioned clockwork device. However, the fallout from the Serpent's Hand splintering lead to the founding of a more strict, focused team.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“These men and women were selected from various agencies worldwide. FBI, KGB, MI5, The Kempeitai, all were tapped for the cream of the crop, the top-class talents. This group was installed to control and suppress any and all anomalous item activity. They were instilled with a 'zero tolerance' stance to any and all paranormal interaction, in the hopes of avoiding the…corruption issues presented by the former Serpent's Hand. However, after the first year, it became apparent that…mistakes may have been made in the choice of recruitment stock.</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“Oh god…that was the august incident, wasn't it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that's correct. After a year of operation, on August 19th, the Global Occult Coalition engaged in a armed action in south Africa that nearly destabilized the entire Veil protocol. No less than eight hundred witnesses observed both personnel and anomalous items in a prolonged armed action over several days. When probed for the reasoning behind this action, the GOC reported that they felt the risk to normalcy incurred by their action was less then that of the items. The incident was suppressed, with great cost, and the GOC was officially ordered to stand down.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“However, many of the GOC cells felt that defense of humanity was now a calling above and beyond the conclave command structure. They went rogue, leaving this…rather grim parting message. They now function much the same as their initial form, but with a independent command structure. The new GOC also lend support and command to several other, smaller groups with various political and anomalous interests.”</p>
<p>“Well, it could be worse, right? I mean, at least they didn't flip all the way over.”</p>
<p>“That is somewhat true; however, their zero-tolerance stance has now led to the basic focus on the eradication of any and all anomalous items and activity. They have no review process, no real testing or research branch…just detection, and eradication.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“That fat son of a-”</p>
<p>“And here we have our most recent failure. Colonel Marshall, who had been a original member of the GOC, was tapped to spearhead a new containment theory. This photo was taken shortly before the central records building was looted and burned, with Marshall vanishing at the same time. We may never know the full damage done, but it appears several items, along with the bulk of the documentation, have been stolen. It now also appears that he has found partners, and plans on utilizing his gains for financial advancement.</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“This is Dr. Carter, his first partner. Not much is known of him yet, however he's been a major mover in London high society the last few years, and appears to have a near-limitless personal fortune.”</p>
<p><em>click</em></p>
<p>“W…what are we looking at?”</p>
<p>“This is Mr. Dark. We know next to nothing about this individual, and he has eluded any and all investigation. He has no citizenship, no birth records, on paper this man does not exist. We assume he is a man, however we have been unable to confirm even this. Based on some fragmentary records, he may have been in the entertainment industry at one point. His role in this venture is still unknown. Lights, please.”</p>
<p><em>small snapping noise, followed by several moments of silence, then rustling paper</em></p>
<p>“These dossiers detail our current containment theory. It appears the American government has a embryonic containment team formed, and is investigating. We propose to fund and aid this group, and guide its direction and growth, with a eventual goal of autonomy. The major focus is on containment and detachment. Actual interaction outside of a containment area will be extremely limited, massive bureaucratic structure will keep individuals and separate cells well isolated, and enormous resources will limit outside interaction and oversight.”</p>
<p>“This will take ages, you know that, right? Autonomy could take years in a best case scenario.”</p>
<p>“True, however it was determined that this was a minor price to pay. The overall detachment, isolation, and limited individual focus, along with the greatly subdivided command structure, will limit rogue and corruption events to a minimum.”</p>
<p>“…seems to be in order, but I have issue with the name.”</p>
<p>“the…name, sir?”</p>
<p>“Yes. 'The Special Containment Bureau' sounds too…lofty. Give someone a lofty name, they start to have lofty ideals. This is for the safety and security of mankind, and reality as a whole. The name should reflect a sense of self-sacrifice and dedication.”</p>
<p>“…well…sir, what would you advise, then?”</p>
<p>“Something simple, obscure…basic.”</p>
<p>“…such as?”</p>
<p>“…how about…The Foundation?”</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/transcript-found-on-storage-level-b-8">Transcript Found On Storage Level B 8</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/transcript-found-on-storage-level-b-8">https://scpwiki.com/transcript-found-on-storage-level-b-8</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
“There, it's on.”
“Alright, settle please, settle. Ladies and gentlemen, I call this meeting to order. There are no new faces, so I will forgo introductions and proceed directly to business.”
“All work and no play...”
“Keeps us all alive. May I? Thank you. The last control theory has failed. Again. What's more, it does not appear to be vanishing quietly as was hoped, and may pose a serious issue in the immediate future. I would remind the group that I stated on the outset that Colonel Marshall lacked the self-sacrifice needed for-”
“Yes, you told us so. And?”
“Indeed. The direct identity of his backers are still under investigation, but it appears he intends to utilize his seized resources for simple profit. While unsettling, I think it's agreed that this is one of the more low-impact outcomes. In the light of previous failures, it-”
“Sir, with respect, I think newest members may be unaware of our past...track record.”
“...indeed. While a exhaustive history will be counter-productive, I think a recap of the currently active issues is in order. Our outside control theories break down in to two basic sets, official and independent. Lights, please?”
//several seconds of silence, followed by humming//
“Our currently longest-running theory was based on several, older theories. It was enacted after a review of the failing modern theories, with the hope that a more direct and simple strategy would be more effective.”
//click//
“The initial start up was very promising, and the intuitive nature and direct involvement of the small team allowed for exceptional mobility and response. However, there were rapid...complications. It appears the direct involvement with the-”
“English, for pity's sake.”
“...We put too much power in to too few hands. What's more, the concentration created something of a...ah...cross-pollination issue, so to speak.”
//click//
“Mother of christ.”
“I think not, but who's to say. Yes, this is theorized to be the current force behind the team designated 'Serpent's Hand'. It appears to be self-aware, however it is unknown if it exerts a form of mental dominance, or simply attracts fanatics. It also appears to be out of phase with normal timespace, hence our inability to pin down the location.”
//click//
“It also appears that certain documents and items lapsed in to the public arena. With this-”
“What are we looking at here? Is that Lydecker standing-”
“Yes, it appears he underwent a...'religious awakening' and attempted to seed a cult of worship. It fell through rather rapidly, thanks in a large part to our suppression efforts, however seeds of this ideology keep cropping up. The greatest of which appears to be rooted near Mexico City, however it is still relatively minor and centered around a decommissioned clockwork device. However, the fallout from the Serpent's Hand splintering lead to the founding of a more strict, focused team.”
//click//
“These men and women were selected from various agencies worldwide. FBI, KGB, MI5, The Kempeitai, all were tapped for the cream of the crop, the top-class talents. This group was installed to control and suppress any and all anomalous item activity. They were instilled with a 'zero tolerance' stance to any and all paranormal interaction, in the hopes of avoiding the...corruption issues presented by the former Serpent's Hand. However, after the first year, it became apparent that...mistakes may have been made in the choice of recruitment stock.
//click//
“Oh god...that was the august incident, wasn't it?”
“Yes, that's correct. After a year of operation, on August 19th, the Global Occult Coalition engaged in a armed action in south Africa that nearly destabilized the entire Veil protocol. No less than eight hundred witnesses observed both personnel and anomalous items in a prolonged armed action over several days. When probed for the reasoning behind this action, the GOC reported that they felt the risk to normalcy incurred by their action was less then that of the items. The incident was suppressed, with great cost, and the GOC was officially ordered to stand down.”
//click//
“However, many of the GOC cells felt that defense of humanity was now a calling above and beyond the conclave command structure. They went rogue, leaving this...rather grim parting message. They now function much the same as their initial form, but with a independent command structure. The new GOC also lend support and command to several other, smaller groups with various political and anomalous interests.”
“Well, it could be worse, right? I mean, at least they didn't flip all the way over.”
“That is somewhat true; however, their zero-tolerance stance has now led to the basic focus on the eradication of any and all anomalous items and activity. They have no review process, no real testing or research branch...just detection, and eradication.”
//click//
“That fat son of a-”
“And here we have our most recent failure. Colonel Marshall, who had been a original member of the GOC, was tapped to spearhead a new containment theory. This photo was taken shortly before the central records building was looted and burned, with Marshall vanishing at the same time. We may never know the full damage done, but it appears several items, along with the bulk of the documentation, have been stolen. It now also appears that he has found partners, and plans on utilizing his gains for financial advancement.
//click//
“This is Dr. Carter, his first partner. Not much is known of him yet, however he's been a major mover in London high society the last few years, and appears to have a near-limitless personal fortune.”
//click//
“W...what are we looking at?”
“This is Mr. Dark. We know next to nothing about this individual, and he has eluded any and all investigation. He has no citizenship, no birth records, on paper this man does not exist. We assume he is a man, however we have been unable to confirm even this. Based on some fragmentary records, he may have been in the entertainment industry at one point. His role in this venture is still unknown. Lights, please.”
//small snapping noise, followed by several moments of silence, then rustling paper//
“These dossiers detail our current containment theory. It appears the American government has a embryonic containment team formed, and is investigating. We propose to fund and aid this group, and guide its direction and growth, with a eventual goal of autonomy. The major focus is on containment and detachment. Actual interaction outside of a containment area will be extremely limited, massive bureaucratic structure will keep individuals and separate cells well isolated, and enormous resources will limit outside interaction and oversight.”
“This will take ages, you know that, right? Autonomy could take years in a best case scenario.”
“True, however it was determined that this was a minor price to pay. The overall detachment, isolation, and limited individual focus, along with the greatly subdivided command structure, will limit rogue and corruption events to a minimum.”
“...seems to be in order, but I have issue with the name.”
“the...name, sir?”
“Yes. 'The Special Containment Bureau' sounds too...lofty. Give someone a lofty name, they start to have lofty ideals. This is for the safety and security of mankind, and reality as a whole. The name should reflect a sense of self-sacrifice and dedication.”
“...well...sir, what would you advise, then?”
“Something simple, obscure...basic.”
“...such as?”
“...how about...The Foundation?”
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
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|
transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972 | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>OVAL OFFICE – WHITE HOUSE – WASHINGTON<br/>
JUNE 2, 1972 3:27 TO 3:55 P.M.<br/>
IN ATTENDANCE:<br/>
RICHARD NIXON (POTUS)<br/>
HENRY KISSINGER (ASST. FOR NAT’L SECURITY AFFAIRS)<br/>
GEN. ALEXANDER HAIG (DEPUTY ASST. FOR NAT’L SECURITY AFFAIRS)<br/>
AGENT GREGORY SACHS (GOC)<br/>
ADM. THOMAS MOORER (CHAIRMAN, JCS)<br/>
GEN. JOHN C. MEYER (COMMANDER, SAC)</p>
<hr/>
<p>NIXON – Tom, John, thank you both for coming over.</p>
<p>MOORER – Thank you, Mr. President. Welcome back and congratulations on the summit.</p>
<p>MEYER – Mr. President, I want to add my congratulations. Frankly, sir, the ABM and SALT treaties are going to make my life easier.</p>
<p>NIXON – It’s kind of funny you would say that, John, because if the god-damn peaceniks at the New York Times had had their way, we would have told the Russians that we were ready to get rid of all of your bombers and all of your missiles, and then there wouldn’t be anything left for you to do but play golf every day. But, uh, the reason I asked you gentlemen to see me here … uh, Al, where’s the binder?</p>
<p>HAIG – Here, sir.</p>
<p>NIXON – Gentlemen, based on some information that came to light, uh, before and during my trip to Moscow, we have a supplement to the targeting priority list for our bombers and ICBMs.</p>
<p>MOORER – A minute, if you’ll forgive me, Mr. President. Who is that guy?</p>
<p>SACHS – Admiral, I’m … [unintelligible]</p>
<p>NIXON – Don’t worry about it, Tom. He’s OK.</p>
<p>MEYER – Mr. President, with respect sir, the Pentagon just usually cables …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – [unintelligible] only a contingency …</p>
<p>MEYER – [unintelligible] … orders over.</p>
<p>NIXON – I realize that this is a departure from your regular protocol. But I wanted to go over this with you in person because this is an unusual case, and I wanted to make sure that there is no mistake. To make sure that you didn’t think there was a transcription error or something. Hank, can you start?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Case COLD HARPER. How you people come up with these names I don’t know. These are the instructions to SAC if the balloon goes up on Case COLD HARPER. Here is the list of the bomber wings and the ICBM sites in the usual format and here are the coordinates of the target. You will …</p>
<p>MEYER – I don’t understand, it’s the same coordinates all the way down the list …</p>
<p>MOORER – Some of these assets, sir, Anderson AFB, uh, that's in Guam, and Clark is in the Philippines. How can they even reach …</p>
<p>MEYER – Hold it, yeah, you’re right, Tom. What is this?</p>
<p>HAIG – [unintelligible ] … if Case COLD HARPER goes hot …</p>
<p>NIXON – See, Hank, this is why I wanted them here in person. Admiral, general, this is not a mistake. If we have to call COLD HARPER, then, uh, then this location here is the target.</p>
<p>MEYER – [unintelligible] … somewhere in the Arctic Ocean.</p>
<p>MOORER – Seventy-three point such and such north by fifty four point such and such east. Let me check the map … It’s not in the ocean, it's the big Russian island here, Novaya Zemlya.</p>
<p>MEYER – … that fifty-megaton job that Khrushchev dropped back in sixty-one? Tsar Bomba I think they called it? I think that was where they dropped it.</p>
<p>HAIG – … show you some U-2 photographs of the location.</p>
<p>MEYER – So we would be bombing a test range? I don’t …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … not exactly a testing facility.</p>
<p>MOORER – I’m sorry?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – I said that it’s not a testing facility. A garbage incinerator would be a better analogy. If you want to be technical, it’s not even a Soviet facility, strictly speaking.</p>
<p>SACHS – Dr. Kissinger, I don't think …</p>
<p>HAIG – Mr. President, I should point out that General Meyer isn’t on the list, and Admiral Moorer …</p>
<p>NIXON – Al, they have to know enough to be able to do their jobs.</p>
<p>HAIG – Sir, I agree of course but [unintelligible]</p>
<p>MEYER – What list? Forgive me for not being in on the news that there’s a clearance level that is higher than the Commander of Strategic Air Command, but that guy next to Dr. Kissinger who I don’t even recognize …</p>
<p>NIXON – I’m going to tell them …</p>
<p>HAIG – Mr. President, I really [unintelligible]</p>
<p>NIXON – … no, not everything. Just what they need …</p>
<p>MOORER – [unintelligible] a little out of the loop …</p>
<p>NIXON – Admiral, General, it will have to suffice for me to say that there is a… there is an object, let’s say, at this place on that island. These are contingency targeting instructions. If I … if the Commander in Chief, gives the command to activate COLD HARPER, which would only be done if Christ help us the trigger condition had been satisfied, then …</p>
<p>MEYER – … then that site becomes the priority target.</p>
<p>NIXON – … the only target. It is not just the priority target, it’s the only target.</p>
<p>MOORER – Sir, you have us sending three, four, wait … all, all of our bomber wings, and … all of our intercontinental missiles …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – That’s correct, Admiral …</p>
<p>MOORER – … targeting just this one location …</p>
<p>MEYER – Sir, the way we run our bombers, when we hit something once with these payloads, the target is gone, so I don’t see …</p>
<p>MOORER – … not even LeMay would have … [unintelligible]</p>
<p>MEYER – … [unintelligible] would have to be a one-way trip for a lot of these boys, at this range …</p>
<p>NIXON – Look, Tom, John, I'm satisfied that it’s necessary.</p>
<p>MOORER – Whoever is there, you must really want us to get up there in a hell of a hurry and kill it.</p>
<p>HAIG – If it comes to that. I sure as hell hope not, since a lot of the guys up there are ours. Well, his, at any rate.</p>
<p>MEYER – So who the hell are you guys, then?</p>
<p>SACHS – We're keeping an eye on the … object, as the President put it, until we can come up with a satisfactory way to get rid of it.</p>
<p>MOORER – So this is your plan for disposing of the … whatever it is?</p>
<p>NIXON – This is Plan B. Plan A is just holding the line, so to speak, for as long as they can in the way that they're doing it now.</p>
<p>MEYER – With respect, sir, I don’t see how we can drill this, with everything that has to be put into place for Linebacker …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – General, first of all, it has been determined for the sake of operational security that the existence of COLD HARPER itself is Foxtrot-level from which it follows that there can be no drills. Nobody, not even SAC command staff, who have not been designated Foxtrot-level are cleared for this. If the balloon goes up, you just do what you have to do to aim your planes and target your missiles in accordance with these instructions. Secondly, if …</p>
<p>NIXON – Where Henry is going with this is that if we’re in COLD HARPER, then fuck Linebacker, fuck South Vietnam, it isn’t going to matter.</p>
<p>MOORER – But we would no longer have our nuclear deterrence against the Soviets …</p>
<p>HAIG – It doesn’t matter because they will have already …</p>
<p>NIXON – I should have told Al not to bother showing you those photos, because if we do COLD HARPER then the location isn’t going to look like this by the time your boys get there, John. It will already be hot because the Russians, who are closer, obviously, will have already hit the location with everything that they’ve got.</p>
<p>MEYER – The Soviets would, uh, would bomb themselves?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Well, it was their own idea …</p>
<p>SACHS – Technically, they’d be bombing my people, but under the circumstances that would hardly matter.</p>
<p>MEYER – I have to ask because I really don’t know the answer. You’re on our side, right? I mean, you’re not a Russian or …</p>
<p>SACHS – Athens, Georgia sir. Go Bulldogs.</p>
<p>MEYER – This whole thing just doesn’t make any damn sense …</p>
<p>MOORER — We would hit this thing with our whole nuclear triad after it's already nothing but a smoking irradiated crater from what the Soviets have?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Not the whole triad, Admiral. Just the missiles and bombers. The subs …</p>
<p>NIXON – The boomers we will need for Noah, which I'll go over with you and Elmo Zumwalt in another briefing in a few days.</p>
<p>MEYER – NOAA as in the weather forecasting people?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Noah as in ark. Don't you remember from Sunday School? The animals march in, two by two …</p>
<p>HAIG – [unintelligible] …seeds and frozen embryos, for the most part … [unintelligible] … offload the missiles to make room …</p>
<p>NIXON – We’re not ready to talk about Noah yet. I want to get this targeting thing settled. Admiral Moorer, General Meyer, I assure you that I have thought this through. General, you have the order. Thank you both for coming.</p>
<p>MOORER – Thank you, Mr. President. [ADM. MOORER AND GEN. MEYER LEAVE THE MEETING.]</p>
<p>NIXON – That settles that bit. Satisfied, Agent Sachs?</p>
<p>SACHS – Yes, Mr. President. I’ll report back to the … [unintelligible]</p>
<p>NIXON – Yes, thank you for coming. Please tell your people … tell them that I appreciate the fine work they’re doing.</p>
<p>SACHS – Of course, sir. Thank you, Mr. President. [AGENT SACHS LEAVES THE MEETING]</p>
<p>NIXON – Thanks, Al. Can Henry and I have the room?</p>
<p>HAIG – Yes sir, Mr. President. [GENERAL HAIG LEAVES THE MEETING]</p>
<p>NIXON – Should we get Ambassador Dobrynin over here to tell him? Or do you want to talk to Gromyko directly?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – I’ll call Gromyko. I’ll call him as soon as I get back over to the Executive Office Building.</p>
<p>NIXON – Our boys here … Henry, it wears on you, how they don’t see the big picture.</p>
<p>KISSINGER – To be fair, Mr. President, apart from the GOC and Foxtrot, and whatever the Soviets call their version of Foxtrot, they don’t know …</p>
<p>NIXON – They don’t know. And it makes you kind of jealous.</p>
<p>KISSINGER – When you had told me, I didn’t really appreciate it. I didn’t, until Sachs and Marshal Yakubovsky took me up there last week and showed me…</p>
<p>NIXON – I’m afraid that it will stay with you …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … not believe it. Even after the number of times they’ve dropped bombs on it. Even the Tsar Bomba barely … [unintelligible]</p>
<p>NIXON – … including those times in '64 and '65 when Johnson had to give them some of our bombs to use because they had run out of their own …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – … [unintelligible] still see it every time I close my eyes.</p>
<p>NIXON – They brought me up there and showed it to me when I went to Russia under Ike in 1959. This was a couple of days after the Kitchen Debate. … Ike knew, I'm certain of it. He asked me to go over there. I guess he wanted to see whether I was ready. Hand me the whiskey?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Let me pour us each one.</p>
<p>NIXON – [laughs] I'm going to need a taller one than that, uh, just give me the bottle back. You know, I didn’t even use to drink very much before that trip. But you do what it takes and you soldier on …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Those men at the site, they have to be there every day.</p>
<p>NIXON – [unintelligible] … the god-damn bravest bastards in the whole world. Especially that guy, uh, Vassily, with the eyepatch. Was he still there?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – You had told me, and I asked about him. They told me that he’s still on the books as being assigned there, but they keep him sedated most of the time.</p>
<p>NIXON – That’s a shame. They told me that he had been through Stalingrad, and Berlin, but I can’t … I don’t think I’m surprised.</p>
<p>KISSINGER – [unintelligible]</p>
<p>NIXON – You know, knowing that things like that … [unintelligible] … puts the rest of it into perspective, China and Vietnam and all that.</p>
<p>KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … what’s important, in the big picture.</p>
<p>NIXON – The big picture, exactly. And that’s why it’s so god-damn frustrating. Those fuckers on the Hill and those fucking screaming college kids. If they knew the kinds of things that we, what the GOC and our other boys were doing, they’d have a god-damn parade every day. They'd build a god-damn statue, they'd say thank you, they … [unintelligible]</p>
<p>KISSINGER – At least Brezhnev and Gromyko will have something that they can be grateful to you for, for a change. The Russians did admit that they needed our help …</p>
<p>NIXON – Speaking of gratitude, I’ll tell you again, whatever we might say about the Russians, at least they, they and the GOC, are keeping that thing in its box. … [unintelligible] you think that COLD HARPER will be enough to deal with it, if it gets out?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Sachs had told me that it … his people think … [unintelligible] … least bad alternative, so to speak. Now as far as what those other bad alternatives were, you remember that I told you about that cable, from Dr. [unintelligible] … who said they thought they had a way to contain [unintelligible] …</p>
<p>NIXON – I almost can't think of a worse approach than to let those egghead fuckers get their hands on …</p>
<p>KISSINGER – If COLD HARPER isn't enough, well, it wouldn’t matter to you and me. It’s not like we’re going to be on Noah’s Ark.</p>
<p>NIXON – What is it with you Jews and the gallows humor?</p>
<p>KISSINGER – Mr. President, there have been too many times when it’s all that we have left.</p>
<p>NIXON – Yeah, well we’re all in that boat, Hank.</p>
<hr/>
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<p><strong>« <a href="/memorandum-dated-6-november-1944">Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944</a> | <em>COLD HARPER</em> | <a href="/transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991">Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991</a> »</strong></p>
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OVAL OFFICE – WHITE HOUSE – WASHINGTON
JUNE 2, 1972 3:27 TO 3:55 P.M.
IN ATTENDANCE:
RICHARD NIXON (POTUS)
HENRY KISSINGER (ASST. FOR NAT’L SECURITY AFFAIRS)
GEN. ALEXANDER HAIG (DEPUTY ASST. FOR NAT’L SECURITY AFFAIRS)
AGENT GREGORY SACHS (GOC)
ADM. THOMAS MOORER (CHAIRMAN, JCS)
GEN. JOHN C. MEYER (COMMANDER, SAC)
------
NIXON – Tom, John, thank you both for coming over.
MOORER – Thank you, Mr. President. Welcome back and congratulations on the summit.
MEYER – Mr. President, I want to add my congratulations. Frankly, sir, the ABM and SALT treaties are going to make my life easier.
NIXON – It’s kind of funny you would say that, John, because if the god-damn peaceniks at the New York Times had had their way, we would have told the Russians that we were ready to get rid of all of your bombers and all of your missiles, and then there wouldn’t be anything left for you to do but play golf every day. But, uh, the reason I asked you gentlemen to see me here … uh, Al, where’s the binder?
HAIG – Here, sir.
NIXON – Gentlemen, based on some information that came to light, uh, before and during my trip to Moscow, we have a supplement to the targeting priority list for our bombers and ICBMs.
MOORER – A minute, if you’ll forgive me, Mr. President. Who is that guy?
SACHS – Admiral, I’m ... [unintelligible]
NIXON – Don’t worry about it, Tom. He’s OK.
MEYER – Mr. President, with respect sir, the Pentagon just usually cables …
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] only a contingency …
MEYER – [unintelligible] … orders over.
NIXON – I realize that this is a departure from your regular protocol. But I wanted to go over this with you in person because this is an unusual case, and I wanted to make sure that there is no mistake. To make sure that you didn’t think there was a transcription error or something. Hank, can you start?
KISSINGER – Case COLD HARPER. How you people come up with these names I don’t know. These are the instructions to SAC if the balloon goes up on Case COLD HARPER. Here is the list of the bomber wings and the ICBM sites in the usual format and here are the coordinates of the target. You will …
MEYER – I don’t understand, it’s the same coordinates all the way down the list …
MOORER – Some of these assets, sir, Anderson AFB, uh, that's in Guam, and Clark is in the Philippines. How can they even reach …
MEYER – Hold it, yeah, you’re right, Tom. What is this?
HAIG – [unintelligible ] … if Case COLD HARPER goes hot …
NIXON – See, Hank, this is why I wanted them here in person. Admiral, general, this is not a mistake. If we have to call COLD HARPER, then, uh, then this location here is the target.
MEYER – [unintelligible] … somewhere in the Arctic Ocean.
MOORER – Seventy-three point such and such north by fifty four point such and such east. Let me check the map … It’s not in the ocean, it's the big Russian island here, Novaya Zemlya.
MEYER – … that fifty-megaton job that Khrushchev dropped back in sixty-one? Tsar Bomba I think they called it? I think that was where they dropped it.
HAIG – … show you some U-2 photographs of the location.
MEYER – So we would be bombing a test range? I don’t …
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … not exactly a testing facility.
MOORER – I’m sorry?
KISSINGER – I said that it’s not a testing facility. A garbage incinerator would be a better analogy. If you want to be technical, it’s not even a Soviet facility, strictly speaking.
SACHS – Dr. Kissinger, I don't think …
HAIG – Mr. President, I should point out that General Meyer isn’t on the list, and Admiral Moorer …
NIXON – Al, they have to know enough to be able to do their jobs.
HAIG – Sir, I agree of course but [unintelligible]
MEYER – What list? Forgive me for not being in on the news that there’s a clearance level that is higher than the Commander of Strategic Air Command, but that guy next to Dr. Kissinger who I don’t even recognize …
NIXON – I’m going to tell them …
HAIG – Mr. President, I really [unintelligible]
NIXON – ... no, not everything. Just what they need …
MOORER – [unintelligible] a little out of the loop …
NIXON – Admiral, General, it will have to suffice for me to say that there is a... there is an object, let’s say, at this place on that island. These are contingency targeting instructions. If I … if the Commander in Chief, gives the command to activate COLD HARPER, which would only be done if Christ help us the trigger condition had been satisfied, then …
MEYER – … then that site becomes the priority target.
NIXON – … the only target. It is not just the priority target, it’s the only target.
MOORER – Sir, you have us sending three, four, wait … all, all of our bomber wings, and … all of our intercontinental missiles …
KISSINGER – That’s correct, Admiral …
MOORER – … targeting just this one location …
MEYER – Sir, the way we run our bombers, when we hit something once with these payloads, the target is gone, so I don’t see …
MOORER – … not even LeMay would have … [unintelligible]
MEYER – … [unintelligible] would have to be a one-way trip for a lot of these boys, at this range …
NIXON – Look, Tom, John, I'm satisfied that it’s necessary.
MOORER – Whoever is there, you must really want us to get up there in a hell of a hurry and kill it.
HAIG – If it comes to that. I sure as hell hope not, since a lot of the guys up there are ours. Well, his, at any rate.
MEYER – So who the hell are you guys, then?
SACHS – We're keeping an eye on the … object, as the President put it, until we can come up with a satisfactory way to get rid of it.
MOORER – So this is your plan for disposing of the … whatever it is?
NIXON – This is Plan B. Plan A is just holding the line, so to speak, for as long as they can in the way that they're doing it now.
MEYER – With respect, sir, I don’t see how we can drill this, with everything that has to be put into place for Linebacker …
KISSINGER – General, first of all, it has been determined for the sake of operational security that the existence of COLD HARPER itself is Foxtrot-level from which it follows that there can be no drills. Nobody, not even SAC command staff, who have not been designated Foxtrot-level are cleared for this. If the balloon goes up, you just do what you have to do to aim your planes and target your missiles in accordance with these instructions. Secondly, if …
NIXON – Where Henry is going with this is that if we’re in COLD HARPER, then fuck Linebacker, fuck South Vietnam, it isn’t going to matter.
MOORER – But we would no longer have our nuclear deterrence against the Soviets …
HAIG – It doesn’t matter because they will have already …
NIXON – I should have told Al not to bother showing you those photos, because if we do COLD HARPER then the location isn’t going to look like this by the time your boys get there, John. It will already be hot because the Russians, who are closer, obviously, will have already hit the location with everything that they’ve got.
MEYER – The Soviets would, uh, would bomb themselves?
KISSINGER – Well, it was their own idea …
SACHS – Technically, they’d be bombing my people, but under the circumstances that would hardly matter.
MEYER – I have to ask because I really don’t know the answer. You’re on our side, right? I mean, you’re not a Russian or …
SACHS – Athens, Georgia sir. Go Bulldogs.
MEYER – This whole thing just doesn’t make any damn sense …
MOORER -- We would hit this thing with our whole nuclear triad after it's already nothing but a smoking irradiated crater from what the Soviets have?
KISSINGER – Not the whole triad, Admiral. Just the missiles and bombers. The subs …
NIXON – The boomers we will need for Noah, which I'll go over with you and Elmo Zumwalt in another briefing in a few days.
MEYER – NOAA as in the weather forecasting people?
KISSINGER – Noah as in ark. Don't you remember from Sunday School? The animals march in, two by two …
HAIG – [unintelligible] …seeds and frozen embryos, for the most part … [unintelligible] … offload the missiles to make room …
NIXON – We’re not ready to talk about Noah yet. I want to get this targeting thing settled. Admiral Moorer, General Meyer, I assure you that I have thought this through. General, you have the order. Thank you both for coming.
MOORER – Thank you, Mr. President. [ADM. MOORER AND GEN. MEYER LEAVE THE MEETING.]
NIXON – That settles that bit. Satisfied, Agent Sachs?
SACHS – Yes, Mr. President. I’ll report back to the … [unintelligible]
NIXON – Yes, thank you for coming. Please tell your people … tell them that I appreciate the fine work they’re doing.
SACHS – Of course, sir. Thank you, Mr. President. [AGENT SACHS LEAVES THE MEETING]
NIXON – Thanks, Al. Can Henry and I have the room?
HAIG – Yes sir, Mr. President. [GENERAL HAIG LEAVES THE MEETING]
NIXON – Should we get Ambassador Dobrynin over here to tell him? Or do you want to talk to Gromyko directly?
KISSINGER – I’ll call Gromyko. I’ll call him as soon as I get back over to the Executive Office Building.
NIXON – Our boys here … Henry, it wears on you, how they don’t see the big picture.
KISSINGER – To be fair, Mr. President, apart from the GOC and Foxtrot, and whatever the Soviets call their version of Foxtrot, they don’t know …
NIXON – They don’t know. And it makes you kind of jealous.
KISSINGER – When you had told me, I didn’t really appreciate it. I didn’t, until Sachs and Marshal Yakubovsky took me up there last week and showed me…
NIXON – I’m afraid that it will stay with you …
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … not believe it. Even after the number of times they’ve dropped bombs on it. Even the Tsar Bomba barely … [unintelligible]
NIXON – … including those times in '64 and '65 when Johnson had to give them some of our bombs to use because they had run out of their own …
KISSINGER – … [unintelligible] still see it every time I close my eyes.
NIXON – They brought me up there and showed it to me when I went to Russia under Ike in 1959. This was a couple of days after the Kitchen Debate. … Ike knew, I'm certain of it. He asked me to go over there. I guess he wanted to see whether I was ready. Hand me the whiskey?
KISSINGER – Let me pour us each one.
NIXON – [laughs] I'm going to need a taller one than that, uh, just give me the bottle back. You know, I didn’t even use to drink very much before that trip. But you do what it takes and you soldier on …
KISSINGER – Those men at the site, they have to be there every day.
NIXON – [unintelligible] … the god-damn bravest bastards in the whole world. Especially that guy, uh, Vassily, with the eyepatch. Was he still there?
KISSINGER – You had told me, and I asked about him. They told me that he’s still on the books as being assigned there, but they keep him sedated most of the time.
NIXON – That’s a shame. They told me that he had been through Stalingrad, and Berlin, but I can’t … I don’t think I’m surprised.
KISSINGER – [unintelligible]
NIXON – You know, knowing that things like that … [unintelligible] … puts the rest of it into perspective, China and Vietnam and all that.
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … what’s important, in the big picture.
NIXON – The big picture, exactly. And that’s why it’s so god-damn frustrating. Those fuckers on the Hill and those fucking screaming college kids. If they knew the kinds of things that we, what the GOC and our other boys were doing, they’d have a god-damn parade every day. They'd build a god-damn statue, they'd say thank you, they … [unintelligible]
KISSINGER – At least Brezhnev and Gromyko will have something that they can be grateful to you for, for a change. The Russians did admit that they needed our help …
NIXON – Speaking of gratitude, I’ll tell you again, whatever we might say about the Russians, at least they, they and the GOC, are keeping that thing in its box. … [unintelligible] you think that COLD HARPER will be enough to deal with it, if it gets out?
KISSINGER – Sachs had told me that it … his people think … [unintelligible] … least bad alternative, so to speak. Now as far as what those other bad alternatives were, you remember that I told you about that cable, from Dr. [unintelligible] … who said they thought they had a way to contain [unintelligible] …
NIXON – I almost can't think of a worse approach than to let those egghead fuckers get their hands on …
KISSINGER – If COLD HARPER isn't enough, well, it wouldn’t matter to you and me. It’s not like we’re going to be on Noah’s Ark.
NIXON – What is it with you Jews and the gallows humor?
KISSINGER – Mr. President, there have been too many times when it’s all that we have left.
NIXON – Yeah, well we’re all in that boat, Hank.
------
[[=]]
**<< [[[Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944]]] | //COLD HARPER// | [[[Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991]]] >>**
[[/=]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-sandbox-3.wikidot.com/more-by-spike-alt">:scp-sandbox-3:more-by-spike-alt</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-09-14T18:42:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"global-occult-coalition",
"goc-casefiles",
"military-fiction",
"period-piece",
"political",
"tale"
] | Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972 - SCP Foundation | 129 | [
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"transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991",
"scp-1322",
"scp-089",
"spikebrennan-s-proposal",
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"scp-920-ex",
"scp-2914",
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"spring-cleaning",
"scroll-fragment-13q29",
"stray-katz",
"ad-majorem-bonum",
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
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"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"goc-hub-page"
] | [] | 11702903 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972 |
|
trick-or-treat | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Hey, pal, nice costume. Yeah. I like the way it's just your face with a couple of strings attached.</p>
<p>Okay, that's far enough. Yeah, it's a real piece, so why don't you come along quiet-like? That's the ticket. Just over here, an' we can have a little talk.</p>
<p>So, the reason I'm here is—stop that. It ain't gonna work. We had plenty of time t'figure out what it was you did, an' we got a fix for it. So you can just relax. You're collared, so you might as well find out who by.</p>
<p>Anyway, the reason I'm here is that I'm part of a group what contains objects or people what are of an unusual nature. Yeah, like yerself. Sucks t'be you, I know.</p>
<p>Now, you could try t'run, but this gun'll stop you before you get too far. Won't kill ya, but you'll get a helluva headache when you wake up. This'd drop a horse, an' you weigh a helluva lot less than a horse.</p>
<p>So, I came here t'find out if the rumors were true, an' there really was somethin' here matchin' your description. We saw you a couple days ago, but I figured we'd see you out on the town t'night.</p>
<p>I always liked Halloween. I could have any face I wanted. You got a face like mine, you look forward to wearin' a mask. So I sympathize. Only time of the year you get to come out an' mingle.</p>
<p>Anyway, we just been waitin' fer you to come out where we could nab ya. My partner's watchin' us, an' pretty soon we'll go for a ride in our van to yer new home.</p>
<p>Ain't fair? Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. An' yer right, it ain't. This were an ideal world, we could all live in peace. Unfortunately, you an' me were born in a cold bastard of a universe what doesn't give a fuck about fairness or justice. All we got is the best we can do.</p>
<p>Yer ma? I'm sorry, kid. We can't go back to see her. I'll make sure to get someone t'talk to her so she don't worry too much. Honestly, she's probably not gonna remember a whole lot of this. It's one of the things we do. But we'll make sure she's okay. You got my word. Hell, tell you what. We bring you in, we'll say you agreed on condition we get some cash to her, make sure she's nice an' comfy for the rest of her life. The higher-ups will buy it. First lesson for ya. Skips who cooperate have life a hell of a lot easier than the ones who fight back. They'll get what they want no matter what, but you could make things easier on 'em. They ain't stupid. They'll reward good behavior.</p>
<p>I can't let you go, kid. Yer in too deep. Yeah, you say you won't hurt nobody, an' I believe ya. But we ain't the only ones out there. There's other folks in this game. Only they don't want to keep you contained. They wanna kill you, or worse, turn you into a weapon. They could make you hurt people. I seen it done. An' they'll hurt people t'get to you. People like yer ma.</p>
<p>See, there's a lot of threats out there. Some of 'em are other people. Some of 'em are things that would destroy the world if we let 'em. I've seen what's out there, an' it ain't friendly. Some of it's wonderful, some of it may help us, but some of it sincerely scares the shit outta me, an' I don't scare easy. There are so many things out to get us, someone's gotta be out there on humanity's side.</p>
<p>Nobody's on your side? …Yeah, but I'll tell ya what. You have any real problems, you think your bein' treated too cruel, tell yer guard to get word to Max Lombardi. I don't got a whole lotta pull myself, but I could maybe put a word in the ear of someone who does. Ain't gonna promise nothin'. Nobody's gonna make everythin' right, y'know. We just do the best we can.</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/trick-or-treat">Trick or Treat</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/trick-or-treat">https://scpwiki.com/trick-or-treat</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Hey, pal, nice costume. Yeah. I like the way it's just your face with a couple of strings attached.
Okay, that's far enough. Yeah, it's a real piece, so why don't you come along quiet-like? That's the ticket. Just over here, an' we can have a little talk.
So, the reason I'm here is--stop that. It ain't gonna work. We had plenty of time t'figure out what it was you did, an' we got a fix for it. So you can just relax. You're collared, so you might as well find out who by.
Anyway, the reason I'm here is that I'm part of a group what contains objects or people what are of an unusual nature. Yeah, like yerself. Sucks t'be you, I know.
Now, you could try t'run, but this gun'll stop you before you get too far. Won't kill ya, but you'll get a helluva headache when you wake up. This'd drop a horse, an' you weigh a helluva lot less than a horse.
So, I came here t'find out if the rumors were true, an' there really was somethin' here matchin' your description. We saw you a couple days ago, but I figured we'd see you out on the town t'night.
I always liked Halloween. I could have any face I wanted. You got a face like mine, you look forward to wearin' a mask. So I sympathize. Only time of the year you get to come out an' mingle.
Anyway, we just been waitin' fer you to come out where we could nab ya. My partner's watchin' us, an' pretty soon we'll go for a ride in our van to yer new home.
Ain't fair? Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. An' yer right, it ain't. This were an ideal world, we could all live in peace. Unfortunately, you an' me were born in a cold bastard of a universe what doesn't give a fuck about fairness or justice. All we got is the best we can do.
Yer ma? I'm sorry, kid. We can't go back to see her. I'll make sure to get someone t'talk to her so she don't worry too much. Honestly, she's probably not gonna remember a whole lot of this. It's one of the things we do. But we'll make sure she's okay. You got my word. Hell, tell you what. We bring you in, we'll say you agreed on condition we get some cash to her, make sure she's nice an' comfy for the rest of her life. The higher-ups will buy it. First lesson for ya. Skips who cooperate have life a hell of a lot easier than the ones who fight back. They'll get what they want no matter what, but you could make things easier on 'em. They ain't stupid. They'll reward good behavior.
I can't let you go, kid. Yer in too deep. Yeah, you say you won't hurt nobody, an' I believe ya. But we ain't the only ones out there. There's other folks in this game. Only they don't want to keep you contained. They wanna kill you, or worse, turn you into a weapon. They could make you hurt people. I seen it done. An' they'll hurt people t'get to you. People like yer ma.
See, there's a lot of threats out there. Some of 'em are other people. Some of 'em are things that would destroy the world if we let 'em. I've seen what's out there, an' it ain't friendly. Some of it's wonderful, some of it may help us, but some of it sincerely scares the shit outta me, an' I don't scare easy. There are so many things out to get us, someone's gotta be out there on humanity's side.
Nobody's on your side? ...Yeah, but I'll tell ya what. You have any real problems, you think your bein' treated too cruel, tell yer guard to get word to Max Lombardi. I don't got a whole lotta pull myself, but I could maybe put a word in the ear of someone who does. Ain't gonna promise nothin'. Nobody's gonna make everythin' right, y'know. We just do the best we can.
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[!-- N/A (No Images) --]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-10-26T02:01:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"bittersweet",
"first-person",
"halloween",
"lombardi",
"tale"
] | Trick or Treat - SCP Foundation | 193 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
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"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"foundation-tales-audio-edition",
"archived:foundation-tales",
"audio-adaptations"
] | [] | 11940201 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/trick-or-treat |
|
units | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Dr. Severe rubbed his eyes as he paged in the next employee. This would be the nineteenth individual he had talked to about the incident.</p>
<p>Eleven casualties, twice as many injuries, nine hundred million U.S. dollars in damage, and still no one could tell him why the hell SCP-21017 had managed to breach containment. He had spoken with agents, researchers, engineers, technicians, even the janitor, and not a single person could give an explanation as to why a ten-thousand year old lightning creature was able to get past the electric field built specifically to keep its unique abilities on lockdown.</p>
<p>What perplexed Dr. Severe was that, as far as he could tell, no systems had failed. The wiring in the electric field was unblemished, the power-plant that supplied it was in proper working order, all the cooling stations were functioning perfectly. Everything appeared to have been operating well within parameters when SCP-21017 got out. Normally he would assume the containment procedures themselves were at fault. This clearly wasn't the case, however, since SCP-21017 had been successfully contained for years using the system in place, and had remained contained since its re-capture.</p>
<p>Dr. Severe sighed and rose as the next interviewee arrived and introduced himself as Jonathan Blake. Dr. Severe quickly scanned through his personnel profile: 24 year old Caucasian male, ex-army infantry, class-1 technician, with the Foundation for four months, first Keter assignment. Dr. Severe raised an eyebrow, noting that it had been Blake's first day assigned to 21017 when it breached containment.</p>
<p>"Please have a seat," Dr. Severe instructed Blake as he sat down himself.</p>
<p>"Yes sir, thank you sir," Blake replied nervously as he sat down stiffly into the chair opposite Dr. Severe's desk.</p>
<p>"Relax Blake, this isn't the military and you aren't in trouble. I'm just trying to figure out what in the hell happened to let 21017 out of its cage. Now, just run through what happened that day, starting from when you came into work."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir, will do, sir." Blake began. "I arrived at oh-eight-hundred hours to my post and checked the temperature gauges to make sure everything was working properly. Then I…"</p>
<p>"Was it?" Dr. Severe interrupted him.</p>
<p>"Was…what?" Blake replied with a stammer.</p>
<p>"Was everything working properly?" Dr. Severe replied tersely.</p>
<p>"Y…yes, sir. All readings were correct. Sir. All temperatures read below four-point-one kelvin. Sir."</p>
<p>"Good. Please continue." Dr. Severe had been expecting this answer, as it had already been confirmed by two other technicians.</p>
<p>"Well, I returned to the monitoring station and noticed power station C was running a bit hot, so I went to activate backup station L, standard procedure."</p>
<p>Dr. Severe nodded and motioned for him to continue. The power stations overheated regularly, so each one had a backup station to switch to, allowing the primary stations time to cool down.</p>
<p>"Once backup station L came on, I switched off station C and then waited at my post. About 15 minutes later, 21017 escaped."</p>
<p>"Breached containment," Dr. Severe corrected him absentmindedly. "Was there anything anomalous about backup station L? Any evident damage, strange readings, anything?"</p>
<p>"Not that I saw sir. Everything was working correctly, current running at three milliamps on the nose, voltage read at…"</p>
<p>"Wait, what?" Dr. Severe interjected. "Did you just say three <em>milli</em>amps?"</p>
<p>"Yes sir, I set it to three milliamps, just as the instructions on the power station said," replied Blake, confused.</p>
<p>With a dawning horror, Dr. Severe quickly pulled out a piece of paper and wrote "5 km" on it, then showed it to Blake.</p>
<p>"What does this say?" he demanded.</p>
<p>"Umm, that is five kilometers, sir," Blake replied, still confused.</p>
<p>He wrote down another number, this time "12 nm."</p>
<p>"And this one?"</p>
<p>"Twelve nanometers, sir."</p>
<p>Finally, he wrote "1 Mm," then held it out to Blake.</p>
<p>"That would be one millimeter, sir." Blake looked up at Dr. Severe with a questioning look, perplexed by the strange game.</p>
<p>Dr. Severe spent a few seconds trying to fight down the urge to take off his hard hat and beat Blake with it, until finally replying, "No. No Blake, that is not one millimeter. One millimeter is equal to zero-point-zero-zero-one meters. The number you just read is one megameter, equal to one million meters."</p>
<p>Realization dawned on Blake's face. "I…I don't….I'm sorry sir, I didn't think the capital letter mattered. Do….do you think the mistake could be connected to SCP-21017 esca….breaching containment?"</p>
<p>It was the wrong question to ask. "Do I <em>think</em> it could be connected, Blake? Do I <em>think</em> there might be some relation? You sent a current to the containment field nine orders of magnitude below the level required to keep SCP-21017 under control! Tell me, do you <em>think</em> there is a connection there?!"</p>
<p>Before he could answer, Dr. Severe cut him off. "No. Don't. Just…get out. I will figure out what to do with you later."</p>
<p>As Jonathan Blake left, his shoulders slumped, Dr. Severe let out a sigh. Nine hundred million dollars and eleven lives, all because someone got their units wrong. "NASA," Dr. Severe muttered under his breath, "you guys got off light."</p>
<div class="licensebox">
<div class="collapsible-block">
<div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none">
<div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div>
<div class="collapsible-block-content">
<p>Cite this page as:</p>
<div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item">
<blockquote>
<p>"<a href="/units">Units</a>" by DrSevere, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/units">https://scpwiki.com/units</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div></body></html> |
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
Dr. Severe rubbed his eyes as he paged in the next employee. This would be the nineteenth individual he had talked to about the incident.
Eleven casualties, twice as many injuries, nine hundred million U.S. dollars in damage, and still no one could tell him why the hell SCP-21017 had managed to breach containment. He had spoken with agents, researchers, engineers, technicians, even the janitor, and not a single person could give an explanation as to why a ten-thousand year old lightning creature was able to get past the electric field built specifically to keep its unique abilities on lockdown.
What perplexed Dr. Severe was that, as far as he could tell, no systems had failed. The wiring in the electric field was unblemished, the power-plant that supplied it was in proper working order, all the cooling stations were functioning perfectly. Everything appeared to have been operating well within parameters when SCP-21017 got out. Normally he would assume the containment procedures themselves were at fault. This clearly wasn't the case, however, since SCP-21017 had been successfully contained for years using the system in place, and had remained contained since its re-capture.
Dr. Severe sighed and rose as the next interviewee arrived and introduced himself as Jonathan Blake. Dr. Severe quickly scanned through his personnel profile: 24 year old Caucasian male, ex-army infantry, class-1 technician, with the Foundation for four months, first Keter assignment. Dr. Severe raised an eyebrow, noting that it had been Blake's first day assigned to 21017 when it breached containment.
"Please have a seat," Dr. Severe instructed Blake as he sat down himself.
"Yes sir, thank you sir," Blake replied nervously as he sat down stiffly into the chair opposite Dr. Severe's desk.
"Relax Blake, this isn't the military and you aren't in trouble. I'm just trying to figure out what in the hell happened to let 21017 out of its cage. Now, just run through what happened that day, starting from when you came into work."
"Yes, sir, will do, sir." Blake began. "I arrived at oh-eight-hundred hours to my post and checked the temperature gauges to make sure everything was working properly. Then I..."
"Was it?" Dr. Severe interrupted him.
"Was...what?" Blake replied with a stammer.
"Was everything working properly?" Dr. Severe replied tersely.
"Y...yes, sir. All readings were correct. Sir. All temperatures read below four-point-one kelvin. Sir."
"Good. Please continue." Dr. Severe had been expecting this answer, as it had already been confirmed by two other technicians.
"Well, I returned to the monitoring station and noticed power station C was running a bit hot, so I went to activate backup station L, standard procedure."
Dr. Severe nodded and motioned for him to continue. The power stations overheated regularly, so each one had a backup station to switch to, allowing the primary stations time to cool down.
"Once backup station L came on, I switched off station C and then waited at my post. About 15 minutes later, 21017 escaped."
"Breached containment," Dr. Severe corrected him absentmindedly. "Was there anything anomalous about backup station L? Any evident damage, strange readings, anything?"
"Not that I saw sir. Everything was working correctly, current running at three milliamps on the nose, voltage read at..."
"Wait, what?" Dr. Severe interjected. "Did you just say three //milli//amps?"
"Yes sir, I set it to three milliamps, just as the instructions on the power station said," replied Blake, confused.
With a dawning horror, Dr. Severe quickly pulled out a piece of paper and wrote "5 km" on it, then showed it to Blake.
"What does this say?" he demanded.
"Umm, that is five kilometers, sir," Blake replied, still confused.
He wrote down another number, this time "12 nm."
"And this one?"
"Twelve nanometers, sir."
Finally, he wrote "1 Mm," then held it out to Blake.
"That would be one millimeter, sir." Blake looked up at Dr. Severe with a questioning look, perplexed by the strange game.
Dr. Severe spent a few seconds trying to fight down the urge to take off his hard hat and beat Blake with it, until finally replying, "No. No Blake, that is not one millimeter. One millimeter is equal to zero-point-zero-zero-one meters. The number you just read is one megameter, equal to one million meters."
Realization dawned on Blake's face. "I...I don't....I'm sorry sir, I didn't think the capital letter mattered. Do....do you think the mistake could be connected to SCP-21017 esca....breaching containment?"
It was the wrong question to ask. "Do I //think// it could be connected, Blake? Do I //think// there might be some relation? You sent a current to the containment field nine orders of magnitude below the level required to keep SCP-21017 under control! Tell me, do you //think// there is a connection there?!"
Before he could answer, Dr. Severe cut him off. "No. Don't. Just...get out. I will figure out what to do with you later."
As Jonathan Blake left, his shoulders slumped, Dr. Severe let out a sigh. Nine hundred million dollars and eleven lives, all because someone got their units wrong. "NASA," Dr. Severe muttered under his breath, "you guys got off light."
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]
| 2011-02-02T23:25:00 | [
"_licensebox",
"tale"
] | Units - SCP Foundation | 70 | [
"component:license-box",
"licensing-guide"
] | [
"archived:tales-by-title",
"archived:tales-by-date-2011",
"archived:tales-by-author",
"archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2011",
"archived:foundation-tales"
] | [] | 7303200 | https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/units |
|
virr | <html><body><div id="page-content">
<p>Everett, my good man. Please… Sit down. No, I insist.</p>
<p>It's time we had a chat, the two of us. No, I think this is the perfect time. It's not like we're going to get another. Not with the way things are now. We've got a possible plan, but I don't think Stimson will be successful. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know. Not at all… Not at all…</p>
<p>You see, my boy, I understand you. I understand you quite perfectly. All the rest think you're varying levels of sinner and saint, that you somehow understand something special about us, that you might make the next, logical successor for one of us… They're all quite right, to some level. You certainly are passionate. I could see you doing anything to uphold the mission of the Foundation. Anything at all.</p>
<p>You should have done it already, Everett. You should have found all thirteen of us, pulled out a gun, and shot us in the head. Don't pretend that you hadn't already considered it. I know that you've got plans for us, for each of us, that would be at least moderately successful. You'd probably have eliminated the bulk of them. Probably. Not me, though. Not that it matters now, anyway.</p>
<p>But now, it's too late. Far, far too late. We let things go on too long. Let them snowball. I don't doubt that you'll struggle to the very end. You strike me as the sort to, honestly. Admirable. One of the few admirable things about you, really.</p>
<p>Do you know when I realized I wasn't playing God, Everett? I'll tell you. It was when they wouldn't let me bring my son back. Do you know how long it took me to get to this point? This point in my life? I <em>don't age</em>, Mann. I may never die, if all things go well. I wanted a family, though… Silly of me, wasn't it? Wanting a family. I had one. They took them from me, though. One at a time. T.J. Elliot. Jack… Poor Jack.</p>
<p>When did you first figure it out, Everett? What we were really doing?</p>
<p>Heh. I suppose that makes sense. The Insurgency always was our biggest hole. Could never find a way to explain it away… Agatha tried a few times, but… Ahh, well. Makes sense, I suppose… And when did you find out that we were—</p>
<p>Really? Hmm… Well, it's too late for that to matter now. They've done it, whoever they are. Whatever we called forth through that <a href="/dr-manns-proposal">blasted chink</a> in the universe's armor. You want to know the best part, Doctor? I don't regret any of it.</p>
<p>None of it, Everett. Not that ridiculous lizard or its brood, not those little crabs that slice and cut like they're nothing, not the madmen or the demons or the cakes—the god damned cakes! We were <em>trying</em> to <em>feed</em> the <em>world</em>, Mann! We didn't realize what we were <em>doing</em>! We <em>never</em> realized what we were doing! <em>NEVER</em>!</p>
<p>We just… we didn't realize… We wanted to make the world better, and then… Things fell apart. Things always fall apart…</p>
<p>Yes, I know. I'm completely mad. We all were. We'd have to be, for what we did. But we were mad with a purpose. Creation… Blissful, glorious creation. We were God in the garden, Everett. And we wanted you to join us so badly. You had so many fantastic ideas… Why, the Thaumiel initiative you proposed was sheer brilliance…</p>
<p>But it's too late, Everett. Far too late. And now… Well, I know you keep the gun in your top, left hand drawer. If you don't mind? On your way out?</p>
<p>Thank you, my boy. And try to enjoy the last few moments you have. Rage, my boy! Rage against the dying of the lig—</p>
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<p>"<a href="/virr">Virr</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/virr">https://scpwiki.com/virr</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p>
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Everett, my good man. Please... Sit down. No, I insist.
It's time we had a chat, the two of us. No, I think this is the perfect time. It's not like we're going to get another. Not with the way things are now. We've got a possible plan, but I don't think Stimson will be successful. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know. Not at all... Not at all...
You see, my boy, I understand you. I understand you quite perfectly. All the rest think you're varying levels of sinner and saint, that you somehow understand something special about us, that you might make the next, logical successor for one of us... They're all quite right, to some level. You certainly are passionate. I could see you doing anything to uphold the mission of the Foundation. Anything at all.
You should have done it already, Everett. You should have found all thirteen of us, pulled out a gun, and shot us in the head. Don't pretend that you hadn't already considered it. I know that you've got plans for us, for each of us, that would be at least moderately successful. You'd probably have eliminated the bulk of them. Probably. Not me, though. Not that it matters now, anyway.
But now, it's too late. Far, far too late. We let things go on too long. Let them snowball. I don't doubt that you'll struggle to the very end. You strike me as the sort to, honestly. Admirable. One of the few admirable things about you, really.
Do you know when I realized I wasn't playing God, Everett? I'll tell you. It was when they wouldn't let me bring my son back. Do you know how long it took me to get to this point? This point in my life? I //don't age//, Mann. I may never die, if all things go well. I wanted a family, though... Silly of me, wasn't it? Wanting a family. I had one. They took them from me, though. One at a time. T.J. Elliot. Jack... Poor Jack.
When did you first figure it out, Everett? What we were really doing?
Heh. I suppose that makes sense. The Insurgency always was our biggest hole. Could never find a way to explain it away... Agatha tried a few times, but... Ahh, well. Makes sense, I suppose... And when did you find out that we were—
Really? Hmm... Well, it's too late for that to matter now. They've done it, whoever they are. Whatever we called forth through that [[[dr-manns-proposal|blasted chink]]] in the universe's armor. You want to know the best part, Doctor? I don't regret any of it.
None of it, Everett. Not that ridiculous lizard or its brood, not those little crabs that slice and cut like they're nothing, not the madmen or the demons or the cakes—the god damned cakes! We were //trying// to //feed// the //world//, Mann! We didn't realize what we were //doing//! We //never// realized what we were doing! //NEVER//!
We just... we didn't realize... We wanted to make the world better, and then... Things fell apart. Things always fall apart...
Yes, I know. I'm completely mad. We all were. We'd have to be, for what we did. But we were mad with a purpose. Creation... Blissful, glorious creation. We were God in the garden, Everett. And we wanted you to join us so badly. You had so many fantastic ideas... Why, the Thaumiel initiative you proposed was sheer brilliance...
But it's too late, Everett. Far too late. And now... Well, I know you keep the gun in your top, left hand drawer. If you don't mind? On your way out?
Thank you, my boy. And try to enjoy the last few moments you have. Rage, my boy! Rage against the dying of the lig—
[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]]
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| 2011-10-21T18:21:00 | [
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