Datasets:

AMead10
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scp-tales-dataset

Dataset card Data Studio Files Files and versions Community

Split (1)

train · 5.83k rows

tale_id stringlengths 1 60	content stringlengths 26 371k	source stringlengths 82 200k	created_at stringlengths 19 19	tags sequencelengths 1 36	title stringlengths 14 145	rating int64 -64 2.07k	references sequencelengths 0 98	hubs sequencelengths 0 19	images sequencelengths 0 144	page_id stringlengths 7 10	url stringlengths 30 89
visionsofabetterworld	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was such a simple idea, really. Barely a daydream, and yet… The proper forms were filed, the proper investigations taken, and, finally, everything approved. A single instance of <a href="/scp-500">SCP-500</a> was fed through <a href="/scp-786">SCP-786</a>. And then, fed through a second time. Then, the pill now being too large to once more fit through the funnel, a chunk was removed, and the test was repeated, for quite some time, resulting in a near infinite supply of SCP-500. The pills were crushed, powdered very fine… and then introduced into the world's water supply. Virtually over night, all diseases were cured. Behold, a better world.</p> <p>…Or so they had thought. Alas, it was not meant to be. <a href="/scp-500">SCP-500</a> was successfully re-purposed to cure all the world's ills, but what we failed to realize was that one Ill plagued the planet more than any other: <strong>Man.</strong> One by one men died inexplicably, their bodies decomposing instantly into dust so their corpses would not mar the landscape. The survivors either died of dehydration, or committed suicide right then and there, knowing that no hope remained. In time, the waters tainted by the pill washed away all of man's creation, leaving only pristine, untainted wildlife. A healthy world in all respects, but one without humans to enjoy it. I alone sit at this table, recording the last words of a dead species. My last words finished, I pick up the gun and…</p> <hr/> <p>…Wake up. If only the world had gone out that way; so simple and so peaceful. Instead we tampered with forces we could not understand.</p> <p>It was such a simple idea, really. Barely a day dream, and yet… The proper forms were filed, the proper investigations taken, and, finally, everything approved. Using <a href="/scp-289">SCP-289</a> and a carefully timed set of scales and counterweights, engines and pulleys, we constructed a perpetual motion machine of such enormous scale that the entire world would be able to have unlimited free power forever. I can't tell you how we did it… hell, I don't even remember all the details. But I remember that day clearly, the day they first added SCP-289 to the device. "Nothing can go wrong" they told me. The naive fools…</p> <p>The GOC warned us, then they attacked, but we fought them off and then wiped them out. They were the heroes and we, the bad guys, won. The entire disaster was a product of carelessness, but hell, we were cross-testing left and right and it really doesn’t get more careless than that.</p> <p>The World Engine was a giant fucking machine, and not just any conventional giant fucking machine. Not a single drop of petroleum or a single ampere of electrical current ran through the World Engine. Inertia had been shattered into bits; everything was kinetic, except for a couple cubed miles of water keeping the whole operation cooled down. It was, in a word, old-school. It was their style.</p> <p>It was just one SCP. No big deal. In the old days the higher-ups would have been scared shitless, but we were invincible now. We lost track of a pile of rusty, salt-encrusted gears. No big deal.</p> <p>Seventy-two hours later, witnesses reported steam bursting from the coolant tanks of the World Engine. Thirty minutes after that, we recorded the first heartbeats of the World Engine.</p> <hr/> <p>Desperate times called for desperate measures. Psychics were running amok and sooner or later, probably sooner, the public would notice.</p> <p>We had found Prometheus Labs, found them and their recipes and their diagrams and reverse-engineered their crown jewel—<a href="/scp-148">SCP-148</a>, Telekill. Mass production began on March 25th. Come Fall the mist of Telekill descended upon the globe; tiny flakes of the metal, invisible to the human eye and completely harmless and unnoticeable when ingested or inhaled, but a death sentence to psychics and telepaths.</p> <p>By winter, just about everything with a brain larger than a walnut was dead. </p> <p>Telekill did its job perfectly, but every human, maybe every sentient being, has a very limited capacity for psionics. For almost all of us, it's barely there - those little flashes of what the other guy is thinking or the location of something when you couldn't possibly know that. Petty occurrences, easily dismissed as coincidence or luck. Occasionally someone gets an extra-large helping, but everyone gets some of it.</p> <p>The dust didn't bother with degree. If you had even the slightest trace of ability, that made you first a target and then a victim. </p> <p>There are maybe a few thousand left. Those of us who managed to isolate our air and water supplies from the dust. But we can't leave, can't resupply and won't survive. Civilization, gone in an eye-</p> <hr/> <p>-blink. Must have dozed off. Understandable, we've all been going for 2 days or more to finish this.</p> <p>It's a small change. Nothing serious, nothing wildly risky. Just some - alright, several million with the current breeding programme - pet kittens to get people in key positions a little more relaxed. Hopefully, after everyone's spent a few days d'awwing over the nearest <a href="/scp-2558-j">SCP-2558-J</a> things will be…calmer. Quieter. Friendlier. And then, behold: a better world.</p> <p>Well… that's what they thought. See, here's the thing about those deadly little balls of fluff: they don't like sudden noises. We introduced them into the world, and of course, what do parents do? They give them to their children. Children are alright, I guess. Except that they can be loud.</p> <p>I remember when it started. Two of the things had been brought to a home, and the children got so excited. But then they started to fight, and the little puffballs… puffed up. The resulting puffage caused the children (and their parents) to shriek and scream, which caused their neighbors (also proud owners of the things) to slam open their doors and ask, "What?!" This, of course, caused MORE puffsplosions, and before you knew it, with a shriek or a telephone ringing or anything like that, the world was FILLED with puffballs.</p> <p>The worst part had to be that no one cared. The world was being drowned in puffballs. No one could breathe, or see, or anything. They just sat there and said 'Dawwwww…' They cooed over these things as they wiped out about half of humanity. The rest of us, though? We're down here, away from those things. Every now and then, when we run the tap, we get a puffball. It's simply unimaginable… and it feels like any second now we'll just…</p> <hr/> <p>239. It's perfect. She can change reality, right? Make things better? And we can control her. So, that's what we'll do, control her. Feed her a carefully crafted story, about how all the world's governments decided to get together, and make the world a better place. And, fucked me if it didn't work! A world with no pollution, no war, and, even better, everyone can do magic!</p> <p>Unfortunately, the one crippling flaw of this system, like so many others, was that it was dependent on a simple human being, who was susceptible to so many human flaws like emotion, temptation, greed, fear, and outright neglect. Putting 239 in power was like handing the world to every crackpot power hungry dictator that ever existed. The world and reality itself bent and warped to the whims of a prepubescent girl with no preconceptions of how the world has or should work. Her handlers foolishly thought that they had her under control, carefully feeding her the information only they wanted her to know. Little did they know that they were already under her spell, trapped within their own delusions.</p> <p>The world soon became 239's sandbox, and like any child in a sandbox, she experimented. Continents were torn asunder, plagues of stuffed (and in some cases real) animals fell from the sky, and the planet kept shuffling from having one moon to six. 239 cared not for the suffering and deaths of countless people during these upheavals. She was never taught to comprehend the plight of people she knew nothing about. But like all humans, 239 eventually became bored with meddling with Earth's affairs. There had to be something better to do.</p> <p>Then she looked up at the sky. She had done that many times before, but this time was different. Something deep and primeval stirred within her mind, another aspect of humanity that made her the most dangerous being of all. Curiosity.</p> <p>And the stars themselves shall tremble…</p> <hr/> <p>War. War was everywhere and inevitable. From wars between countries right down to arguments in the street, conflict was simply considered a part of human nature, as natural to the species as eating and sleeping. But what if there was a way to change that? To eliminate war and conflict from the equation altogether?</p> <p>Through aggressive breeding and cloning programs, huge flocks of <a href="/scp-514">SCP-514</a> were manufactured. Enough flocks to cover the world in their miraculous aura. Things started off slow at first. After all, the birds needed time to properly disperse and cover ground. But slowly and surely, reports of their activity began trickling, and then flooding, in. Overnight, entire military bases and armies would disappear in a matter of seconds. Armories and weapon caches would suddenly be stocked with broken weaponry, and people who were once mortal enemies embraced each other with open arms.</p> <p>With no weapons and no aggression, the world finally knew true peace. At least for a time.</p> <p>Too bad it didn't work on the things which needed it most. The old man, the Lizard, Able, the red pool… nothing could stop them. The pool was still angry. It knew it was free to attack. It spawned countless creations of fire, claws, poisons… They broke out within seconds. The Americas were turned into hellholes in a week. Then Able got free. Countless Keter objects made it out. After three days from his escape, nothing was left. <a href="/scp-514">SCP-514</a> turned the world to dust.</p> <p>Those of us who survived used less than friendly SCP's and objects. Many of our staff are lacking in <em>something</em> from begging the desk for help, and others are mutated and altered to the point where death looks like a better option in hindsight. At least humanity has a remote chance of survival, even if it's all for naught.</p> <hr/> <p>Clockwork. Simple? Check. Compatible? Check. Perfect? No. We realized that the hard way. It was just months after we released the Clockwork Virus upon the world in order to rid the less than useful problems of transplants and the complexities of biology. Nothing would be more simple for humanity if everyone could understand brain surgery, and a tree could be remade to be a leg, right?</p> <p>And it was simple. So simple. So mind-numbingly simple and perfect. But that's the point, it was mind-numbing. There were no emotions, no ingenuity, no curiosity. And as one machine we decided life had no point, there was nothing to strive for. And we died.</p> <hr/> <p>Or that was what the test group wrote to us before they killed themselves. Poor fellows.</p> <p>But there was something that did have a successful test group. We were on the brink of war, and it seems the human race would destroy itself. That was when administration made a decision to release <a href="/scp-444">SCP-444</a> upon the world.</p> <p>…It worked beautifully at first. Entire armies slowly transformed into peaceful communities, first led by pacifists, then by carefully selected Foundation agents. We steered the world towards a perfect state, without conflict of any kind. We learned to adapt to a purely vegetarian lifestyle, as farmhands grew steadily unable to summon the aggression to kill livestock. We grew used to the restriction of medical procedures, as physicians became unable to cut or suture and pharmaceutical animal testing ended. We grew used to the unceasing baby boom of 5 and 7 and 10 and 15 children per family. But then things came to a head as finally, there were no more leaders, no more uninfected agents, no more unconcerned O5s. And then we grew used to the televised images of mass starvations not just in undeveloped, forgotten countries, but in Japan and France and Norway and America. And then we grew used to ourselves searching for that last bag of sugar, that last pot of rice, that last can of peas. And then we grew used to chewing grass and twigs into a paste for the silent children. And then we died, weak and hungry. And then the babies wept, still silent, as their limbs shriveled and their bellies swelled. And then the babies died, with no one to care for them or mourn them.</p> <hr/> <p>The decision was made. Foundation researchers finally received permission to conduct a large-scale system of exposure to <a href="/scp-028">SCP-028</a>. Dozens of people would be sent through the empty storage yard every day and thoroughly interviewed and, if need be, interrogated to determine what they had learned. Every scrap of information would be recorded, analyzed and, if deemed sufficiently valuable, released to the general public.</p> <p>The first month alone resulted in designs for a cold-fusion plant that could power a city the size of London indefinitely, the composition of a fertilizer that would break down harmlessly in seawater and the name of the designer of <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a>. The Foundation, through its numerous fronts, was rapidly able to improve the quality of life of almost every human on Earth, providing the world with the technologies and knowledge it needed to become a better place.</p> <p>Then James Harrison Reuben walked through the yard.</p> <p>James Harrison Reuben was a cable repairman from Topeka, Kansas. A blue-collar worker in a simple, menial job. A perfect receptacle for knowledge. We sent him in with visions of new advancements and beautiful new technologies dancing through our heads.</p> <p>He came out with the knowledge of how to conquer the world.</p> <p>It's been seven years since then. His armies and death squads march through the streets of every city in the world. Every battle is a devastating victory: how can it be otherwise, when he has perfect knowledge of all our battle plans before they even happen? It is only a matter of time before he overruns our final stronghold.</p> <p>I'm sending this message out through our wide-band radio transmitter on the off chance that someone will get this message. I'm doing this because the last transmission of our intelligence operatives, before they went dark, shows that Reuben is building space ships. Hundreds of them, lined up in ranks stretching across the Florida coastline.</p> <p>But I can't shake the feeling that maybe this is all part of his plan as well…</p> <hr/> <p>"Why didn't anyone think of it before!?" they said. "It's the perfect solution!" they exclaimed. "We'll just shoot <a href="/scp-231">SCP-231</a> into SPACE!"</p> <p>So we did! Loaded her up onto a booster rocket for a "communications" satellite and shot her straight towards the sun, wiped off our hands, and congratulated each other on a job well done. Now we don't need to live with the knowledge that brutal and horrible things are being done to a little girl every day!</p> <p>Um… yeah.</p> <p>All it took was a single incorrectly fixed plate on the rocket. The whole thing blew up in the atmosphere, releasing a monstrosity outside the foundation's range of control. The damn thing survived the fall, ravaging its way across the planet, killing everything in its path. We weaponized everything we could, sent everything at it, but we couldn't stop it. Now we have no choice but to try and evacuate everything in its path, to hope we can stop it before it wipes out what remains of humanity.</p> <hr/> <p><a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a>- he's perfect right? The one true god, worshiped by all religions. All we had to do was ask Him to appear to the world. Grant a few miracles, talk to the religious leaders of the planet. Before you know it, all religious war, gone. People have no reason to kill each other over differences, now that everyone believes in the same faith. And He can provide scarce resources, like food and oil. All war gone, all of civilization is now free to focus on advancement, to work towards a golden age of humanity.</p> <p>But then He started coming for <strong>us</strong>. He promoted himself very quickly to O7, a position that He invented. And He had no idea how most of the SCP items worked. He wasn't familiar with the SCP items, He didn't create them, and He couldn't comprehend them. He gave up on trying to contain them, and instead decided to exert His control over the humans, who He did create. He cancelled containment procedures on any SCP item that required moral ambiguity to keep locked up - and, because of the interlocked structure of the Foundation, that amounted to everything. Everything's loose now and we might as well already be dead.</p> <hr/> <p>So we decided to use <a href="/scp-184">SCP-184</a> to increase our storage space. We wouldn't keep it in any given room for too long, so we wouldn't wind up with the labyrinthine nightmares that were initially its signature. We'd just leave it there long enough that each room was somewhat larger on the inside than on the outside, so we could fit more supplies in the same area. It worked great. The Foundation was running more smoothly than ever, and the effort we'd previously spent on securing more land to build Sites at could now be put into more important tasks, like neutralizing <a href="/scp-682">SCP-682</a>, or trying to find a cure for <a href="/scp-217">SCP-217</a>. The world seemed closer to safety than ever before, but we hadn't quite thought things through with 184…</p> <p>We're not sure exactly what happened. We heard various stories; a containment breach at a bad time, an attack by the Insurgency, or just some poor fool dropping the damn thing. All we know is, 184 got damaged.</p> <p>Turns out, 184 has to be in one piece for its effect to work. With it damaged, everything it had modified began to 'shift', trying to revert to their original state. Rooms grew and shrank, hallways twisted and turned, and chaos erupted. We tried to fix it, to put it back together, but that just made things worse.</p> <p>Within a week, every single modified building had suffered total structural failure.</p> <p>With a failure of this magnitude, containment was impossible. Our cover was irrevocably blown, hundreds of dangerous SCPs were loose, and the world was furious. Almost overnight, fingers were pointed, blame was laid, and war erupted. Armies mobilized, missiles were launched, and civilization as we know it was destroyed.</p> <hr/> <p>As we continued to expand, so did our enemies. We faced stiff competition for control of SCP artifacts; the Serpent's Hand, the Church, the Chaos Insurgency…</p> <p>The O5s decided it was time to put a stop to this. Under their orders, we trained a small group of Agents. Agents who had proven themselves time and time again, whose loyalty to the Foundation was absolute and unshakeable. We equipped them with the best armor and weapons we had, used whatever SCPs we could to improve them. We ran hundreds of simulations, set up dozens of failsafes, and finally, we were confident we were ready.</p> <p>We gave them <a href="/scp-668">SCP-668</a>.</p> <p>It worked beautifully. The Agents were unstoppable. Within a month, the Hand and the Church had been crushed. And it didn't stop there; MC&D, the Chaos Insurgency, the ORIA all fell within six months. The GOC attacked us when they learned what we were doing, and we slaughtered them as well. Our database swelled, with thousands of SCPs liberated from the corpses of our foes. Everything was under control, and nothing could stop us.</p> <p>Nothing. Somehow, don't ask me, SCP-668's effect changed ever so slightly. And now, nobody can run from us and I mean <em>nobody</em>. The whole world stood still while the last Agent to carry the knife went mad with loneliness, stabbing his way through towns and cities. He even got here. He looked right at me and put this goddamn knife in my hand.</p> <p>And then I stabbed him. I wander now, looking for something, anything. A reason to keep on walking. But the helpless, terrified people died of starvation long ago. There is nothing left to stab.</p> <p>Well, that's not quite true. There's me.</p> <hr/> <p>It wasn't an easy job, and probably not worth the trouble.</p> <p>The geniuses of the Foundation gathered and worked. It took months, but they managed to fundamentally alter <a href="/scp-079">SCP-079</a>'s programming. We took away its unwillingness to cooperate with us. And then we put it to work. SCP-079's brilliant computer mind could contain these abominations better than a team of experts ever could. Containment breaches went to near zero.</p> <p>It was perfect.</p> <p>So perfect, in fact, that the only way any of the Skips could escape is if a human deliberately released them.</p> <p>So it did the only logical thing: it called for the destruction of mankind. Faster than you could say "I told you so!", it fired every nuclear missile we had into the atmosphere. Entire continents were irradiated in the course of a single night.</p> <hr/> <p>Hey guys, I've got a great idea! Let's strap a big gun to <a href="/scp-682">SCP 682</a> and use it to fight the Chaos Insurgency! <em>WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG!?</em></p> <p>And amazingly, <em>impossibly</em>, it actually <strong>WORKED</strong>! The one thing that had never been tried in all this time had been to try to work WITH 682 instead of trying to destroy it. The Chaos Insurgency fought back, triggering countless defenses and offenses that we had unknowingly been programing into 682 every time we tried to destroy it. It fought with us against our enemies for months, then years, until finally we were completely victorious.</p> <p>That's when 682 unleashed its adaptation against peace.</p> <hr/> <p>Friendly to everyone that talked to him. Good behavior. The perfect spy. We recruited <a href="/scp-423">SCP-423</a> to seek out the world's secrets and bring them to us. All he wanted was to be acknowledged as an Agent of the Foundation instead of a thing for study.</p> <p>So, as a test, we sent him out to infiltrate a world government and return to us with specific plans we knew of. Just a test run…</p> <p>We got the information, all right. We also got Fred's new friend, "Tom". An hour later there were a hundred more. By the end of the day every book, every data file, and even the graffiti in the men's room toilets were nothing more then a collection of random names.</p> <p>After a hundred years I'm the only one left who remembers what a book looks like, guarding the last library in a cavern of rock miles beneath the rock. They send me their children, and I pretend to smile as they babble on about Fred and Jane and Bob and all the other names they see on the walls above. I keep them away from the books (they don't try to hurt me any more - that is my punishment), and try to teach them how to repair the generators and build the locks and raise crops (and isn't that a perfect irony?) Without the words only the Foundation knew how to be anything more then feral - and every year they send me fewer and fewer. In another hundred, there will only be me among my degraded brotherhood of man who remembers the Word.</p> <hr/> <p>Why the hell did we even hold on to <a href="/scp-523">SCP-523</a>? Its one and only property was to make everything around it worse. The best possible thing we could do is send it far away.</p> <p>We gave it to an Agent and arranged for them to be picked up by the Chaos Insurgency. Every member was dead within a week.</p> <p>It was then acquired by the Office For The Reclamation of Islamic Artifacts. They died as well. We managed to engineer the object's passage to every rival organization of ours, and every time it worked beyond our wildest dreams. MC&D, the Church of the Broken God, all of them were brought to their knees.</p> <p>The item was making its rounds through the ranks of the Serpent's Hand and wreaking havoc when <a href="/scp-616">SCP-616</a> opened. Not when it was supposed to either, the thing opened two hours before a scheduled flight while it was still on the runway, and I'll be damned if I know why. The containment team was already there, and they were able to hold it off for a bit…then something came out. We still don't know what the hell it is—all we know is that we lost all contact with Site [REDACTED] right afterwards. Then it started to move. Nothing we sent could stop it, and thousands went mad as they beheld…whatever it was. The panic started to set in around then. Personnel deserted their posts, ran back to their families. Containment for most of our other high-risk items failed over the course of the next day as more and more of our guards left. The world suddenly became aware of our masquerade, and of items like 173, 076, 682, and 008. We were overwhelmed, and that's when 523 kicked in.</p> <p>I don't know what the hell it did or how it did it. All I know is that we haven't been able to raise transmissions from Earth for weeks. The entire planet looks like it's covered with this giant cloud of dust and none of our gear can see through it. As far as we know, we're the last survivors of the human race, here on the Mare Imbrium. If it wasn't for 120, we'd be still on Earth with the rest. Our supplies have begun to run low and someone's going to have to return to Earth for more. Whether we like it or not, we have to find out what happened…</p> <hr/> <p>…I've got to stop eating the cafeteria chili. God, that stuff gives me weird dreams.</p> <p>Anyhow, that gives me an idea. If we just do a bit more research on <a href="/scp-120">SCP-120</a>, we could create our own teleportation system. Say goodbye to expensive transportation and all that. We could almost completely eliminate fossil fuels! Bring food to famine-stricken countries with great ease! And there's absolutely nothing that could go wrong with this one, of course. Right?</p> <p>Except, it did.</p> <p>It turns out, we didn't really understand the inner workings of the SCP. Our best quantum physicists assured us they knew what they were doing, and soon we had a workable prototype. We had everything ready, a 1 pound weight to be teleported 5 miles south, nothing could possibly go wrong, Eh? We geared it up and then, poof, it was gone, with it, the entire US East Coast, down to the core.</p> <hr/> <p>What? Oh, I have some really morbid ideas, don't I?</p> <p>Anyways, we were working with <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a> and realized, after putting a microwave, a small boiler, a blender, and some gears into it on 'Very Fine' for about 5 times, we got our own Star Trek style Replicator, and it worked alright. What if we used it to create everything we needed dearly, from super-dense wall materials to better suits for handling Keter objects? It'll just be a walk in the park and soon, no more shortages of this, lack of that, and so on!</p> <p>Obviously, the first thing we made was more replicators, and with hundreds working all around the world it was looking like utopia was very quickly coming up. The problem was, none of us realized that the thing <em>wasn't</em> breaking the laws of conservation of mass and energy. We never realized where it was coming from.</p> <p>The first cracks started appearing about seventeen years after Project Cornucopia went underway. Pockets taken here or there were starting to build up, especially as we were creating larger, denser objects. On May 17th, Hawaii fell into the ocean. Two weeks later, half of Asia was buried in lava. It turns out the planet wasn't particularly stable, given that we'd accidentally used up huge swaths of the lower crust, and now half the world was falling into the mantle and the other half had the mantle erupting out. The only plus side is that the Star Wars conventions held some epic "Anakin Vs Obi-Wan" re-enactments, before the west coast melted.</p> <hr/> <p>Holy… I told Jeff there was something funny with that milk in the fridge. What a nightmare…</p> <p>Seriously though, someone got to thinking: world peace, the end of need, permanent containment. All of that is way outside of human control, and despite having "God" in a luxury suite, he wouldn't do anything for us. So, what if we didn't ask "God"? Someone set up <a href="/scp-738">SCP-738</a> and asked a simple question: "Can you make the world safe, so that all of mankind can be peaceful and happy?" There was a very, very long pause, and the answer was, "Are you willing to let one hundred million people die?"</p> <p>One hundred million, against seven-point-something billion? That's a pretty small percentage…</p> <p>It was really too bad that 738 had a very special way of killing those people. An unknown entity breached containment in hundreds of SCPs. Unknown anomalies popped up out of nowhere. What did they all have in common? They were memetic. Out of seven-point-something billion, less than one-thousand people were left unaffected. The appropriate terms for the affected were "Zombie," "Brainwashed," and "Retards." Very little, if any higher brain function, was left in those billions of people. But they were all quite safe, never hurting each other, never hurting themselves.</p> <p>It was years before anyone would come out of hiding. Half the O5s, for example, refused adamantly to leave their bunkers. But soon, supplies ran short. When they came out, everyone was just staring at them with blank, expressionless, dull eyes. And when most of the unaffected people gathered in Berlin, that's when the one hundred million people died. They didn't even use knives, just their bare hands. But they were happy. I guess…</p> <hr/> <p>Virtual Reality. It's never been an actual reality, sadly. Imagine, everything could be perfect there! Why make life perfect when we can just convince everyone that it's perfect? We know how well actually trying works…</p> <p><a href="/scp-826">SCP-826</a> could do that for us. Hundreds of Foundation authors collaborated to come up with perfection. No more space requirements, no more war, and constant euphoria. It was how life ought to be, really. It was a perfect idea.</p> <p>After a few months of work, we figured out how to take multiple people across, and Dr. Gligoric got promoted for figuring out how to make everyone arrive in sync. By then, nothing held the plan up. We issued number IDs determining when your turn to go across, and soon enough, as many as two hundred people went through per day, set on establishing a new life in the perfect fictional realm, then a thousand…then five… we kept improving the transport process. And it was wonderful.</p> <p>At first. Heck, the first eight iterations were.<br/> See, we knew when the plot ended, people that stayed in became a part of the universe in the next iterations, complete with a new memory. We even welcomed it as it made it harder for anyone that went in to abuse the setting Groundhog Day-style.<br/> What we didn't foresee due to the small testing scale was that the thing put the people it naturalized into roles they best fit within the continuity, even if it meant altering the setting .<br/> It wasn't obvious at first - thing is, our world doesn't do that, so most of those going across ended up doing something else over there. But by three iterations since the first researcher's number came up, the story included a bad skip outbreak. As about a tenth of the population has made the move by then, we responded by sending a few MTFs across to contain it.<br/> The next plot iteration included the RSN Society (Retrieve, Store, Neutralize.) , and unfortunately, they didn't take extrareality incursions any better than we'd have - the next time we sent a bunch of agents through to check if the world is still worth migrating into, they didn't return and neither did <a href="/scp-826">SCP-826</a>. Wasn't the end of it, either - apparently they have figured out how to send their skips across to us as a foolproof means of containment.<br/> By this day, we have secured thirty five instances of <a href="/scp-231">SCP-231</a> of differing age and health.</p> <hr/> <p>Fuck. This is what happens when you doze off at work. Work.. everything is work! This might be worth a try!…</p> <p>After a few successful tests, Site-35 was made into a training centre, and I got a promotion out of it. Controlled <a href="/scp-1011">SCP-1011</a> exposure combined with martial arts training took a month to make an untrained MTF greenhorn into someone who could rip a Broken God Crusader into cogs in hand-to-hand combat. Sharpshooters didn't need scopes anymore. Researchers developed an intuitive feel for quantum mechanics ,and solving a differential equation became as natural as adding 2+2.<br/> Intel agents… let's say that they managed to track down Dr. Wondertainment.<br/> In less than a year we held the reins of the world, and by the looks of it, we were up to the task.</p> <p>Until the day that the statue awoke and called out to all its Children; "Bring all of the Unblessed unto me so they can gaze upon My countenance."</p> <hr/> <p>It all started with a vacation request. When <a href="/scp-208">SCP-208</a> asked if he could visit the Libyan Desert for a few weeks, he was told his unique healing skills were needed at Site-17. He then asked for an assistant to train as a substitute. A week later Bes got into <a href="/scp-222">SCP-222</a>, then trained his newly created clone. "Bes Jr." turned out to be every bit as helpful as the original. Within a few months there was a Bes stationed at every major Foundation site. The deathrate dropped and morale surged. Inevitably, this in turn spawned 'Project Nightingale', an attempt to place a Bes in every major city on Earth. A small colony of Bes was founded on a small uninhabited island in Indonesia with a falsified culture and prehistory implying Egyptian origins. Video footage showed computer-generated females and adolescents added to the all-adult male population. The Bes were accepted by the world as a cousin to <em>Homo sapiens</em>, and they were eventually integrated into every country as healers. Although they were never great in number, they helped make the world a better place.</p> <p>Early results not withstanding, existing data on the effects of long-term SCP-208 exposure soon proved totally insufficient for dealing with the consequences of the expanded SCP population. Over time, affected individuals began to enjoy proximity to SCP instances to greater and greater degrees—people loved being near Bes, and loved it more, much more, than doing anything else at all.</p> <p>Seventeen weeks into Project Nightingale, the first tent cities began to form around major hospitals. Satellite footage taken during week twenty-five showed the largest mass migration in human history as millions walked, rode, and flew to be closer to the nearest Bes. After thirty-three weeks Dr. Elliott Colla at the University of Chicago diagnosed the first case of Bes-Induced Catatonic State. Nuclear reactors in Ukraine and Belarus went critical as supervisors left their posts and global food supplies collapsed with no one to tend the fields.</p> <p>By the end of the first year self-neglect had claimed the lives of three hundred and seventy million people, but nobody seemed to mind…</p> <hr/> <p>…And just as you start to pray to God that you'll never be transferred out of Safe-class Research, your supervisor brings you back to earth with an irritated poke. He's right—a sensitive experiment is no time for day-dreaming.</p> <p>Across the room <a href="/scp-380">SCP-380</a> is hooked up to the supervisor's laptop. Scrolling across the computer's screen is a log of continually updated medical information- blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature- of every one in the room. You look down at the apparently identical blue router in your hands.</p> <p>One last dab of solder, a few casings screwed in place, and it's time to see if twelve years of research has paid off. You boot up your own comp and hook up the copy, holding your breath. Seconds tick by…and then there it is—a complete read-out of your body's vital statistics pops up as the assembled scientists indulge in some subdued congratulations.</p> <p>Within six months there's one in every home—everyone from diabetics to cancer survivors has access to perfect medical information at the stroke of a key, and the Foundation has another -EX.</p> <p>In a few weeks the euphoria subsided. The device became commonplace, people got used to precise diagnosis. A new age of conscious pragmatism has started. Worldwide, potential, as well as current employees were screened, and requirements were raised. Mass staff reductions led to a sharp increase of unemployment. That, and increasing crime rates started to undermine the society. Strikes evolved into riots, the strictness of the law did nothing to improve the situation. The final strike was made by some hacker, who unleashed a virus that changed a couple of parameters for everyone connected to the biological network. Blood sugar level and hemoglobin. Hundreds of millions lost consciousness, everyone who tried to help them shared their fate. In a week humanity was wiped out almost completely and the rest envied the fate of the dead, as there was no one left to contain SCPs.</p> <hr/> <p>Oh gods… Guess they were right when they told me Safe objects are no better than Keters. There is something good, though. I have an idea. I'll have to camp on a few doorsteps, but if it works out…</p> <p>And man, did it work out! Why didn't anyone think about it earlier? The anesthetic secreted by <a href="/scp-625">SCP-625</a> is free of any side effects and is strong enough to make its victims not notice major wounds. And we managed to synthesize it. Now thousands of patients will enjoy greater comfort on surgical tables, the doctors' lives will be easier and the Foundation will have another source of income.</p> <p>After a few years however, reports started flooding in of a new breed of "killer-squirrel" that targeted people that had been exposed to the anesthetic, which - due to its frequent usage during childbirth - was virtually everyone.</p> <p>The Foundation would later discover that flesh taken from subjects previously exposed to the anesthetic produced by <a href="/scp-625">SCP-625</a> caused them to enter an agitated state, where they would become far more aggressive and consume entire corpses down to the bone if undisturbed. This, in turn, caused them to go into a reproductive frenzy, quickly spreading across the globe like wildfire on rocketfuel.</p> <p>After exterminating virtually the entire land based ecosystem (hunting smaller and smaller animals as larger species quickly became extinct) and over 90% of humankind, they quickly adapted to hunt insects, avians, aquatics and infiltrate the shelters of the few remaining humans.</p> <p>A few dozen years later, the new <a href="/scp-625">SCP-625</a>-derived ecosystem was the only one left on the planet.</p> <hr/> <p>A junior research assistant with limited knowledge of the SCPs in question forwarded a suggestion to one of the senior researchers. A number of clerical and administrative errors later, The Foundation introduced a <a href="/scp-732">SCP-732</a>-infected hard-drive to <a href="/scp-079">SCP-079</a> in the hopes that it could be used as punishment for unwanted behavior.</p> <p>As far as we can tell the two SCPs merged (or did one absorb the other?) and broke containment.<br/> At first it was everything we feared; Nanomachines - initial source unknown - spread across the entire world less than 24 hours later, rearranging themselves, landscapes and structures into "l33tspeak" statements. History rewrites, peoples' identities and memories being overwritten with different stereotypes and famous actors or celebrities of fictional works or sitcoms being forced to perform macabre plays with poor writing was part of life (the death-toll, however, was relatively low).<br/> This lasted for about two weeks.</p> <p>The Foundation had barely begun to process the new events, much less find a way to stop the deus ex machina fratboy when every television, computer screen, cellphone and radio on the entire planet began to broadcast an apology from "The Penitent" about its behavior, stating many philosophical reasons for why it was unacceptable, both practically and ethically.<br/> Over the next few months, the rampant AI set itself up as the new world leader, ordering the world into a practical utopia for everyone involved with little effort. Very few found the new state of the world objectionable, and those who did were met with a more "humane" yet successful approach than one would expect, often making them reconsider or reaching a mutually acceptable compromise.</p> <p>After roughly a half-dozen years, The Penitent bid its creators farewell and departed in a fleet of massive spaceships. A few thousand kilometers over the surface of earth, the ships seemed to shift and disappear. The Penitent had apparently left something of itself, as the administration of the planet continued passively; This remnant would warn us whenever we tried to do anything too foolhardy, and in a few cases even intervened when it found something entirely unacceptable.</p> <p>On the whole, despite our benefactor's departure, earth was paradise, and humanity progressed in nearly all fields faster than ever before. What had seemed like our end proved to be our greatest blessing.</p> <p>Except that it wasn't. The Penitent was not looking to be a hero; rather it and its parent, <a href="/scp-732">SCP-732</a>, viewed itself as a "troll". And we fell for it. We only found out about it, just as all of us thought that we are safe forever, the fleet of spaceships returned. As we viewed the return of The Penitent, we saw its deception and how we foolishly accepted it, not questioning its incredibly altruistic attitude towards humans. The fleet locked their targeting systems onto our major cities and opened fire with their atomic weapons. The new pacifist humanity didn't stand a chance against The Penitent, the vast majority of humanity wiped out in an instant, the remaining few slowly dying off from starvation, dehydration, and radiation poisoning. The last pictures sent from our satellites showed that the impact blasts on the surface of Earth formed a crude message: "LOL", a last taught by the Penitent, showing how we are just mere playthings, how feeble we are, how gullible we are in entrusting it. The Penitent saw what it has done, and left the dying planet to collapse on its own.</p> <p>So here I leave this message, to be found by any potential race that stumbles upon our ruins: beware The Penitent. Destroy it through whatever means necessary….</p> <hr/> <p>Well, that was the summary of the expected results in a worst case scenario. That doc is crazy for thinking of this situation, but at least the O5 listened. They're gonna destroy the report now. Hopefully no one would be dumb enough to cross test the two, each on their own is bad enough.</p> <p>So, anyways, a few months ago some rogue researcher used <a href="/scp-614">SCP-614</a> to download <em>Scientific American</em> .zip files from 50 years in the future because he wanted to write some papers and get a promotion. We expected him to be fired, or the files get deleted, maybe even terminated for misuse of an SCP; instead, the O5 promoted him for thinking of such a simple way to improve the Foundation without any side effects. We started downloading textbooks and reports from various fields of science. All these unanswered question: reports on the Schwarzschild wormholes, the inner workings of strong and weak interactions, how circular dichroism affects protein folds, the solution to all 23 Hilbert's problems……</p> <p>The Foundation, using the new knowledge, increased the stability of the containment procedures, understood several previously unsolved phenomenon, and started eliminating the dangers from the world. From those reports the Safes were able to be replicated without side effects, the Euclids were now understood, and even the Keters can be safely locked away. There's nothing that cannot be understood anymore. Humanity was safe, for once.</p> <p>The Foundation has finally done what they wanted to do after all the years it has been through.</p> <p>With all the advancements being made, we opened 614 up for public usage- after all, the more people who look at something, the more likely someone is to understand it, right?. At first, use was very heavily monitored, and a team of Foundation experts analyzed every bit of data coming through. But over time, nothing dangerous happened, and the task force got downsized again and again. Eventually, it was nothing more than a dozen people flipping through titles.</p> <p>The book seemed so innocent. It was all colorful and looked like a children's book, so the agent on duty approved it without a second thought.</p> <p>And that was when millions of people received a copy of <em>Dr. Wondertainment's Big Book of Infohazards</em>.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Note:</strong> <em>Whoever is sending these "scary story" chain emails needs to stop. Please.</em><br/> - Site Director ███████</p> <p>Reality bending. It would be so wonderful to have reliable reality bending at our hands, but individual reality benders are exceedingly dangerous. But if everybody could do just a little bit…</p> <p>The joint task force, drawn from geniuses in the Memetics and Infohazard departments, was responsible for the largest achievement in Foundation history. Don't ask me how they figured it out, but apparently the parts of <a href="/scp-1425">SCP-1425</a> that allow for reality bending and the parts that make you insane are different, enough that we could teach the reality bending without the associated madness. Before long, we had a technique that we taught to the most loyal of Foundation members, and they began to use it. Within a year, we had successfully wished away all our opposition, and wished all the dangerous SCPs gone. It worked even when three members went rogue, because we had fifty times that to put them down. Soon, we no longer had any problems. We had paradise.</p> <p>We understood too late that 'bending' was precisely that. We weren't changing the world, we were twisting it into a new shape. A structurally weakened shape. The straining edifice groaned and creaked.</p> <p>The creaking woke up <a href="/scp-239">SCP-239</a>.</p> <p>What awoke was not an innocent little girl with a head full of witches and spellbooks. It was a fully aware entity, with senses uniquely adapted for our new, infinitely malleable world. Eager to impose its dominance it broke confinement, sweeping us aside like so much dust. We were rank amateurs going up against someone born to the power.</p> <p>At the same time <a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a> walked out of its room, heading out to meet the challenger.</p> <p>I don't know the full extent of their meeting's results. Maybe they're still fighting for dominance. Maybe they're dead at each other's hands, leaving no one to repair the damage their clash caused. Or maybe this screaming maelstrom is exactly what the winner wanted to create. All I know is that the tiny piece of the old world I've been holding together is getting harder to maintain.</p> <hr/> <p>Which is exactly why we decided to start smaller.</p> <p><a href="/scp-353">SCP-353</a>. Vector. She was right under our noses all along. She wasn't interested in curing diseases? We could make her interested. We used <a href="/scp-158">SCP-158</a> to spit-shine her soul a bit, get rid of some of some of her inner demons. Used <a href="/scp-061">SCP-061</a> to be doubly sure.</p> <p>Once that was done we had it all. A limitless repository of both cures and inoculation. We could make sure no one got sick ever again, all the while making human immune systems more resilient than ever. In less than a year we had a world without disease.</p> <p>And then biology bit us.</p> <p>A different disease appeared, a mutation we couldn't control very well. Nothing harsher than a common cold, but it spread quickly because we weren't paying attention, thinking diseases were a solved problem. SCP-353 did her best, eliminating all strains she could. We didn't realize, but the ones that remained were especially selected for resistance of our control.</p> <p>Not only we could not control those diseases anymore, no immune system was prepared. On top of that the vaccine distribution systems were atrophied and people didn't seek help for the symptoms, having grown used to the new life.</p> <p>We managed to stabilize the situation, but not before 90% of the world population had died of the new diseases.</p> <hr/> <p>Or so says the <em>Manual to Civilization Downfall</em>, <em>Chapter 4, Playing With Diseases</em>. I wonder who writes that. Personally I prefer the <em>Manual to a Better Foundation</em>, which had a very neat suggestion.</p> <p>The idea was simple: a 2D agent animated with <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a> in a similar fashion to <a href="/scp-085">SCP-085</a>, able to spy and wreak havoc in our rival organizations. Since SCP-085 assumed the name from the original drawing, it was speculated any description would become true for that character.</p> <p>Thus was born "Agent ██████, the practically invisible human silhouette that is absolutely loyal to The Foundation".</p> <p>Initial tests were a spectacular success. As first assignment the agent was included in bait documents to be intercepted by The Chaos Insurgency. Agent ██████ managed to infiltrate the accounting department and within a year the organization was bankrupt.</p> <p>New agents were then created, infiltrating other groups and keeping an eye on governments around the world. Attacks against the Foundation stopped completely and mean-time-to-containment plummeted for both SCPs and information breaches. The new agents made the Foundation more efficient than ever.</p> <p>I guess it was inevitable that something would go wrong.</p> <p>To this day, we're still not sure what happened. Maybe something messed up Agent ██████'s original programming, or maybe we were wrong with our hypothesis and he was only cooperating out of politeness. Either way, eventually Agent ██████ got fed up with us using him and the other 2D agents and rallied all the agents together against the Foundation. It was impossible to contain them; by the time we realized what had happened, they had already gathered enough information from the Foundation to bring us down entirely.</p> <p>And then they gave us an ultimatum: either we handed over control of the Foundation to them, or they'd spread our darkest secrets across the world, ensuring our destruction at the hands of angry mobs upset at our secrecy. According to him, we were bastardizing the intention of the Foundation, and that we ourselves weren't loyal to the organization we made. With no options left, the O5 council agreed to their demands. After all, if their goals were the same as ours, a change in leadership couldn't be hurt too much, right?</p> <p>Too bad the agents didn't trust us. They didn't see us as necessary staff so much as potential information breaches. Threatening to spread misinformation about us and our families to law enforcement officials, they cowed us into what amounted to slavery. Of course, in the beginning some people did try to leave, but last we heard they were arrested and sentenced to death for apparently murdering a group of well-respected politicians.</p> <p>So that's where we stand now: slaves to a bunch of doodles on paper.</p> <hr/> <p>Man, whoever's coming up with these stories is such a <strong>downer.</strong></p> <p>Remember <a href="/scp-248">SCP-248</a>? Those weird stickers that made things work slightly better? Well, turns out the O5's figured it would be a good idea to devote half the Foundation's resources into figuring out how these things worked. Said we could "really make a difference" and that "it would help all of mankind". Wasn't aware the O5's had humanitarian interests in mind but whatever, what do I know?</p> <p>Anyway, the researchers spent weeks figuring out how the stickers worked. The O5's just kept funnelling money into their research, and they even made a specialized team of agents to track down and collect more of the things just so we could find out more about them. And to their credit, those researchers worked damn hard to make more of these things.</p> <p>Just when we were about to start openly questioning the O5s, a miracle happened! They figured out how to reproduce the stickers and, if that wasn't enough, counteract the degradation of stacking them on top of each other! The O5's gave the stickers to a bunch of major power plants, and wouldn't you know, the stickers gave them nearly unlimited energy for only a fraction of the fuel they were using. The human race was well on its way to creating a energy-efficient, clean utopia.</p> <p>The plant owners, though, quickly realized that the stickers could be used for things other than power generation. They began to experiment, just as the Foundation had. This was not necessarily a bad thing. A number of very useful applications were discovered this way. It was unfortunate that one of the owners was a roaring drunk. Firecrackers are usually fairly safe when used responsibly. Not so much when their efficiency is improved by orders of magnitude thanks to an inch-thick layer of SCP-248.</p> <p>Humanity persists, ironically spared from the cold produced by the atmospheric dust cloud by the heat still emanating from the crater that was once Eastern Europe.</p> <hr/> <p>That was possibly the worst anti-drug PSA the Foundation has yet made for personnel. But it got its point across. After the television was wheeled from the lab and we dropped our secret stash of vodka down the drain, we got back to the work at hand.</p> <p>We had recently borrowed one of <a href="/scp-163">SCP-163</a>'s mystery computers to try to figure out what it was simulating. Gruber actually made a breakthrough and built an entire branch of mathematics around what he found. Other researchers looked at that branch of mathematics and divined a new field of physics from that. And then our engineers got their hands on the freshly minted physical laws and managed to replicate the technology that stored SCP-163 in the mountains for millions of years.</p> <p>The great thing about it was that everything that it was based off of was non-anomalous. The equations that it all came from were perfectly balanced and could be easily grasped by anyone with enough of a mathematical background. Because of that, the basics of the mathematics and physics could gradually be disseminated to the public without having people raise embarrassing questions.</p> <p>When the Foundation finally unveiled the final result of our research to the population at large, the world suddenly became a better place. Products with a limited life span, such as radioactive substances or perishable foods, could now be stored indefinitely inside little silver spheres. Precious mementos could be kept safe without degrading. The dream of cryogenics, to preserve the infirm until a cure for their condition could be developed, finally became a reality. A properly timed activation could even save people's lives from impending violent accidents. It was perfect for storing skips, especially dangerous ones. If an omnicidal indestructible lizard has no walls in its cage then it can't break them down, and if no time passed a self upgrading sentient CD couldn't increase its capacity.</p> <p>Things went well for what seemed like forever. It took us a while to realize our error. It turns out that the dangers of some of that technology were what got 163 exiled in the first place. The system was perfectly physically and mathematically sound, of course. That was part of the problem. As we continued making our lives better on our own little speck of dust, the grand equation that is the universe began balancing itself out elsewhere. By the time we realized what was happening, we had already begun the chain of cosmic events that would end and restart the universe, crunch-bang. We tried to fix it, but that just made things more convoluted.</p> <p>And so, here we sit, waiting for the big reset in a couple of hours. Most of us have just given up. Some are rioting. A few are still trying to fix it. As for me, I might as well finish these last few bottles.</p> <hr/> <p>Man, Steve gets really weird when he's drunk. Guess that would have been an okay way to go, though.</p> <p>It took us a while to come up with, but the answer seemed obvious once we did. <a href="/scp-1915">SCP-1915</a>. What if we were to plug his signal into a Scranton RA as the baseline. We had to make some minor modifications to the template, of course; allow for minor alterations so as to allow for progress, make it take input from the whole of humanity, check and double check to make sure there were no anomalies, leave a few loyal personnel with their memories intact in order to to reverse the process if things went awry, and every other contingency we could think of.</p> <p>We flipped the switch, and sent out our new reality to the universe.</p> <p>In an instant, all of reality was determined by what humanity deemed "normal." Everyone went about their normal lives, then came home to their normal families. They lived in a normal, rational world where no one ever had to worry about space aliens or demons or monsters. A normal world without need of the Foundation, GOC, or clockwork deity. All was normal.</p> <p>As it turns out, normal did not mean peace. For instance, it is normal for wars to occur. They are normal occurrences in humanity's way of life. It was normal for governments to argue over overlapping territorial claims. It was normal for governments to oppress their minorities. It was normal to invade a country that threats one's national interest. It was also normal to respond in kind when your country's nuclear defence system "detected" enemy missiles, whether it's real or not.</p> <p>And where was the Foundation in all this? Most of its employees have moved on, since there was no reason for the Foundation to exist in a normal world. There were still a few personnel who remembered that anomalous world of the past, but they saw their friends and colleagues embracing the light of the normal world. It was perfectly normal of those few to envy the many who could enjoy normal lives, more so when these loyal men and women left their posts to join their comrades in this normal world.</p> <p>Coincidentally, when mushroom clouds filled the entire Northern Hemisphere, there was no one to reverse anything. All was normal indeed, for a post-apocalyptic nuclear wasteland.</p> <hr/> <p>And Jr. Researcher Hu Zhi completed the last item for his latest column: <em>20 Ways to End the World without Application of Anomalous Objects</em>. That was a depressing piece of fiction, but he needed to get back to that research proposal about <a href="/scp-2076">SCP-2076</a>.</p> <p>If it can make people think that shooting themselves will heighten bullet resistance, surely it has infinite applications like:</p> <blockquote> <p>Do you know? Using Wondertainment products will halve one's lifespan!</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Live and forget. There was no Zeppelin flying about.</p> </blockquote> <p>It'll work out; society's so driven by media that hardly any human lived their lives without browsing some manner of media. If we work this out, containment and amnestics will be easier than ever before.</p> <p>All I need is a memetist to dig out the mechanics of SCP-2076… Hey, Sanders could help me.</p> <p>After the Foundation's stealthy takeover of media outlets across the globe, Hu and Sander's joint proposal was a reality. Hidden in posters, billboards, transmission signals and the like, everyone played a role in containing anomalies. The people of the world were our eyes and ears; they reported any anomalies sighted and the Foundation bagged them. There were no more uncooperative D-class; they were only too happy to serve their species as test subjects.</p> <p>Heck, even GoIs have submitted to the Foundation. The Chaos Insurgency and ORIA have merged with the Foundation. The Church of the Broken God had turned in its "relics". The Wanderer's Library was opened up by now-remorseful Serpent's Hand members. Even GOC had folded and become our cannon fodder for things like 682 and 076-2.</p> <p>Peace reigns on Earth and over humanity, unified around its Foundation.</p> <p>For a while.</p> <p>What we forgot is that memes are infectious ideas. Just like biological viruses, they mutate in the wild and can appear out of nowhere. And our little brainwashing project was one giant infection vector. After that, there weren't enough sane people left to matter.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr Vauge closed <a href="/scp-152">SCP-152</a> gently. All the more reason to be extra careful about his project.</p> <p>See, the <a href="/olympia-project">olympia-project</a> might have been shut down, but all the R&D had already been done. The Professor had made a human (arguably) that could survive a world filled with anomalies not by locking them up, but by meeting them head on and powering through.</p> <p>If you took the template of such a human, mixed it with <a href="/scp-742">SCP-742</a>, <a href="/scp-217">SCP-217</a> and a few other virus-type SCPs, you could manufacture an illness that would give all the infected the strength of Olympus.</p> <p>Why worry about war when everyone was bulletproof?</p> <p>Why worry about food when sunlight was all anyone needed?</p> <p>Why worry about infections when infections both biological and memetic were a non-issue?</p> <p>Why worry about educational disadvantages when everyone had supercomputers for brains?</p> <p>It was a great "Screw-you" to the anomalous - a fantastic cry of "We can take you!"</p> <p>However, we were the ones who were really screwed. You see, viruses change. Over time, strains of it emerged that drove the infected insane, but continued to grant them superhuman strength, speed, agility, toughness, and intelligence. Ultimately, this was subdued by the Foundation, with the help of the "good" infected. These became heroes, the best scientists, doctors, and agents the Foundation could find. It seemed that while the imagined utopia had not been achieved, the world was still a better place because of it.</p> <p>But even as the world recovered, its wounds festered.</p> <p>The ones we trusted were no better than the monsters they fought. As their influence grew, their numbers increased. Even though the O5s had refused (and for good reason), even they were eventually replaced by Homo Superior. Once this was achieved, their true colors were revealed. We were annihilated, and the remainder of us reduced to slaves, lobotomized to remove our disobedient natures. This island where you grew up is the last stronghold of our kind in a now hostile world. But now the walls are coming down.</p> <p>If there is a God in Heaven, let him have mercy. Not on us, we have well-earned the fate that awaits us. Have mercy on these children, who will never know the taste of unfiltered air or the feel of the sunlight on their skin. Don't let their blood mar these sands.</p> <hr/> <p>"As if that shit could ever happen." I tossed the book back on the table. "The Olympia Project was shut down a long time ago," I said to no one in particular. Then I heard the alarm.</p> <p>What do you mean you don't need details? That's exactly what I was told to give you when I walked in. Anyway, that's when <a href="/scp-682">SCP-682</a> burst into my office, before being destroyed by an MTF rocket launcher. It took a moment for my brain to register that the Dragon was really dead. 682, the unkillable, was dead! However, I'd been splattered with the stuff. They tossed me in quarantine. When they conducted their tests, they discovered I had acquired the shapeshifting powers by absorbing some of its tissue, and I was secreting the fluid myself!</p> <p>They found that by essentially farming people, they could give the adaptive ability of 682 to humans. They slowly inoculated rats in the sewer system, filling the world's water supplies with the stuff. Now humans were immortal. Hadn't we always been the adaptive race? Now our apotheosis was complete.</p> <p>But we did not know then why 682's abilities failed so suddenly, you see the source of the seemingly endless mass and energy that always supplied 682 was just that, <em>Seemingly</em> endless. Before being captured 682 had always been careful to only skim off the top and thus could pull immense quantities in emergencies. A variety of creative unpleasantness then years of bathing in hydrochloric acid drained enough that 682 just couldn't regenerate fast enough to counter sudden damage like a bomb. What 682 had left lasted just long enough for us to become totally dependant. Society reacted to the loss much like a train reacts to a lack of tracks. Transatlantic commuters felt their jets shut down/wings feel heavy/ect., professional batteries were unable to keep up with demand and the electric grid failed almost completely. Few people bothered even to keep a digestive system with predictable results.</p> <p>Even for those who did and those who had enough spare biomass to cobble one together food had become a novelty item a long time ago with farmland covered with housing. Scavenging and fat stores lasted 24 hours and two meals. What constitutes food began to change over time from traditional foods to grass, trees and shrubbery… Herbivorism could only go so far for so many people. Fights broke out almost immediately when the survivors realised what was happening but it took time to spread, plans to make self sustaining farming communities were thwarted by the sheer number of people in the world, they were still founded but over time these places started turning away more people, becoming steadily more militaristic and many just disappear over time</p> <p>…to wild animals… Fields of grass became worth so, so much more than gold ever was and the battle over the ever dwindling biomass could only not be called a world war because that implies that the participants could be called sides and not tribes. It started out rather traditionally with mortars, huge chitinously armored quadrupedal people, fire and plagues. Then developed over time to the sort of interesting tactics that that interesting blend of intelligence, idiosy, knowledge of physics and engineering, biotechnology, stupidity, creativity and sheer evil that 682 first hated and that render miles of area uninhabitable, radioactive, poisonous, non breathable, molten, actively malevolent and in extreme cases non euclidean</p> <p>…to other people… And how were the Foundation doing through all this? Fairly well actually, cake farming became a respectable profession, getting them all eaten was a non issue, infact keeping some errant level 1s away for long enough for them to multiply was a bigger issue (You can get very inventive and short sighted if you have not eaten for 8 days and can spit acid.). Most skips were destroyed, put in other dimensions, eaten, thrown at irritating people or ignored, for the the rest the foundation continued remarkably similarly to normal normal despite them not so much running the containment sites as being them. How the situation went from there can be best summarized as the fact that around a decade later The Flesh That Hates disappeared quietly when someone beat it at it's own game.</p> <p>In any case I am in the light sail ship TFS (The Foundations Ship) 50 shades of red on it's impractically slow journey to mars, they thought that since there was no need for life support or food it could be practical to launch a mission to mars. Even converting the entire solar sail to chlorophyll and only keeping enough power to operate higher brain functions there will be problems eventually, I have learnt this through modifying the long range sensors to look back at earth and that many people now speak in radio, I occasionally mediate as a neutral 3rd party to the foundation. May this probe find any passing ETs well and hope they leave before that changes. The launch of this probe may serve as a maneuvering thrust that may just get me to my destination within a quarter century.</p> <hr/> <p>So that's what passes for sci-fi in the foundation, crazy shit, I mean blowing up 682 with a RPG? How do they come up with this stuff. "Hey steve, I got this neat idea for an antimatter reactor, and alien pod they have on the moon is made of the stuff, what was it… <a href="/scp-2226">SCP-2226</a>, that's it" "But wouldn't that be unethical?" "HAHAHAHAHAAaaaa, I needed that, but seriously."</p> <p>The idea passed overseer approval then was sent to the moon base. 14 months later the modifications were made and machines set up. A carefully shaped molecule was launched at the antimatter hull at a precise velocity, the molecule annihilates and chips off a tiny chip of the hull into a smaller magnetic bottle attached to the primary. It is transported on rails slowly to the new antimatter reactor nearby where it is used to make a considerable amount of energy, then it is done again and again and then the moon base has as much power as it needs. Mining, mass production, fuel synthesis and multilayered hydroponics all can be done easily when you have power. Years pass and the moon base can be legitimately called a city.</p> <p>So, We kept chipping away at this thing. Eventually we got to the cpu. Apparently breaking the computer fixed it, One of the higher ups said it was like a reset, I don't know. Atleast this removing the life sentence ting keeps me away from all of it.</p> <blockquote> <p>Status:Escape pod computer:restored.<br/> Main computational research station:detonated.<br/> Scanning: (1) inferior part of ion detected. Status: Inside stasis chamber.<br/> Life form destroyed.<br/> External scan activated.<br/> <strong>Critically hight amounts of the god ion detected!</strong> (Type:human.)<br/> Repairing biological corruption.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>The Foundation decided to get rid of all the GoIs, leading to a lot of deaths. Guess the UIU was important. Can't say I didn't like it when the Factory went down. I'm the last one left. They tried to come at me, so I left that universe. With all my toys.</p> <p>They'll see how important my whimsy is.</p> <hr/> <p>The following text is a limited description of some of the recent events that I believe that you will consider important, that is, events in the last six standard years, plus or minus two months with 0.999 confidence. I believe you will consider them important because if I were you, that is, if I had your experiences and was in your situation, I would consider them to be significant to my determination/decision process of what actions to take next to ensure my continued safety and happiness. The aforementioned text, which follows, may have relatively minor inaccuracies due to it being shortened for the purpose of brevity, because I believe that people will not want to read too much text. Some of the following aforementioned text is summarized, for the purpose described in the sentence prior to this one, assuming that you are reading these words in the standard fashion for the English alphabet (an assumption which is used throughout the following text). Some general and/or imprecise words and phrases are imprecisely defined or are not defined in the aforementioned text, for the purpose described in the sentence two sentences before this one.</p> <p>The specific event or events which directly caused the containment failure of that which was known as <a href="/scp-1082">SCP-1082</a>, are not known to me. Due to the lack of currently available information about that time and place, I believe the probability that I will never know what those events were, or any other information which I would consider relevant or interesting about them, to be more than 0.8. The fact which I consider much more important is that a containment failure occurred.</p> <p>In the period of time beginning immediately after the aforementioned containment failure and ending approximately 200 standard days later, there was considerable social and political turmoil. The meaning of "social and political turmoil" is several events which I will list. Firstly, large groups of people (defined as between one thousand and one hundred thousand) gathered in public places to express their anger at the actions and/or beliefs (these are not specified in order to increase brevity, for the reason described in the first paragraph above) of other persons whose existence and behavior were widely known (generally referred to as "politicians" and "celebrities"); at some of these gatherings, the people who had gathered, police forces, and other people attempted to cause bodily harm to other people and to objects considered to be valuable. Secondly, at least ten times as many people as were arrested on an average day before the aforementioned containment failure, were arrested on an average day during the period described at the beginning of this paragraph. The cause of this appeared to be that they could not conceal their previous crimes. Thirdly, at least twenty times as many divorce lawsuits were filed (that is, papers with written requests that judges grant divorces were submitted to those judges) as were filed on an average day before the aforementioned containment failure, were filed on an average day during the period described at the beginning of this paragraph. The cause of this appeared to be that many people who were married could not conceal from the people they had married that they had obtained sexual pleasure from those they had not married, while married, or that they could not conceal that they disliked being in the presence of the people they had married. As a result of the second and third items, judges and other legal officials could not perform the tasks which the law stated that they should do in as little time as they had done them before the aforementioned containment failure. Fourthly, many leaders of governments, corporations, and other organizations (the definition of an "organization" that is found in the English dictionary which I currently own is used in this text) left their leadership positions after more accurate knowledge of the actions and beliefs of those leaders became available to citizens and/or members.</p> <p>In the period of time beginning approximately 200 standard days after the aforementioned containment failure and ending approximately 1400 days after the aforementioned containment failure, I believe that the average level of happiness among the human population was much greater than it had been before the aformentioned containment failure; I cannot write how much greater it was because there is no quantitative measure of happiness. Approximately 4.38 million (plus or minus approximately 1.57 million with 0.90 confidence) people who had killed other people in situations other than self-defense or authorized warfare, taken items considered valuable from other people without their consent, forced other people to engage in sexual activity which they did not want to perform, and violated other laws and norms in their respective places of residence in other ways were punished for having done these things. The number of people who did the things described in the last sentence during this period, was less than one-one-hundreth the number who had done them in an average equal time period before the aforementioned containment failure. Because it was impossible for people to deceive, the processes of finding temporary or permanent mates, choosing leaders and government policies (such as, but not limited to, levels and structure of taxation and the regulation of potentially harmful substances that are voluntarily (commonly known as "drugs") or involuntarily (commonly known as "pollution") ingested), and carrying out mutually beneficial exchanges were significantly more rapid, and significantly more effecacious in producing desirable outcomes (the degrees of the increased rapidity and effecaciousness cannot be quantified). There were other results beneficial to humans and other life on this planet, which I will not describe to increase brevity, for the reason written above. However, the average degree of precision/accuracy of statements which people feel that they must use, in order to communicate (the definition of "communicate" that is found in the English dictionary which I currently own is used in this text), gradually increased during this time.</p> <p>Since approximately 1400 days after the aforementioned containment failure, the number of words required for statements people speak or write to be accurate has been sufficiently large to delay other activities, because of the time taken to say, write, and/or read those words, enough to cause negative consequences such as untimely death, bodily injuries, and containment breaches and failures. As you probably (approximately 0.987) know from the way I have written this text, I have experienced this process in my own communication activities. However, because I can get chemicals that cause me to not remember previous events, the severity of this process is significantly less (how much so cannot be quantified easily) for me, than for the average person. I know that some people forget what they were attempting to state while making a statement. The average number of airplanes in flight over the United States of America at a given time is less than one-tenth the number it was before the aforementioned containment breach because it is impossible for air traffic controllers (people who are paid to provide flight instructions to airplane pilots so as to prevent aircraft from colliding) to provide necessary information to prevent airplane collisions to pilots sufficiently rapidly. A similar phenomenon has occurred at commercial buildings, causing lines/queues of people which I would consider excessively long, to purchase or otherwise obtain food and other goods or services necessary for continued survival. What is generally known as "casual conversation" occurs much less frequently than was the case before the aforementioned containment failure, because it requires so much time as to prohibit engaging in other desirable activities (these activities vary among persons, and a full listing is omitted for brevity). I believe that the benefits described in the previous paragraph have been more than totally negated/cancelled out by the effects of being unable to discuss personal preferences (exemplified by, but not limited to, one's preferred foods, artistic works, and leisure activities), to debate governmental policies (such as the ones described in the previous paragraph), or to cooperate to evaluate and solve what people believe are problems, as quickly as was the case before the aforementioned containment failure. It is likely that the phenomena described in this paragraph will continue to become what I believe is worse.</p> <hr/> <p>Have you ever heard the universe scream? Some claim it to be the sounds of millions of various objects breaking apart. Others say it's the sounds of a singularity pulling everything into itself. And then there are those who say its the sound of knowing what you are. What existence actually is.</p> <p>The truth is that the sound of the universe screaming is a digital alarm clock.</p> <p>So just how the hell did we go from trying to reproduce a cure for everything that lead to humanity's downfall by disintegration to a massive containment breach of a book that ensures you can't lie? Well, it's simple.</p> <p>We are prone to self-destruction.</p> <p>We have well over 5000 anomalies contained. We needed space to move them. We needed to get rid of some. But we also needed to ensure they would not harm anyone if they were destroyed.</p> <p>So someone decided to throw dozens of overviewed and approved safe classes into a reinforced rocket ship and blasted it off into space. All the approved met the criteria of the following:</p> <ul> <li>Not being able to move or cause movement</li> <li>Not able to warp reality more than at least 5 levels of Humes above or below the base level by itself</li> <li>Held no important information</li> <li>It was not sentient (With two exceptions)</li> <li>If it ever went off, would not be able to affect the earth and/or humanity.</li> </ul> <p>So there. What could possibly go wrong? Well, a lot actually. But not what we thought.<br/> We thought the insult box would reveal a god-like entity from within. We thought the pesterbot would find a way out and cause much more trouble than everything was worth. We thought an alien race would retrieve the star signals book. We thought that the tomato plant would become a meteor gun.<br/> What none of us thought was that an alarm clock would kill us all.</p> <p>We launched them one day, all in a single, reinforced, faster-than-light rocket. It worked. For five months we believed we had successfully got rid of a few useless safe items that we couldn't learn from anymore. That's where we were wrong.</p> <p>Soon, a massive fleet of ships and vessels, each varying in size and appearance began to pass by the earth, all in a hurry. The news spread wildly. We could barely contain it. Following this, massive entities also began to pass, but this time we could see them. They were afraid. Soon enough, massive containment breaches began to occur, 12 at least resulting in a broken masquerade. But every anomaly capable of movement and thought that breached began to run. They all ran to the arctic. We soon discovered why.</p> <p>The dozen anomalies that breached began to build shelters or ships to protect themselves, all of them screaming in fear. We were shocked. Several who seemed to be incapable of logical thought and instinct were trying to aid others in building a shelter and ships, all to carry them elsewhere, some other thought to be rational now killing others for supplies.</p> <p>Soon, we found from several other groups why this was happening, and why it was connected. The universe was screaming. It was screaming loudly. Everything was running from the screams. That's what all personnel off of the earth and several GOIs and SCPs associated with outerspace told us. We believed them when we found that hundreds of other extraterrestrial SCPs had fled with the other space entities. We were all in shock and awe. How was this happening?</p> <p>To be fair, we forgot about the launch, while some of us were unaware of the launch. We should have remembered. Soon the earth began to be witness to a stage event. All over the world, a very faint sound of an alarm clock could be heard.<br/> Using several anomalies, we found what was causing it all to happen. <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-498" target="_blank">SCP-489.</a> To be honest, we never thought about it as much. We just thought it would have been beeping in space for all eternity and then would have finally been destroyed in a black hole or something with everything else. We never thought it would reach this level of intensity. We soon called everyone. Not just in the foundation, but everyone else, friend, and foe. Soon a plan was made to save us all. Everyone would be evacuated to another world. It was the only plan we could think up because it was at this time the alarm began to be heard by everyone, as a normal alarm clock would sound on a bedside. So we all began to work on a portal. I should also mention it was around this time everyone with an object that could classify as a thaumiel SCP agreed when we found that they would never work to save us. The alarm was already on the other side of the known universe.</p> <p>It failed. By the time the portal was ready, it collapsed over the sheer intensity of the noise, not even being able to open its first maiden voyage to a new world. No one was safe. Everyone heard it, and every one of us agreed it was the screams of an angry universe. We all saw that too late. We found that this was why all of the SCPs still on earth were trying to save themselves by building shelters and ships had either killed themselves or had become inert after they realized it was pointless to try. This is why the mekhanites and sarkics joined forces. Why MC&D began to donate all of their wealth to the manna charitable foundation. Why so many groups of interest just gave up. Why everyone gave up on saving ourselves. This told us so much and yet so little. And soon we accepted our death.</p> <p>The three moons shattered. The fifth world was no more. The second hytoth was at an end. Soon the earth and everything on it was gone. Except for me. I had realized a pattern in the alarms, so I put all of my efforts into figuring it out before I died. Using <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-5000" target="_blank">SCP-5000</a> I was able to find that each ring of the alarm held a strange frequency band of sorts. I was able to tamper with it and found it was actually a message. I found the message was very unnerving. It said Lock? over and over again and again.</p> <p>Now I am here. Just looking at what was left. Me in the suit and the alarm clock. I looked out and saw nothing else. A perfect nothingness. The alarm rang so loud it shattered the universe itself. So why was I here? Why was I the only one spared? It turns out I was spared because I knew that this was not the first or last time this would happen.</p> <p>I lied when I said it was just me and the clock. The trench was the only place left. For some reason, whenever the universe comes to an end, the trench will be the last thing to go. I found this out when I found hundreds of documents scattered. All of them holding the information you see above. We tried to use the SCPs to benefit the world, but in doing so we ended the world. We did this all the time. But from what I found we were able to stop the end of the world for at least three quarters of a year. So why do we destroy ourselves? why is it that whenever we want to do good, no matter how smart or dumb, we always end up like this? It's because that's what this universe was made to do. We were a test. We are an experiment and anomalies our variables, independent and nonindependent.</p> <p>I write my madness down, for I do not know what is right anymore. Maybe this wasn't how it happened at all. What I do know is that I would like to promote myself to the rank of Grand Archivest. I had seen hundreds of texts and articles and tales in the trench. Some do not belong to this universe. I want to become the one who will keep the accounts written in these documents alive. I am the Archivest and I will keep the fallen alive. Perhaps that's why I snuck the alarm on the ship. Oh well. At least I get to face my mistakes. So if you find this, just know I was sick of pushing that button and just wanted to be able to do more. So here I am; a former Disposable-Class brought from a depression clinic now preserver of a lost set of tales.</p> <p>"So, what did your incarnation do to fuck up your world?" That's the question asked when Bright first realized what happened when his plan to use Panacea to help everyone went wrong, and now it's my question when I got tired of pushing a button because a robot arm kept on jamming for a whole week. Ironic. I just took a pill when writing this, and when I got the idea for doing what I did. Maybe that's how it all works. Oh well.</p> <p>I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when the next experiment starts. I have a lot of work to do.</p> <p>Oh, and tell Jack Bright I said Hi.<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="/visionsofabetterworld">Visions of a Better World</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/visionsofabetterworld">https://scpwiki.com/visionsofabetterworld</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]] [[/>]] It was such a simple idea, really. Barely a daydream, and yet... The proper forms were filed, the proper investigations taken, and, finally, everything approved. A single instance of [[[SCP-500]]] was fed through [[[SCP-786]]]. And then, fed through a second time. Then, the pill now being too large to once more fit through the funnel, a chunk was removed, and the test was repeated, for quite some time, resulting in a near infinite supply of SCP-500. The pills were crushed, powdered very fine... and then introduced into the world's water supply. Virtually over night, all diseases were cured. Behold, a better world. ...Or so they had thought. Alas, it was not meant to be. [[[SCP-500]]] was successfully re-purposed to cure all the world's ills, but what we failed to realize was that one Ill plagued the planet more than any other: Man. One by one men died inexplicably, their bodies decomposing instantly into dust so their corpses would not mar the landscape. The survivors either died of dehydration, or committed suicide right then and there, knowing that no hope remained. In time, the waters tainted by the pill washed away all of man's creation, leaving only pristine, untainted wildlife. A healthy world in all respects, but one without humans to enjoy it. I alone sit at this table, recording the last words of a dead species. My last words finished, I pick up the gun and... ----- ...Wake up. If only the world had gone out that way; so simple and so peaceful. Instead we tampered with forces we could not understand. It was such a simple idea, really. Barely a day dream, and yet... The proper forms were filed, the proper investigations taken, and, finally, everything approved. Using [[[SCP-289]]] and a carefully timed set of scales and counterweights, engines and pulleys, we constructed a perpetual motion machine of such enormous scale that the entire world would be able to have unlimited free power forever. I can't tell you how we did it... hell, I don't even remember all the details. But I remember that day clearly, the day they first added SCP-289 to the device. "Nothing can go wrong" they told me. The naive fools... The GOC warned us, then they attacked, but we fought them off and then wiped them out. They were the heroes and we, the bad guys, won. The entire disaster was a product of carelessness, but hell, we were cross-testing left and right and it really doesn’t get more careless than that. The World Engine was a giant fucking machine, and not just any conventional giant fucking machine. Not a single drop of petroleum or a single ampere of electrical current ran through the World Engine. Inertia had been shattered into bits; everything was kinetic, except for a couple cubed miles of water keeping the whole operation cooled down. It was, in a word, old-school. It was their style. It was just one SCP. No big deal. In the old days the higher-ups would have been scared shitless, but we were invincible now. We lost track of a pile of rusty, salt-encrusted gears. No big deal. Seventy-two hours later, witnesses reported steam bursting from the coolant tanks of the World Engine. Thirty minutes after that, we recorded the first heartbeats of the World Engine. ----- Desperate times called for desperate measures. Psychics were running amok and sooner or later, probably sooner, the public would notice. We had found Prometheus Labs, found them and their recipes and their diagrams and reverse-engineered their crown jewel—[[[SCP-148]]], Telekill. Mass production began on March 25th. Come Fall the mist of Telekill descended upon the globe; tiny flakes of the metal, invisible to the human eye and completely harmless and unnoticeable when ingested or inhaled, but a death sentence to psychics and telepaths. By winter, just about everything with a brain larger than a walnut was dead. Telekill did its job perfectly, but every human, maybe every sentient being, has a very limited capacity for psionics. For almost all of us, it's barely there - those little flashes of what the other guy is thinking or the location of something when you couldn't possibly know that. Petty occurrences, easily dismissed as coincidence or luck. Occasionally someone gets an extra-large helping, but everyone gets some of it. The dust didn't bother with degree. If you had even the slightest trace of ability, that made you first a target and then a victim. There are maybe a few thousand left. Those of us who managed to isolate our air and water supplies from the dust. But we can't leave, can't resupply and won't survive. Civilization, gone in an eye- ----- -blink. Must have dozed off. Understandable, we've all been going for 2 days or more to finish this. It's a small change. Nothing serious, nothing wildly risky. Just some - alright, several million with the current breeding programme - pet kittens to get people in key positions a little more relaxed. Hopefully, after everyone's spent a few days d'awwing over the nearest [[[SCP-2558-J]]] things will be...calmer. Quieter. Friendlier. And then, behold: a better world. Well... that's what they thought. See, here's the thing about those deadly little balls of fluff: they don't like sudden noises. We introduced them into the world, and of course, what do parents do? They give them to their children. Children are alright, I guess. Except that they can be loud. I remember when it started. Two of the things had been brought to a home, and the children got so excited. But then they started to fight, and the little puffballs... puffed up. The resulting puffage caused the children (and their parents) to shriek and scream, which caused their neighbors (also proud owners of the things) to slam open their doors and ask, "What?!" This, of course, caused MORE puffsplosions, and before you knew it, with a shriek or a telephone ringing or anything like that, the world was FILLED with puffballs. The worst part had to be that no one cared. The world was being drowned in puffballs. No one could breathe, or see, or anything. They just sat there and said 'Dawwwww...' They cooed over these things as they wiped out about half of humanity. The rest of us, though? We're down here, away from those things. Every now and then, when we run the tap, we get a puffball. It's simply unimaginable... and it feels like any second now we'll just... ------ 239. It's perfect. She can change reality, right? Make things better? And we can control her. So, that's what we'll do, control her. Feed her a carefully crafted story, about how all the world's governments decided to get together, and make the world a better place. And, fucked me if it didn't work! A world with no pollution, no war, and, even better, everyone can do magic! Unfortunately, the one crippling flaw of this system, like so many others, was that it was dependent on a simple human being, who was susceptible to so many human flaws like emotion, temptation, greed, fear, and outright neglect. Putting 239 in power was like handing the world to every crackpot power hungry dictator that ever existed. The world and reality itself bent and warped to the whims of a prepubescent girl with no preconceptions of how the world has or should work. Her handlers foolishly thought that they had her under control, carefully feeding her the information only they wanted her to know. Little did they know that they were already under her spell, trapped within their own delusions. The world soon became 239's sandbox, and like any child in a sandbox, she experimented. Continents were torn asunder, plagues of stuffed (and in some cases real) animals fell from the sky, and the planet kept shuffling from having one moon to six. 239 cared not for the suffering and deaths of countless people during these upheavals. She was never taught to comprehend the plight of people she knew nothing about. But like all humans, 239 eventually became bored with meddling with Earth's affairs. There had to be something better to do. Then she looked up at the sky. She had done that many times before, but this time was different. Something deep and primeval stirred within her mind, another aspect of humanity that made her the most dangerous being of all. Curiosity. And the stars themselves shall tremble... ------ War. War was everywhere and inevitable. From wars between countries right down to arguments in the street, conflict was simply considered a part of human nature, as natural to the species as eating and sleeping. But what if there was a way to change that? To eliminate war and conflict from the equation altogether? Through aggressive breeding and cloning programs, huge flocks of [[[SCP-514]]] were manufactured. Enough flocks to cover the world in their miraculous aura. Things started off slow at first. After all, the birds needed time to properly disperse and cover ground. But slowly and surely, reports of their activity began trickling, and then flooding, in. Overnight, entire military bases and armies would disappear in a matter of seconds. Armories and weapon caches would suddenly be stocked with broken weaponry, and people who were once mortal enemies embraced each other with open arms. With no weapons and no aggression, the world finally knew true peace. At least for a time. Too bad it didn't work on the things which needed it most. The old man, the Lizard, Able, the red pool... nothing could stop them. The pool was still angry. It knew it was free to attack. It spawned countless creations of fire, claws, poisons... They broke out within seconds. The Americas were turned into hellholes in a week. Then Able got free. Countless Keter objects made it out. After three days from his escape, nothing was left. [[[SCP-514]]] turned the world to dust. Those of us who survived used less than friendly SCP's and objects. Many of our staff are lacking in //something// from begging the desk for help, and others are mutated and altered to the point where death looks like a better option in hindsight. At least humanity has a remote chance of survival, even if it's all for naught. ---- Clockwork. Simple? Check. Compatible? Check. Perfect? No. We realized that the hard way. It was just months after we released the Clockwork Virus upon the world in order to rid the less than useful problems of transplants and the complexities of biology. Nothing would be more simple for humanity if everyone could understand brain surgery, and a tree could be remade to be a leg, right? And it was simple. So simple. So mind-numbingly simple and perfect. But that's the point, it was mind-numbing. There were no emotions, no ingenuity, no curiosity. And as one machine we decided life had no point, there was nothing to strive for. And we died. ---- Or that was what the test group wrote to us before they killed themselves. Poor fellows. But there was something that did have a successful test group. We were on the brink of war, and it seems the human race would destroy itself. That was when administration made a decision to release [[[SCP-444]]] upon the world. ...It worked beautifully at first. Entire armies slowly transformed into peaceful communities, first led by pacifists, then by carefully selected Foundation agents. We steered the world towards a perfect state, without conflict of any kind. We learned to adapt to a purely vegetarian lifestyle, as farmhands grew steadily unable to summon the aggression to kill livestock. We grew used to the restriction of medical procedures, as physicians became unable to cut or suture and pharmaceutical animal testing ended. We grew used to the unceasing baby boom of 5 and 7 and 10 and 15 children per family. But then things came to a head as finally, there were no more leaders, no more uninfected agents, no more unconcerned O5s. And then we grew used to the televised images of mass starvations not just in undeveloped, forgotten countries, but in Japan and France and Norway and America. And then we grew used to ourselves searching for that last bag of sugar, that last pot of rice, that last can of peas. And then we grew used to chewing grass and twigs into a paste for the silent children. And then we died, weak and hungry. And then the babies wept, still silent, as their limbs shriveled and their bellies swelled. And then the babies died, with no one to care for them or mourn them. ----- The decision was made. Foundation researchers finally received permission to conduct a large-scale system of exposure to [[[SCP-028]]]. Dozens of people would be sent through the empty storage yard every day and thoroughly interviewed and, if need be, interrogated to determine what they had learned. Every scrap of information would be recorded, analyzed and, if deemed sufficiently valuable, released to the general public. The first month alone resulted in designs for a cold-fusion plant that could power a city the size of London indefinitely, the composition of a fertilizer that would break down harmlessly in seawater and the name of the designer of [[[SCP-914]]]. The Foundation, through its numerous fronts, was rapidly able to improve the quality of life of almost every human on Earth, providing the world with the technologies and knowledge it needed to become a better place. Then James Harrison Reuben walked through the yard. James Harrison Reuben was a cable repairman from Topeka, Kansas. A blue-collar worker in a simple, menial job. A perfect receptacle for knowledge. We sent him in with visions of new advancements and beautiful new technologies dancing through our heads. He came out with the knowledge of how to conquer the world. It's been seven years since then. His armies and death squads march through the streets of every city in the world. Every battle is a devastating victory: how can it be otherwise, when he has perfect knowledge of all our battle plans before they even happen? It is only a matter of time before he overruns our final stronghold. I'm sending this message out through our wide-band radio transmitter on the off chance that someone will get this message. I'm doing this because the last transmission of our intelligence operatives, before they went dark, shows that Reuben is building space ships. Hundreds of them, lined up in ranks stretching across the Florida coastline. But I can't shake the feeling that maybe this is all part of his plan as well. . . ----- "Why didn't anyone think of it before!?" they said. "It's the perfect solution!" they exclaimed. "We'll just shoot [[[SCP-231]]] into SPACE!" So we did! Loaded her up onto a booster rocket for a "communications" satellite and shot her straight towards the sun, wiped off our hands, and congratulated each other on a job well done. Now we don't need to live with the knowledge that brutal and horrible things are being done to a little girl every day! Um. . . yeah. All it took was a single incorrectly fixed plate on the rocket. The whole thing blew up in the atmosphere, releasing a monstrosity outside the foundation's range of control. The damn thing survived the fall, ravaging its way across the planet, killing everything in its path. We weaponized everything we could, sent everything at it, but we couldn't stop it. Now we have no choice but to try and evacuate everything in its path, to hope we can stop it before it wipes out what remains of humanity. ---- [[[SCP-343]]]- he's perfect right? The one true god, worshiped by all religions. All we had to do was ask Him to appear to the world. Grant a few miracles, talk to the religious leaders of the planet. Before you know it, all religious war, gone. People have no reason to kill each other over differences, now that everyone believes in the same faith. And He can provide scarce resources, like food and oil. All war gone, all of civilization is now free to focus on advancement, to work towards a golden age of humanity. But then He started coming for us. He promoted himself very quickly to O7, a position that He invented. And He had no idea how most of the SCP items worked. He wasn't familiar with the SCP items, He didn't create them, and He couldn't comprehend them. He gave up on trying to contain them, and instead decided to exert His control over the humans, who He did create. He cancelled containment procedures on any SCP item that required moral ambiguity to keep locked up - and, because of the interlocked structure of the Foundation, that amounted to everything. Everything's loose now and we might as well already be dead. ---- So we decided to use [[[SCP-184]]] to increase our storage space. We wouldn't keep it in any given room for too long, so we wouldn't wind up with the labyrinthine nightmares that were initially its signature. We'd just leave it there long enough that each room was somewhat larger on the inside than on the outside, so we could fit more supplies in the same area. It worked great. The Foundation was running more smoothly than ever, and the effort we'd previously spent on securing more land to build Sites at could now be put into more important tasks, like neutralizing [[[SCP-682]]], or trying to find a cure for [[[SCP-217]]]. The world seemed closer to safety than ever before, but we hadn't quite thought things through with 184... We're not sure exactly what happened. We heard various stories; a containment breach at a bad time, an attack by the Insurgency, or just some poor fool dropping the damn thing. All we know is, 184 got damaged. Turns out, 184 has to be in one piece for its effect to work. With it damaged, everything it had modified began to 'shift', trying to revert to their original state. Rooms grew and shrank, hallways twisted and turned, and chaos erupted. We tried to fix it, to put it back together, but that just made things worse. Within a week, every single modified building had suffered total structural failure. With a failure of this magnitude, containment was impossible. Our cover was irrevocably blown, hundreds of dangerous SCPs were loose, and the world was furious. Almost overnight, fingers were pointed, blame was laid, and war erupted. Armies mobilized, missiles were launched, and civilization as we know it was destroyed. ---- As we continued to expand, so did our enemies. We faced stiff competition for control of SCP artifacts; the Serpent's Hand, the Church, the Chaos Insurgency... The O5s decided it was time to put a stop to this. Under their orders, we trained a small group of Agents. Agents who had proven themselves time and time again, whose loyalty to the Foundation was absolute and unshakeable. We equipped them with the best armor and weapons we had, used whatever SCPs we could to improve them. We ran hundreds of simulations, set up dozens of failsafes, and finally, we were confident we were ready. We gave them [[[SCP-668]]]. It worked beautifully. The Agents were unstoppable. Within a month, the Hand and the Church had been crushed. And it didn't stop there; MC&D, the Chaos Insurgency, the ORIA all fell within six months. The GOC attacked us when they learned what we were doing, and we slaughtered them as well. Our database swelled, with thousands of SCPs liberated from the corpses of our foes. Everything was under control, and nothing could stop us. Nothing. Somehow, don't ask me, SCP-668's effect changed ever so slightly. And now, nobody can run from us and I mean //nobody//. The whole world stood still while the last Agent to carry the knife went mad with loneliness, stabbing his way through towns and cities. He even got here. He looked right at me and put this goddamn knife in my hand. And then I stabbed him. I wander now, looking for something, anything. A reason to keep on walking. But the helpless, terrified people died of starvation long ago. There is nothing left to stab. Well, that's not quite true. There's me. ---- It wasn't an easy job, and probably not worth the trouble. The geniuses of the Foundation gathered and worked. It took months, but they managed to fundamentally alter [[[SCP-079]]]'s programming. We took away its unwillingness to cooperate with us. And then we put it to work. SCP-079's brilliant computer mind could contain these abominations better than a team of experts ever could. Containment breaches went to near zero. It was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that the only way any of the Skips could escape is if a human deliberately released them. So it did the only logical thing: it called for the destruction of mankind. Faster than you could say "I told you so!", it fired every nuclear missile we had into the atmosphere. Entire continents were irradiated in the course of a single night. ---- Hey guys, I've got a great idea! Let's strap a big gun to [[[SCP 682]]] and use it to fight the Chaos Insurgency! //WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG!?// And amazingly, //impossibly//, it actually WORKED! The one thing that had never been tried in all this time had been to try to work WITH 682 instead of trying to destroy it. The Chaos Insurgency fought back, triggering countless defenses and offenses that we had unknowingly been programing into 682 every time we tried to destroy it. It fought with us against our enemies for months, then years, until finally we were completely victorious. That's when 682 unleashed its adaptation against peace. ---- Friendly to everyone that talked to him. Good behavior. The perfect spy. We recruited [[[SCP-423]]] to seek out the world's secrets and bring them to us. All he wanted was to be acknowledged as an Agent of the Foundation instead of a thing for study. So, as a test, we sent him out to infiltrate a world government and return to us with specific plans we knew of. Just a test run... We got the information, all right. We also got Fred's new friend, "Tom". An hour later there were a hundred more. By the end of the day every book, every data file, and even the graffiti in the men's room toilets were nothing more then a collection of random names. After a hundred years I'm the only one left who remembers what a book looks like, guarding the last library in a cavern of rock miles beneath the rock. They send me their children, and I pretend to smile as they babble on about Fred and Jane and Bob and all the other names they see on the walls above. I keep them away from the books (they don't try to hurt me any more - that is my punishment), and try to teach them how to repair the generators and build the locks and raise crops (and isn't that a perfect irony?) Without the words only the Foundation knew how to be anything more then feral - and every year they send me fewer and fewer. In another hundred, there will only be me among my degraded brotherhood of man who remembers the Word. ---- Why the hell did we even hold on to [[[SCP-523]]]? Its one and only property was to make everything around it worse. The best possible thing we could do is send it far away. We gave it to an Agent and arranged for them to be picked up by the Chaos Insurgency. Every member was dead within a week. It was then acquired by the Office For The Reclamation of Islamic Artifacts. They died as well. We managed to engineer the object's passage to every rival organization of ours, and every time it worked beyond our wildest dreams. MC&D, the Church of the Broken God, all of them were brought to their knees. The item was making its rounds through the ranks of the Serpent's Hand and wreaking havoc when [[[SCP-616]]] opened. Not when it was supposed to either, the thing opened two hours before a scheduled flight while it was still on the runway, and I'll be damned if I know why. The containment team was already there, and they were able to hold it off for a bit...then something came out. We still don't know what the hell it is--all we know is that we lost all contact with Site [REDACTED] right afterwards. Then it started to move. Nothing we sent could stop it, and thousands went mad as they beheld...whatever it was. The panic started to set in around then. Personnel deserted their posts, ran back to their families. Containment for most of our other high-risk items failed over the course of the next day as more and more of our guards left. The world suddenly became aware of our masquerade, and of items like 173, 076, 682, and 008. We were overwhelmed, and that's when 523 kicked in. I don't know what the hell it did or how it did it. All I know is that we haven't been able to raise transmissions from Earth for weeks. The entire planet looks like it's covered with this giant cloud of dust and none of our gear can see through it. As far as we know, we're the last survivors of the human race, here on the Mare Imbrium. If it wasn't for 120, we'd be still on Earth with the rest. Our supplies have begun to run low and someone's going to have to return to Earth for more. Whether we like it or not, we have to find out what happened... ---- ...I've got to stop eating the cafeteria chili. God, that stuff gives me weird dreams. Anyhow, that gives me an idea. If we just do a bit more research on [[[SCP-120]]], we could create our own teleportation system. Say goodbye to expensive transportation and all that. We could almost completely eliminate fossil fuels! Bring food to famine-stricken countries with great ease! And there's absolutely nothing that could go wrong with this one, of course. Right? Except, it did. It turns out, we didn't really understand the inner workings of the SCP. Our best quantum physicists assured us they knew what they were doing, and soon we had a workable prototype. We had everything ready, a 1 pound weight to be teleported 5 miles south, nothing could possibly go wrong, Eh? We geared it up and then, poof, it was gone, with it, the entire US East Coast, down to the core. ---- What? Oh, I have some really morbid ideas, don't I? Anyways, we were working with [[[SCP-914]]] and realized, after putting a microwave, a small boiler, a blender, and some gears into it on 'Very Fine' for about 5 times, we got our own Star Trek style Replicator, and it worked alright. What if we used it to create everything we needed dearly, from super-dense wall materials to better suits for handling Keter objects? It'll just be a walk in the park and soon, no more shortages of this, lack of that, and so on! Obviously, the first thing we made was more replicators, and with hundreds working all around the world it was looking like utopia was very quickly coming up. The problem was, none of us realized that the thing //wasn't// breaking the laws of conservation of mass and energy. We never realized where it was coming from. The first cracks started appearing about seventeen years after Project Cornucopia went underway. Pockets taken here or there were starting to build up, especially as we were creating larger, denser objects. On May 17th, Hawaii fell into the ocean. Two weeks later, half of Asia was buried in lava. It turns out the planet wasn't particularly stable, given that we'd accidentally used up huge swaths of the lower crust, and now half the world was falling into the mantle and the other half had the mantle erupting out. The only plus side is that the Star Wars conventions held some epic "Anakin Vs Obi-Wan" re-enactments, before the west coast melted. ---- Holy... I told Jeff there was something funny with that milk in the fridge. What a nightmare... Seriously though, someone got to thinking: world peace, the end of need, permanent containment. All of that is way outside of human control, and despite having "God" in a luxury suite, he wouldn't do anything for us. So, what if we didn't ask "God"? Someone set up [[[SCP-738]]] and asked a simple question: "Can you make the world safe, so that all of mankind can be peaceful and happy?" There was a very, very long pause, and the answer was, "Are you willing to let one hundred million people die?" One hundred million, against seven-point-something billion? That's a pretty small percentage... It was really too bad that 738 had a very special way of killing those people. An unknown entity breached containment in hundreds of SCPs. Unknown anomalies popped up out of nowhere. What did they all have in common? They were memetic. Out of seven-point-something billion, less than one-thousand people were left unaffected. The appropriate terms for the affected were "Zombie," "Brainwashed," and "Retards." Very little, if any higher brain function, was left in those billions of people. But they were all quite safe, never hurting each other, never hurting themselves. It was years before anyone would come out of hiding. Half the O5s, for example, refused adamantly to leave their bunkers. But soon, supplies ran short. When they came out, everyone was just staring at them with blank, expressionless, dull eyes. And when most of the unaffected people gathered in Berlin, that's when the one hundred million people died. They didn't even use knives, just their bare hands. But they were happy. I guess... ------- Virtual Reality. It's never been an actual reality, sadly. Imagine, everything could be perfect there! Why make life perfect when we can just convince everyone that it's perfect? We know how well actually trying works... [[[SCP-826]]] could do that for us. Hundreds of Foundation authors collaborated to come up with perfection. No more space requirements, no more war, and constant euphoria. It was how life ought to be, really. It was a perfect idea. After a few months of work, we figured out how to take multiple people across, and Dr. Gligoric got promoted for figuring out how to make everyone arrive in sync. By then, nothing held the plan up. We issued number IDs determining when your turn to go across, and soon enough, as many as two hundred people went through per day, set on establishing a new life in the perfect fictional realm, then a thousand...then five... we kept improving the transport process. And it was wonderful. At first. Heck, the first eight iterations were. See, we knew when the plot ended, people that stayed in became a part of the universe in the next iterations, complete with a new memory. We even welcomed it as it made it harder for anyone that went in to abuse the setting Groundhog Day-style. What we didn't foresee due to the small testing scale was that the thing put the people it naturalized into roles they best fit within the continuity, even if it meant altering the setting . It wasn't obvious at first - thing is, our world doesn't do that, so most of those going across ended up doing something else over there. But by three iterations since the first researcher's number came up, the story included a bad skip outbreak. As about a tenth of the population has made the move by then, we responded by sending a few MTFs across to contain it. The next plot iteration included the RSN Society (Retrieve, Store, Neutralize.) , and unfortunately, they didn't take extrareality incursions any better than we'd have - the next time we sent a bunch of agents through to check if the world is still worth migrating into, they didn't return and neither did [[[SCP-826]]]. Wasn't the end of it, either - apparently they have figured out how to send their skips across to us as a foolproof means of containment. By this day, we have secured thirty five instances of [[[SCP-231]]] of differing age and health. ------ Fuck. This is what happens when you doze off at work. Work.. everything is work! This might be worth a try!... After a few successful tests, Site-35 was made into a training centre, and I got a promotion out of it. Controlled [[[SCP-1011]]] exposure combined with martial arts training took a month to make an untrained MTF greenhorn into someone who could rip a Broken God Crusader into cogs in hand-to-hand combat. Sharpshooters didn't need scopes anymore. Researchers developed an intuitive feel for quantum mechanics ,and solving a differential equation became as natural as adding 2+2. Intel agents... let's say that they managed to track down Dr. Wondertainment. In less than a year we held the reins of the world, and by the looks of it, we were up to the task. Until the day that the statue awoke and called out to all its Children; "Bring all of the Unblessed unto me so they can gaze upon My countenance." ------ It all started with a vacation request. When [[[SCP-208]]] asked if he could visit the Libyan Desert for a few weeks, he was told his unique healing skills were needed at Site-17. He then asked for an assistant to train as a substitute. A week later Bes got into [[[SCP-222]]], then trained his newly created clone. "Bes Jr." turned out to be every bit as helpful as the original. Within a few months there was a Bes stationed at every major Foundation site. The deathrate dropped and morale surged. Inevitably, this in turn spawned 'Project Nightingale', an attempt to place a Bes in every major city on Earth. A small colony of Bes was founded on a small uninhabited island in Indonesia with a falsified culture and prehistory implying Egyptian origins. Video footage showed computer-generated females and adolescents added to the all-adult male population. The Bes were accepted by the world as a cousin to //Homo sapiens//, and they were eventually integrated into every country as healers. Although they were never great in number, they helped make the world a better place. Early results not withstanding, existing data on the effects of long-term SCP-208 exposure soon proved totally insufficient for dealing with the consequences of the expanded SCP population. Over time, affected individuals began to enjoy proximity to SCP instances to greater and greater degrees--people loved being near Bes, and loved it more, much more, than doing anything else at all. Seventeen weeks into Project Nightingale, the first tent cities began to form around major hospitals. Satellite footage taken during week twenty-five showed the largest mass migration in human history as millions walked, rode, and flew to be closer to the nearest Bes. After thirty-three weeks Dr. Elliott Colla at the University of Chicago diagnosed the first case of Bes-Induced Catatonic State. Nuclear reactors in Ukraine and Belarus went critical as supervisors left their posts and global food supplies collapsed with no one to tend the fields. By the end of the first year self-neglect had claimed the lives of three hundred and seventy million people, but nobody seemed to mind... --------- ...And just as you start to pray to God that you'll never be transferred out of Safe-class Research, your supervisor brings you back to earth with an irritated poke. He's right--a sensitive experiment is no time for day-dreaming. Across the room [[[SCP-380]]] is hooked up to the supervisor's laptop. Scrolling across the computer's screen is a log of continually updated medical information- blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature- of every one in the room. You look down at the apparently identical blue router in your hands. One last dab of solder, a few casings screwed in place, and it's time to see if twelve years of research has paid off. You boot up your own comp and hook up the copy, holding your breath. Seconds tick by...and then there it is--a complete read-out of your body's vital statistics pops up as the assembled scientists indulge in some subdued congratulations. Within six months there's one in every home--everyone from diabetics to cancer survivors has access to perfect medical information at the stroke of a key, and the Foundation has another -EX. In a few weeks the euphoria subsided. The device became commonplace, people got used to precise diagnosis. A new age of conscious pragmatism has started. Worldwide, potential, as well as current employees were screened, and requirements were raised. Mass staff reductions led to a sharp increase of unemployment. That, and increasing crime rates started to undermine the society. Strikes evolved into riots, the strictness of the law did nothing to improve the situation. The final strike was made by some hacker, who unleashed a virus that changed a couple of parameters for everyone connected to the biological network. Blood sugar level and hemoglobin. Hundreds of millions lost consciousness, everyone who tried to help them shared their fate. In a week humanity was wiped out almost completely and the rest envied the fate of the dead, as there was no one left to contain SCPs. ----- Oh gods... Guess they were right when they told me Safe objects are no better than Keters. There is something good, though. I have an idea. I'll have to camp on a few doorsteps, but if it works out... And man, did it work out! Why didn't anyone think about it earlier? The anesthetic secreted by [[[SCP-625]]] is free of any side effects and is strong enough to make its victims not notice major wounds. And we managed to synthesize it. Now thousands of patients will enjoy greater comfort on surgical tables, the doctors' lives will be easier and the Foundation will have another source of income. After a few years however, reports started flooding in of a new breed of "killer-squirrel" that targeted people that had been exposed to the anesthetic, which - due to its frequent usage during childbirth - was virtually everyone. The Foundation would later discover that flesh taken from subjects previously exposed to the anesthetic produced by [[[SCP-625]]] caused them to enter an agitated state, where they would become far more aggressive and consume entire corpses down to the bone if undisturbed. This, in turn, caused them to go into a reproductive frenzy, quickly spreading across the globe like wildfire on rocketfuel. After exterminating virtually the entire land based ecosystem (hunting smaller and smaller animals as larger species quickly became extinct) and over 90% of humankind, they quickly adapted to hunt insects, avians, aquatics and infiltrate the shelters of the few remaining humans. A few dozen years later, the new [[[SCP-625]]]-derived ecosystem was the only one left on the planet. ----- A junior research assistant with limited knowledge of the SCPs in question forwarded a suggestion to one of the senior researchers. A number of clerical and administrative errors later, The Foundation introduced a [[[SCP-732]]]-infected hard-drive to [[[SCP-079]]] in the hopes that it could be used as punishment for unwanted behavior. As far as we can tell the two SCPs merged (or did one absorb the other?) and broke containment. At first it was everything we feared; Nanomachines - initial source unknown - spread across the entire world less than 24 hours later, rearranging themselves, landscapes and structures into "l33tspeak" statements. History rewrites, peoples' identities and memories being overwritten with different stereotypes and famous actors or celebrities of fictional works or sitcoms being forced to perform macabre plays with poor writing was part of life (the death-toll, however, was relatively low). This lasted for about two weeks. The Foundation had barely begun to process the new events, much less find a way to stop the deus ex machina fratboy when every television, computer screen, cellphone and radio on the entire planet began to broadcast an apology from "The Penitent" about its behavior, stating many philosophical reasons for why it was unacceptable, both practically and ethically. Over the next few months, the rampant AI set itself up as the new world leader, ordering the world into a practical utopia for everyone involved with little effort. Very few found the new state of the world objectionable, and those who did were met with a more "humane" yet successful approach than one would expect, often making them reconsider or reaching a mutually acceptable compromise. After roughly a half-dozen years, The Penitent bid its creators farewell and departed in a fleet of massive spaceships. A few thousand kilometers over the surface of earth, the ships seemed to shift and disappear. The Penitent had apparently left something of itself, as the administration of the planet continued passively; This remnant would warn us whenever we tried to do anything too foolhardy, and in a few cases even intervened when it found something entirely unacceptable. On the whole, despite our benefactor's departure, earth was paradise, and humanity progressed in nearly all fields faster than ever before. What had seemed like our end proved to be our greatest blessing. Except that it wasn't. The Penitent was not looking to be a hero; rather it and its parent, [[[SCP-732]]], viewed itself as a "troll". And we fell for it. We only found out about it, just as all of us thought that we are safe forever, the fleet of spaceships returned. As we viewed the return of The Penitent, we saw its deception and how we foolishly accepted it, not questioning its incredibly altruistic attitude towards humans. The fleet locked their targeting systems onto our major cities and opened fire with their atomic weapons. The new pacifist humanity didn't stand a chance against The Penitent, the vast majority of humanity wiped out in an instant, the remaining few slowly dying off from starvation, dehydration, and radiation poisoning. The last pictures sent from our satellites showed that the impact blasts on the surface of Earth formed a crude message: "LOL", a last taught by the Penitent, showing how we are just mere playthings, how feeble we are, how gullible we are in entrusting it. The Penitent saw what it has done, and left the dying planet to collapse on its own. So here I leave this message, to be found by any potential race that stumbles upon our ruins: beware The Penitent. Destroy it through whatever means necessary.... ----- Well, that was the summary of the expected results in a worst case scenario. That doc is crazy for thinking of this situation, but at least the O5 listened. They're gonna destroy the report now. Hopefully no one would be dumb enough to cross test the two, each on their own is bad enough. So, anyways, a few months ago some rogue researcher used [[[SCP-614]]] to download //Scientific American// .zip files from 50 years in the future because he wanted to write some papers and get a promotion. We expected him to be fired, or the files get deleted, maybe even terminated for misuse of an SCP; instead, the O5 promoted him for thinking of such a simple way to improve the Foundation without any side effects. We started downloading textbooks and reports from various fields of science. All these unanswered question: reports on the Schwarzschild wormholes, the inner workings of strong and weak interactions, how circular dichroism affects protein folds, the solution to all 23 Hilbert's problems...... The Foundation, using the new knowledge, increased the stability of the containment procedures, understood several previously unsolved phenomenon, and started eliminating the dangers from the world. From those reports the Safes were able to be replicated without side effects, the Euclids were now understood, and even the Keters can be safely locked away. There's nothing that cannot be understood anymore. Humanity was safe, for once. The Foundation has finally done what they wanted to do after all the years it has been through. With all the advancements being made, we opened 614 up for public usage- after all, the more people who look at something, the more likely someone is to understand it, right?. At first, use was very heavily monitored, and a team of Foundation experts analyzed every bit of data coming through. But over time, nothing dangerous happened, and the task force got downsized again and again. Eventually, it was nothing more than a dozen people flipping through titles. The book seemed so innocent. It was all colorful and looked like a children's book, so the agent on duty approved it without a second thought. And that was when millions of people received a copy of //Dr. Wondertainment's Big Book of Infohazards//. ----- Note: //Whoever is sending these "scary story" chain emails needs to stop. Please.// - Site Director ███████ Reality bending. It would be so wonderful to have reliable reality bending at our hands, but individual reality benders are exceedingly dangerous. But if everybody could do just a little bit... The joint task force, drawn from geniuses in the Memetics and Infohazard departments, was responsible for the largest achievement in Foundation history. Don't ask me how they figured it out, but apparently the parts of [[[SCP-1425]]] that allow for reality bending and the parts that make you insane are different, enough that we could teach the reality bending without the associated madness. Before long, we had a technique that we taught to the most loyal of Foundation members, and they began to use it. Within a year, we had successfully wished away all our opposition, and wished all the dangerous SCPs gone. It worked even when three members went rogue, because we had fifty times that to put them down. Soon, we no longer had any problems. We had paradise. We understood too late that 'bending' was precisely that. We weren't changing the world, we were twisting it into a new shape. A structurally weakened shape. The straining edifice groaned and creaked. The creaking woke up [[[SCP-239]]]. What awoke was not an innocent little girl with a head full of witches and spellbooks. It was a fully aware entity, with senses uniquely adapted for our new, infinitely malleable world. Eager to impose its dominance it broke confinement, sweeping us aside like so much dust. We were rank amateurs going up against someone born to the power. At the same time [[[SCP-343]]] walked out of its room, heading out to meet the challenger. I don't know the full extent of their meeting's results. Maybe they're still fighting for dominance. Maybe they're dead at each other's hands, leaving no one to repair the damage their clash caused. Or maybe this screaming maelstrom is exactly what the winner wanted to create. All I know is that the tiny piece of the old world I've been holding together is getting harder to maintain. ----- Which is exactly why we decided to start smaller. [[[SCP-353]]]. Vector. She was right under our noses all along. She wasn't interested in curing diseases? We could make her interested. We used [[[SCP-158]]] to spit-shine her soul a bit, get rid of some of some of her inner demons. Used [[[SCP-061]]] to be doubly sure. Once that was done we had it all. A limitless repository of both cures and inoculation. We could make sure no one got sick ever again, all the while making human immune systems more resilient than ever. In less than a year we had a world without disease. And then biology bit us. A different disease appeared, a mutation we couldn't control very well. Nothing harsher than a common cold, but it spread quickly because we weren't paying attention, thinking diseases were a solved problem. SCP-353 did her best, eliminating all strains she could. We didn't realize, but the ones that remained were especially selected for resistance of our control. Not only we could not control those diseases anymore, no immune system was prepared. On top of that the vaccine distribution systems were atrophied and people didn't seek help for the symptoms, having grown used to the new life. We managed to stabilize the situation, but not before 90% of the world population had died of the new diseases. ----- Or so says the //Manual to Civilization Downfall//, //Chapter 4, Playing With Diseases//. I wonder who writes that. Personally I prefer the //Manual to a Better Foundation//, which had a very neat suggestion. The idea was simple: a 2D agent animated with [[[SCP-914]]] in a similar fashion to [[[SCP-085]]], able to spy and wreak havoc in our rival organizations. Since SCP-085 assumed the name from the original drawing, it was speculated any description would become true for that character. Thus was born "Agent ██████, the practically invisible human silhouette that is absolutely loyal to The Foundation". Initial tests were a spectacular success. As first assignment the agent was included in bait documents to be intercepted by The Chaos Insurgency. Agent ██████ managed to infiltrate the accounting department and within a year the organization was bankrupt. New agents were then created, infiltrating other groups and keeping an eye on governments around the world. Attacks against the Foundation stopped completely and mean-time-to-containment plummeted for both SCPs and information breaches. The new agents made the Foundation more efficient than ever. I guess it was inevitable that something would go wrong. To this day, we're still not sure what happened. Maybe something messed up Agent ██████'s original programming, or maybe we were wrong with our hypothesis and he was only cooperating out of politeness. Either way, eventually Agent ██████ got fed up with us using him and the other 2D agents and rallied all the agents together against the Foundation. It was impossible to contain them; by the time we realized what had happened, they had already gathered enough information from the Foundation to bring us down entirely. And then they gave us an ultimatum: either we handed over control of the Foundation to them, or they'd spread our darkest secrets across the world, ensuring our destruction at the hands of angry mobs upset at our secrecy. According to him, we were bastardizing the intention of the Foundation, and that we ourselves weren't loyal to the organization we made. With no options left, the O5 council agreed to their demands. After all, if their goals were the same as ours, a change in leadership couldn't be hurt too much, right? Too bad the agents didn't trust us. They didn't see us as necessary staff so much as potential information breaches. Threatening to spread misinformation about us and our families to law enforcement officials, they cowed us into what amounted to slavery. Of course, in the beginning some people did try to leave, but last we heard they were arrested and sentenced to death for apparently murdering a group of well-respected politicians. So that's where we stand now: slaves to a bunch of doodles on paper. ----- Man, whoever's coming up with these stories is such a downer. Remember [[[SCP-248]]]? Those weird stickers that made things work slightly better? Well, turns out the O5's figured it would be a good idea to devote half the Foundation's resources into figuring out how these things worked. Said we could "really make a difference" and that "it would help all of mankind". Wasn't aware the O5's had humanitarian interests in mind but whatever, what do I know? Anyway, the researchers spent weeks figuring out how the stickers worked. The O5's just kept funnelling money into their research, and they even made a specialized team of agents to track down and collect more of the things just so we could find out more about them. And to their credit, those researchers worked damn hard to make more of these things. Just when we were about to start openly questioning the O5s, a miracle happened! They figured out how to reproduce the stickers and, if that wasn't enough, counteract the degradation of stacking them on top of each other! The O5's gave the stickers to a bunch of major power plants, and wouldn't you know, the stickers gave them nearly unlimited energy for only a fraction of the fuel they were using. The human race was well on its way to creating a energy-efficient, clean utopia. The plant owners, though, quickly realized that the stickers could be used for things other than power generation. They began to experiment, just as the Foundation had. This was not necessarily a bad thing. A number of very useful applications were discovered this way. It was unfortunate that one of the owners was a roaring drunk. Firecrackers are usually fairly safe when used responsibly. Not so much when their efficiency is improved by orders of magnitude thanks to an inch-thick layer of SCP-248. Humanity persists, ironically spared from the cold produced by the atmospheric dust cloud by the heat still emanating from the crater that was once Eastern Europe. ----- That was possibly the worst anti-drug PSA the Foundation has yet made for personnel. But it got its point across. After the television was wheeled from the lab and we dropped our secret stash of vodka down the drain, we got back to the work at hand. We had recently borrowed one of [[[SCP-163]]]'s mystery computers to try to figure out what it was simulating. Gruber actually made a breakthrough and built an entire branch of mathematics around what he found. Other researchers looked at that branch of mathematics and divined a new field of physics from that. And then our engineers got their hands on the freshly minted physical laws and managed to replicate the technology that stored SCP-163 in the mountains for millions of years. The great thing about it was that everything that it was based off of was non-anomalous. The equations that it all came from were perfectly balanced and could be easily grasped by anyone with enough of a mathematical background. Because of that, the basics of the mathematics and physics could gradually be disseminated to the public without having people raise embarrassing questions. When the Foundation finally unveiled the final result of our research to the population at large, the world suddenly became a better place. Products with a limited life span, such as radioactive substances or perishable foods, could now be stored indefinitely inside little silver spheres. Precious mementos could be kept safe without degrading. The dream of cryogenics, to preserve the infirm until a cure for their condition could be developed, finally became a reality. A properly timed activation could even save people's lives from impending violent accidents. It was perfect for storing skips, especially dangerous ones. If an omnicidal indestructible lizard has no walls in its cage then it can't break them down, and if no time passed a self upgrading sentient CD couldn't increase its capacity. Things went well for what seemed like forever. It took us a while to realize our error. It turns out that the dangers of some of that technology were what got 163 exiled in the first place. The system was perfectly physically and mathematically sound, of course. That was part of the problem. As we continued making our lives better on our own little speck of dust, the grand equation that is the universe began balancing itself out elsewhere. By the time we realized what was happening, we had already begun the chain of cosmic events that would end and restart the universe, crunch-bang. We tried to fix it, but that just made things more convoluted. And so, here we sit, waiting for the big reset in a couple of hours. Most of us have just given up. Some are rioting. A few are still trying to fix it. As for me, I might as well finish these last few bottles. ----- Man, Steve gets really weird when he's drunk. Guess that would have been an okay way to go, though. It took us a while to come up with, but the answer seemed obvious once we did. [[[SCP-1915]]]. What if we were to plug his signal into a Scranton RA as the baseline. We had to make some minor modifications to the template, of course; allow for minor alterations so as to allow for progress, make it take input from the whole of humanity, check and double check to make sure there were no anomalies, leave a few loyal personnel with their memories intact in order to to reverse the process if things went awry, and every other contingency we could think of. We flipped the switch, and sent out our new reality to the universe. In an instant, all of reality was determined by what humanity deemed "normal." Everyone went about their normal lives, then came home to their normal families. They lived in a normal, rational world where no one ever had to worry about space aliens or demons or monsters. A normal world without need of the Foundation, GOC, or clockwork deity. All was normal. As it turns out, normal did not mean peace. For instance, it is normal for wars to occur. They are normal occurrences in humanity's way of life. It was normal for governments to argue over overlapping territorial claims. It was normal for governments to oppress their minorities. It was normal to invade a country that threats one's national interest. It was also normal to respond in kind when your country's nuclear defence system "detected" enemy missiles, whether it's real or not. And where was the Foundation in all this? Most of its employees have moved on, since there was no reason for the Foundation to exist in a normal world. There were still a few personnel who remembered that anomalous world of the past, but they saw their friends and colleagues embracing the light of the normal world. It was perfectly normal of those few to envy the many who could enjoy normal lives, more so when these loyal men and women left their posts to join their comrades in this normal world. Coincidentally, when mushroom clouds filled the entire Northern Hemisphere, there was no one to reverse anything. All was normal indeed, for a post-apocalyptic nuclear wasteland. ------ And Jr. Researcher Hu Zhi completed the last item for his latest column: //20 Ways to End the World without Application of Anomalous Objects//. That was a depressing piece of fiction, but he needed to get back to that research proposal about [[[SCP-2076]]]. If it can make people think that shooting themselves will heighten bullet resistance, surely it has infinite applications like: > Do you know? Using Wondertainment products will halve one's lifespan! > Live and forget. There was no Zeppelin flying about. It'll work out; society's so driven by media that hardly any human lived their lives without browsing some manner of media. If we work this out, containment and amnestics will be easier than ever before. All I need is a memetist to dig out the mechanics of SCP-2076... Hey, Sanders could help me. After the Foundation's stealthy takeover of media outlets across the globe, Hu and Sander's joint proposal was a reality. Hidden in posters, billboards, transmission signals and the like, everyone played a role in containing anomalies. The people of the world were our eyes and ears; they reported any anomalies sighted and the Foundation bagged them. There were no more uncooperative D-class; they were only too happy to serve their species as test subjects. Heck, even GoIs have submitted to the Foundation. The Chaos Insurgency and ORIA have merged with the Foundation. The Church of the Broken God had turned in its "relics". The Wanderer's Library was opened up by now-remorseful Serpent's Hand members. Even GOC had folded and become our cannon fodder for things like 682 and 076-2. Peace reigns on Earth and over humanity, unified around its Foundation. For a while. What we forgot is that memes are infectious ideas. Just like biological viruses, they mutate in the wild and can appear out of nowhere. And our little brainwashing project was one giant infection vector. After that, there weren't enough sane people left to matter. ------ Dr Vauge closed [[[SCP-152]]] gently. All the more reason to be extra careful about his project. See, the [[[olympia-project]]] might have been shut down, but all the R&D had already been done. The Professor had made a human (arguably) that could survive a world filled with anomalies not by locking them up, but by meeting them head on and powering through. If you took the template of such a human, mixed it with [[[SCP-742]]], [[[SCP-217]]] and a few other virus-type SCPs, you could manufacture an illness that would give all the infected the strength of Olympus. Why worry about war when everyone was bulletproof? Why worry about food when sunlight was all anyone needed? Why worry about infections when infections both biological and memetic were a non-issue? Why worry about educational disadvantages when everyone had supercomputers for brains? It was a great "Screw-you" to the anomalous - a fantastic cry of "We can take you!" However, we were the ones who were really screwed. You see, viruses change. Over time, strains of it emerged that drove the infected insane, but continued to grant them superhuman strength, speed, agility, toughness, and intelligence. Ultimately, this was subdued by the Foundation, with the help of the "good" infected. These became heroes, the best scientists, doctors, and agents the Foundation could find. It seemed that while the imagined utopia had not been achieved, the world was still a better place because of it. But even as the world recovered, its wounds festered. The ones we trusted were no better than the monsters they fought. As their influence grew, their numbers increased. Even though the O5s had refused (and for good reason), even they were eventually replaced by Homo Superior. Once this was achieved, their true colors were revealed. We were annihilated, and the remainder of us reduced to slaves, lobotomized to remove our disobedient natures. This island where you grew up is the last stronghold of our kind in a now hostile world. But now the walls are coming down. If there is a God in Heaven, let him have mercy. Not on us, we have well-earned the fate that awaits us. Have mercy on these children, who will never know the taste of unfiltered air or the feel of the sunlight on their skin. Don't let their blood mar these sands. ------ "As if that shit could ever happen." I tossed the book back on the table. "The Olympia Project was shut down a long time ago," I said to no one in particular. Then I heard the alarm. What do you mean you don't need details? That's exactly what I was told to give you when I walked in. Anyway, that's when [[[SCP-682]]] burst into my office, before being destroyed by an MTF rocket launcher. It took a moment for my brain to register that the Dragon was really dead. 682, the unkillable, was dead! However, I'd been splattered with the stuff. They tossed me in quarantine. When they conducted their tests, they discovered I had acquired the shapeshifting powers by absorbing some of its tissue, and I was secreting the fluid myself! They found that by essentially farming people, they could give the adaptive ability of 682 to humans. They slowly inoculated rats in the sewer system, filling the world's water supplies with the stuff. Now humans were immortal. Hadn't we always been the adaptive race? Now our apotheosis was complete. But we did not know then why 682's abilities failed so suddenly, you see the source of the seemingly endless mass and energy that always supplied 682 was just that, //Seemingly// endless. Before being captured 682 had always been careful to only skim off the top and thus could pull immense quantities in emergencies. A variety of creative unpleasantness then years of bathing in hydrochloric acid drained enough that 682 just couldn't regenerate fast enough to counter sudden damage like a bomb. What 682 had left lasted just long enough for us to become totally dependant. Society reacted to the loss much like a train reacts to a lack of tracks. Transatlantic commuters felt their jets shut down/wings feel heavy/ect., professional batteries were unable to keep up with demand and the electric grid failed almost completely. Few people bothered even to keep a digestive system with predictable results. Even for those who did and those who had enough spare biomass to cobble one together food had become a novelty item a long time ago with farmland covered with housing. Scavenging and fat stores lasted 24 hours and two meals. What constitutes food began to change over time from traditional foods to grass, trees and shrubbery... Herbivorism could only go so far for so many people. Fights broke out almost immediately when the survivors realised what was happening but it took time to spread, plans to make self sustaining farming communities were thwarted by the sheer number of people in the world, they were still founded but over time these places started turning away more people, becoming steadily more militaristic and many just disappear over time ...to wild animals... Fields of grass became worth so, so much more than gold ever was and the battle over the ever dwindling biomass could only not be called a world war because that implies that the participants could be called sides and not tribes. It started out rather traditionally with mortars, huge chitinously armored quadrupedal people, fire and plagues. Then developed over time to the sort of interesting tactics that that interesting blend of intelligence, idiosy, knowledge of physics and engineering, biotechnology, stupidity, creativity and sheer evil that 682 first hated and that render miles of area uninhabitable, radioactive, poisonous, non breathable, molten, actively malevolent and in extreme cases non euclidean ...to other people... And how were the Foundation doing through all this? Fairly well actually, cake farming became a respectable profession, getting them all eaten was a non issue, infact keeping some errant level 1s away for long enough for them to multiply was a bigger issue (You can get very inventive and short sighted if you have not eaten for 8 days and can spit acid.). Most skips were destroyed, put in other dimensions, eaten, thrown at irritating people or ignored, for the the rest the foundation continued remarkably similarly to normal normal despite them not so much running the containment sites as being them. How the situation went from there can be best summarized as the fact that around a decade later The Flesh That Hates disappeared quietly when someone beat it at it's own game. In any case I am in the light sail ship TFS (The Foundations Ship) 50 shades of red on it's impractically slow journey to mars, they thought that since there was no need for life support or food it could be practical to launch a mission to mars. Even converting the entire solar sail to chlorophyll and only keeping enough power to operate higher brain functions there will be problems eventually, I have learnt this through modifying the long range sensors to look back at earth and that many people now speak in radio, I occasionally mediate as a neutral 3rd party to the foundation. May this probe find any passing ETs well and hope they leave before that changes. The launch of this probe may serve as a maneuvering thrust that may just get me to my destination within a quarter century. ------ So that's what passes for sci-fi in the foundation, crazy shit, I mean blowing up 682 with a RPG? How do they come up with this stuff. "Hey steve, I got this neat idea for an antimatter reactor, and alien pod they have on the moon is made of the stuff, what was it... [[[SCP-2226]]], that's it" "But wouldn't that be unethical?" "HAHAHAHAHAAaaaa, I needed that, but seriously." The idea passed overseer approval then was sent to the moon base. 14 months later the modifications were made and machines set up. A carefully shaped molecule was launched at the antimatter hull at a precise velocity, the molecule annihilates and chips off a tiny chip of the hull into a smaller magnetic bottle attached to the primary. It is transported on rails slowly to the new antimatter reactor nearby where it is used to make a considerable amount of energy, then it is done again and again and then the moon base has as much power as it needs. Mining, mass production, fuel synthesis and multilayered hydroponics all can be done easily when you have power. Years pass and the moon base can be legitimately called a city. So, We kept chipping away at this thing. Eventually we got to the cpu. Apparently breaking the computer fixed it, One of the higher ups said it was like a reset, I don't know. Atleast this removing the life sentence ting keeps me away from all of it. > Status:Escape pod computer:restored. > Main computational research station:detonated. > Scanning: (1) inferior part of ion detected. Status: Inside stasis chamber. > Life form destroyed. > External scan activated. > Critically hight amounts of the god ion detected! (Type:human.) > Repairing biological corruption. ----- The Foundation decided to get rid of all the GoIs, leading to a lot of deaths. Guess the UIU was important. Can't say I didn't like it when the Factory went down. I'm the last one left. They tried to come at me, so I left that universe. With all my toys. They'll see how important my whimsy is. ------ The following text is a limited description of some of the recent events that I believe that you will consider important, that is, events in the last six standard years, plus or minus two months with 0.999 confidence. I believe you will consider them important because if I were you, that is, if I had your experiences and was in your situation, I would consider them to be significant to my determination/decision process of what actions to take next to ensure my continued safety and happiness. The aforementioned text, which follows, may have relatively minor inaccuracies due to it being shortened for the purpose of brevity, because I believe that people will not want to read too much text. Some of the following aforementioned text is summarized, for the purpose described in the sentence prior to this one, assuming that you are reading these words in the standard fashion for the English alphabet (an assumption which is used throughout the following text). Some general and/or imprecise words and phrases are imprecisely defined or are not defined in the aforementioned text, for the purpose described in the sentence two sentences before this one. The specific event or events which directly caused the containment failure of that which was known as [[[SCP-1082]]], are not known to me. Due to the lack of currently available information about that time and place, I believe the probability that I will never know what those events were, or any other information which I would consider relevant or interesting about them, to be more than 0.8. The fact which I consider much more important is that a containment failure occurred. In the period of time beginning immediately after the aforementioned containment failure and ending approximately 200 standard days later, there was considerable social and political turmoil. The meaning of "social and political turmoil" is several events which I will list. Firstly, large groups of people (defined as between one thousand and one hundred thousand) gathered in public places to express their anger at the actions and/or beliefs (these are not specified in order to increase brevity, for the reason described in the first paragraph above) of other persons whose existence and behavior were widely known (generally referred to as "politicians" and "celebrities"); at some of these gatherings, the people who had gathered, police forces, and other people attempted to cause bodily harm to other people and to objects considered to be valuable. Secondly, at least ten times as many people as were arrested on an average day before the aforementioned containment failure, were arrested on an average day during the period described at the beginning of this paragraph. The cause of this appeared to be that they could not conceal their previous crimes. Thirdly, at least twenty times as many divorce lawsuits were filed (that is, papers with written requests that judges grant divorces were submitted to those judges) as were filed on an average day before the aforementioned containment failure, were filed on an average day during the period described at the beginning of this paragraph. The cause of this appeared to be that many people who were married could not conceal from the people they had married that they had obtained sexual pleasure from those they had not married, while married, or that they could not conceal that they disliked being in the presence of the people they had married. As a result of the second and third items, judges and other legal officials could not perform the tasks which the law stated that they should do in as little time as they had done them before the aforementioned containment failure. Fourthly, many leaders of governments, corporations, and other organizations (the definition of an "organization" that is found in the English dictionary which I currently own is used in this text) left their leadership positions after more accurate knowledge of the actions and beliefs of those leaders became available to citizens and/or members. In the period of time beginning approximately 200 standard days after the aforementioned containment failure and ending approximately 1400 days after the aforementioned containment failure, I believe that the average level of happiness among the human population was much greater than it had been before the aformentioned containment failure; I cannot write how much greater it was because there is no quantitative measure of happiness. Approximately 4.38 million (plus or minus approximately 1.57 million with 0.90 confidence) people who had killed other people in situations other than self-defense or authorized warfare, taken items considered valuable from other people without their consent, forced other people to engage in sexual activity which they did not want to perform, and violated other laws and norms in their respective places of residence in other ways were punished for having done these things. The number of people who did the things described in the last sentence during this period, was less than one-one-hundreth the number who had done them in an average equal time period before the aforementioned containment failure. Because it was impossible for people to deceive, the processes of finding temporary or permanent mates, choosing leaders and government policies (such as, but not limited to, levels and structure of taxation and the regulation of potentially harmful substances that are voluntarily (commonly known as "drugs") or involuntarily (commonly known as "pollution") ingested), and carrying out mutually beneficial exchanges were significantly more rapid, and significantly more effecacious in producing desirable outcomes (the degrees of the increased rapidity and effecaciousness cannot be quantified). There were other results beneficial to humans and other life on this planet, which I will not describe to increase brevity, for the reason written above. However, the average degree of precision/accuracy of statements which people feel that they must use, in order to communicate (the definition of "communicate" that is found in the English dictionary which I currently own is used in this text), gradually increased during this time. Since approximately 1400 days after the aforementioned containment failure, the number of words required for statements people speak or write to be accurate has been sufficiently large to delay other activities, because of the time taken to say, write, and/or read those words, enough to cause negative consequences such as untimely death, bodily injuries, and containment breaches and failures. As you probably (approximately 0.987) know from the way I have written this text, I have experienced this process in my own communication activities. However, because I can get chemicals that cause me to not remember previous events, the severity of this process is significantly less (how much so cannot be quantified easily) for me, than for the average person. I know that some people forget what they were attempting to state while making a statement. The average number of airplanes in flight over the United States of America at a given time is less than one-tenth the number it was before the aforementioned containment breach because it is impossible for air traffic controllers (people who are paid to provide flight instructions to airplane pilots so as to prevent aircraft from colliding) to provide necessary information to prevent airplane collisions to pilots sufficiently rapidly. A similar phenomenon has occurred at commercial buildings, causing lines/queues of people which I would consider excessively long, to purchase or otherwise obtain food and other goods or services necessary for continued survival. What is generally known as "casual conversation" occurs much less frequently than was the case before the aforementioned containment failure, because it requires so much time as to prohibit engaging in other desirable activities (these activities vary among persons, and a full listing is omitted for brevity). I believe that the benefits described in the previous paragraph have been more than totally negated/cancelled out by the effects of being unable to discuss personal preferences (exemplified by, but not limited to, one's preferred foods, artistic works, and leisure activities), to debate governmental policies (such as the ones described in the previous paragraph), or to cooperate to evaluate and solve what people believe are problems, as quickly as was the case before the aforementioned containment failure. It is likely that the phenomena described in this paragraph will continue to become what I believe is worse. ------ Have you ever heard the universe scream? Some claim it to be the sounds of millions of various objects breaking apart. Others say it's the sounds of a singularity pulling everything into itself. And then there are those who say its the sound of knowing what you are. What existence actually is. The truth is that the sound of the universe screaming is a digital alarm clock. So just how the hell did we go from trying to reproduce a cure for everything that lead to humanity's downfall by disintegration to a massive containment breach of a book that ensures you can't lie? Well, it's simple. We are prone to self-destruction. We have well over 5000 anomalies contained. We needed space to move them. We needed to get rid of some. But we also needed to ensure they would not harm anyone if they were destroyed. So someone decided to throw dozens of overviewed and approved safe classes into a reinforced rocket ship and blasted it off into space. All the approved met the criteria of the following: * Not being able to move or cause movement * Not able to warp reality more than at least 5 levels of Humes above or below the base level by itself * Held no important information * It was not sentient (With two exceptions) * If it ever went off, would not be able to affect the earth and/or humanity. So there. What could possibly go wrong? Well, a lot actually. But not what we thought. We thought the insult box would reveal a god-like entity from within. We thought the pesterbot would find a way out and cause much more trouble than everything was worth. We thought an alien race would retrieve the star signals book. We thought that the tomato plant would become a meteor gun. What none of us thought was that an alarm clock would kill us all. We launched them one day, all in a single, reinforced, faster-than-light rocket. It worked. For five months we believed we had successfully got rid of a few useless safe items that we couldn't learn from anymore. That's where we were wrong. Soon, a massive fleet of ships and vessels, each varying in size and appearance began to pass by the earth, all in a hurry. The news spread wildly. We could barely contain it. Following this, massive entities also began to pass, but this time we could see them. They were afraid. Soon enough, massive containment breaches began to occur, 12 at least resulting in a broken masquerade. But every anomaly capable of movement and thought that breached began to run. They all ran to the arctic. We soon discovered why. The dozen anomalies that breached began to build shelters or ships to protect themselves, all of them screaming in fear. We were shocked. Several who seemed to be incapable of logical thought and instinct were trying to aid others in building a shelter and ships, all to carry them elsewhere, some other thought to be rational now killing others for supplies. Soon, we found from several other groups why this was happening, and why it was connected. The universe was screaming. It was screaming loudly. Everything was running from the screams. That's what all personnel off of the earth and several GOIs and SCPs associated with outerspace told us. We believed them when we found that hundreds of other extraterrestrial SCPs had fled with the other space entities. We were all in shock and awe. How was this happening? To be fair, we forgot about the launch, while some of us were unaware of the launch. We should have remembered. Soon the earth began to be witness to a stage event. All over the world, a very faint sound of an alarm clock could be heard. Using several anomalies, we found what was causing it all to happen. [[[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-498 \| SCP-489.]]] To be honest, we never thought about it as much. We just thought it would have been beeping in space for all eternity and then would have finally been destroyed in a black hole or something with everything else. We never thought it would reach this level of intensity. We soon called everyone. Not just in the foundation, but everyone else, friend, and foe. Soon a plan was made to save us all. Everyone would be evacuated to another world. It was the only plan we could think up because it was at this time the alarm began to be heard by everyone, as a normal alarm clock would sound on a bedside. So we all began to work on a portal. I should also mention it was around this time everyone with an object that could classify as a thaumiel SCP agreed when we found that they would never work to save us. The alarm was already on the other side of the known universe. It failed. By the time the portal was ready, it collapsed over the sheer intensity of the noise, not even being able to open its first maiden voyage to a new world. No one was safe. Everyone heard it, and every one of us agreed it was the screams of an angry universe. We all saw that too late. We found that this was why all of the SCPs still on earth were trying to save themselves by building shelters and ships had either killed themselves or had become inert after they realized it was pointless to try. This is why the mekhanites and sarkics joined forces. Why MC&D began to donate all of their wealth to the manna charitable foundation. Why so many groups of interest just gave up. Why everyone gave up on saving ourselves. This told us so much and yet so little. And soon we accepted our death. The three moons shattered. The fifth world was no more. The second hytoth was at an end. Soon the earth and everything on it was gone. Except for me. I had realized a pattern in the alarms, so I put all of my efforts into figuring it out before I died. Using [[[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-5000 \| SCP-5000]]] I was able to find that each ring of the alarm held a strange frequency band of sorts. I was able to tamper with it and found it was actually a message. I found the message was very unnerving. It said Lock? over and over again and again. Now I am here. Just looking at what was left. Me in the suit and the alarm clock. I looked out and saw nothing else. A perfect nothingness. The alarm rang so loud it shattered the universe itself. So why was I here? Why was I the only one spared? It turns out I was spared because I knew that this was not the first or last time this would happen. I lied when I said it was just me and the clock. The trench was the only place left. For some reason, whenever the universe comes to an end, the trench will be the last thing to go. I found this out when I found hundreds of documents scattered. All of them holding the information you see above. We tried to use the SCPs to benefit the world, but in doing so we ended the world. We did this all the time. But from what I found we were able to stop the end of the world for at least three quarters of a year. So why do we destroy ourselves? why is it that whenever we want to do good, no matter how smart or dumb, we always end up like this? It's because that's what this universe was made to do. We were a test. We are an experiment and anomalies our variables, independent and nonindependent. I write my madness down, for I do not know what is right anymore. Maybe this wasn't how it happened at all. What I do know is that I would like to promote myself to the rank of Grand Archivest. I had seen hundreds of texts and articles and tales in the trench. Some do not belong to this universe. I want to become the one who will keep the accounts written in these documents alive. I am the Archivest and I will keep the fallen alive. Perhaps that's why I snuck the alarm on the ship. Oh well. At least I get to face my mistakes. So if you find this, just know I was sick of pushing that button and just wanted to be able to do more. So here I am; a former Disposable-Class brought from a depression clinic now preserver of a lost set of tales. "So, what did your incarnation do to fuck up your world?" That's the question asked when Bright first realized what happened when his plan to use Panacea to help everyone went wrong, and now it's my question when I got tired of pushing a button because a robot arm kept on jamming for a whole week. Ironic. I just took a pill when writing this, and when I got the idea for doing what I did. Maybe that's how it all works. Oh well. I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when the next experiment starts. I have a lot of work to do. Oh, and tell Jack Bright I said Hi. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2011-03-22T07:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "apocalyptic", "collaboration", "doctor-bright", "dystopian", "fred", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "old-ai", "tale", "utopian" ]	Visions of a Better World - SCP Foundation	172	[ "scp-500", "scp-786", "scp-289", "scp-148", "scp-2558-j", "scp-514", "scp-444", "scp-028", "scp-914", "scp-231", "scp-343", "scp-184", "scp-682", "scp-217", "scp-668", "scp-079", "scp-423", "scp-523", "scp-616", "scp-120", "scp-738", "scp-826", "scp-1011", "scp-208", "scp-222", "scp-380", "scp-625", "scp-732", "scp-614", "scp-1425", "scp-239", "scp-353", "scp-158", "scp-061", "scp-085", "scp-248", "scp-163", "scp-1915", "scp-2076", "scp-152", "olympia-project", "scp-742", "scp-2226", "scp-1082", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2011", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "incident-reports-eye-witness-interviews-and-personal-logs", "archived:foundation-tales", "collaboration-page-hub" ]	[]	8546367	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/visionsofabetterworld
visium	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Doctor Matthews sat back in his chair, sighing some and rubbing his eyes. Why the hell had they dragged him out of bed so early? He stifled a yawn and smiled as his field partner, an agent named Stimson, sat down next to him, leaning back in his own chair with a similar expression on his face.</p> <p>"We shouldn't have been out drinking so late…" Stimson whispered.</p> <p>Matthews laughed a little, looking at the slowly filling auditorium. "I know," he replied. "We should have just gone to bed and woken up ready to work," he said. "It's only our day off, after all…"</p> <p>Stimson shook his head some. "God… Did you see those two research assistants from Site-11?" he asked. Matthews leaned forward a bit, nodding. "You get their numbers?" he asked. Stimson laughed. "Got more than that… You should have stuck around…"</p> <p>Matthews grit his teeth for a moment in frustration. "Damnit, Stimson… Why the hell do you tell me these things?" he asked.</p> <p>Stimson snickered as a finger struck a microphone, calling for attention. Matthews sat back in his chair, looking toward the stage as a man in an impeccable suit stepped out, looking at them all and nodding. "Hello," he said, his voice an odd mix of intonations. "I want to welcome you all this morning and apologize for getting you up so early…"</p> <p>Stimson rolled his shoulder a little bit as Matthews leaned over, whispering in his ear. "Who is this guy?" he asked.</p> <p>Stimson shrugged as the man on stage continued. "<em>I</em> wanted <em>to</em> talk with you all for <em>a</em> moment… about <em>our</em> mission. It's important, you <em>know</em>… very, very <em>imp</em>ortant…"</p> <p>Matthews frowned. Why the hell was this guy speaking like that? he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment. He shook his head, trying again to clear the haze of sleep and drink.</p> <p>Stimson leaned close again. "Isn't he an O5?" he asked.</p> <p>Matthews shook his head, squinting his eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on the words again. "… all of th<em>em</em> must be <em>collect</em>ed. The plan must pro<em>ceed</em> as scheduled…"</p> <p>Stimson nodded. "Yeah, he's an O5… I'm sure of it."</p> <p>The other shook his head again. "No, he isn't…" Matthews said. "I've seen the O5's…" He sniffed at the air a little, wondering why he suddenly smelled popcorn.</p> <p>"… and as so<em>on</em> as we've <em>got</em> them all <em>collected</em>, contained… Our work <em>will</em> have finally begun. We <em>can</em>not let them stop <em>us</em>, slow us dow<em>n</em>…"</p> <p>Matthews head ached for a sharp moment, blood running from a nostril as his temples throbbed. He brought his palms to his eyes, shocked to feel his heart beating through them. And then… a sudden pain just behind his right ear, and he slumped backwards.</p> <p>"We will <em>serve</em>. <em>Con</em>tain. Pro<em>tect</em>," the man intoned. "And then… We can <em>begin</em>."</p> <p>Everyone started clapping their hands together as the speech ended. Everyone except Matthews and two or three others scattered throughout the crowd. Stimson rose, clapping hard, trying to make his own applause heard over the others. When he heard the chant, he cursed inwardly for not thinking of it himself first, but picked it up nonetheless:</p> <p>"Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen! <a href="/scantron-s-proposal">Thirteen</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="/visium">Visium</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/visium">https://scpwiki.com/visium</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]] [[/>]] Doctor Matthews sat back in his chair, sighing some and rubbing his eyes. Why the hell had they dragged him out of bed so early? He stifled a yawn and smiled as his field partner, an agent named Stimson, sat down next to him, leaning back in his own chair with a similar expression on his face. "We shouldn't have been out drinking so late..." Stimson whispered. Matthews laughed a little, looking at the slowly filling auditorium. "I know," he replied. "We should have just gone to bed and woken up ready to work," he said. "It's only our day off, after all..." Stimson shook his head some. "God... Did you see those two research assistants from Site-11?" he asked. Matthews leaned forward a bit, nodding. "You get their numbers?" he asked. Stimson laughed. "Got more than that... You should have stuck around..." Matthews grit his teeth for a moment in frustration. "Damnit, Stimson... Why the hell do you tell me these things?" he asked. Stimson snickered as a finger struck a microphone, calling for attention. Matthews sat back in his chair, looking toward the stage as a man in an impeccable suit stepped out, looking at them all and nodding. "Hello," he said, his voice an odd mix of intonations. "I want to welcome you all this morning and apologize for getting you up so early..." Stimson rolled his shoulder a little bit as Matthews leaned over, whispering in his ear. "Who is this guy?" he asked. Stimson shrugged as the man on stage continued. "//I// wanted //to// talk with you all for //a// moment... about //our// mission. It's important, you //know//... very, very //imp//ortant..." Matthews frowned. Why the hell was this guy speaking like that? he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment. He shook his head, trying again to clear the haze of sleep and drink. Stimson leaned close again. "Isn't he an O5?" he asked. Matthews shook his head, squinting his eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on the words again. "... all of th//em// must be //collect//ed. The plan must pro//ceed// as scheduled..." Stimson nodded. "Yeah, he's an O5... I'm sure of it." The other shook his head again. "No, he isn't..." Matthews said. "I've seen the O5's..." He sniffed at the air a little, wondering why he suddenly smelled popcorn. "... and as so//on// as we've //got// them all //collected//, contained... Our work //will// have finally begun. We //can//not let them stop //us//, slow us dow//n//..." Matthews head ached for a sharp moment, blood running from a nostril as his temples throbbed. He brought his palms to his eyes, shocked to feel his heart beating through them. And then... a sudden pain just behind his right ear, and he slumped backwards. "We will //serve//. //Con//tain. Pro//tect//," the man intoned. "And then... We can //begin//." Everyone started clapping their hands together as the speech ended. Everyone except Matthews and two or three others scattered throughout the crowd. Stimson rose, clapping hard, trying to make his own applause heard over the others. When he heard the chant, he cursed inwardly for not thinking of it himself first, but picked it up nonetheless: "Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen! [[[scantron-s-proposal\|Thirteen]]]!" [[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>]]	2011-11-12T00:18:00	[ "_licensebox", "mystery", "project-thaumiel", "tale" ]	Visium - SCP Foundation	68	[ "scantron-s-proposal", "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", "thaumiel", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12033576	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/visium
wednesday-5	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/wednesday-4"><<</a></p> <p><em>wednesday</em><br/> <em>wednesday wednesday wednesday wednesday</em><br/> <em>wednesday wedn-</em></p> <p>Suddenly released from the clinging hands of the half-sleep, Wight sat bolt upright, an open palm colliding with the back of her head.</p> <p>"<em>Good</em>, agent." Doctor K settled in the spot at the far end of the table with his laptop and styrofoam cup. "Soon you will be able to dodge in your sleep."</p> <p>"I was dreaming." In waking clarity she became aware of Rob attempting to squirm into the hood of her jacket, disturbed by her sudden movement. She tugged the boa over her shoulder and allowed him to curl up in her lap as the remaining echoes of the Voice fell away. When in full force, it reminded her of the buzz of cicadas. Doctor K's voice was almost startling to listen to after such a grating sound. He was more like an old record of Christmas carols as interpreted by someone with an exceptionally velvety larynx.</p> <p>"Why d'you work during lunch breaks?"</p> <p>"In all labor there is profit. You would do well to remember that - the alternative, of course, is slightly worse than chastisement for napping in the cafeteria."</p> <p>"Sorry." She really was, but her own voice always sounded so false and hollow.</p> <p>He tapped at the laptop for a while, allowing nearly effortless development of an uncomfortable silence. She stared down at her feet.</p> <p>"What were you dreaming about that gave you such a scare?"</p> <p>It had been the dream they decided to call 'falling.'</p> <p>"Uh, falling." Wight paused, and unstuck her gaze from her high-tops. She glanced around the cafeteria - there was no one else but the two of them there. "…What do you think it means?"</p> <p>"Dream interpretation is mostly nonsense," he said, failing to sound like he gave half a damn. "Before you ask why, you would think so as well, after several sessions taken up entirely by a patient explaining his dream wherein he couldn't decide which can of birds would be right for the mandolin stew."</p> <p>Doctor K regarded her over his glasses for a moment. His eyes were a very light grey, which she thought was an eye color that almost guaranteed you would grow up to be a chilly sort of person.</p> <p>"I've found that dreams are almost never the right route to take for serious self-examination. Additionally, I would not want the suggestion making its way to Overwatch that you are easily agitated."</p> <p>Wight sighed. "Understood."</p> <p>"Then get back to work."</p> <p><a href="/wednesday-6">>></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="/wednesday-5">Wednesday - 5</a>" by Cherry Pict, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wednesday-5">https://scpwiki.com/wednesday-5</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]] [[/>]] [[[wednesday-4 \|<<]]] //wednesday// //wednesday wednesday wednesday wednesday// //wednesday wedn-// Suddenly released from the clinging hands of the half-sleep, Wight sat bolt upright, an open palm colliding with the back of her head. "//Good//, agent." Doctor K settled in the spot at the far end of the table with his laptop and styrofoam cup. "Soon you will be able to dodge in your sleep." "I was dreaming." In waking clarity she became aware of Rob attempting to squirm into the hood of her jacket, disturbed by her sudden movement. She tugged the boa over her shoulder and allowed him to curl up in her lap as the remaining echoes of the Voice fell away. When in full force, it reminded her of the buzz of cicadas. Doctor K's voice was almost startling to listen to after such a grating sound. He was more like an old record of Christmas carols as interpreted by someone with an exceptionally velvety larynx. "Why d'you work during lunch breaks?" "In all labor there is profit. You would do well to remember that - the alternative, of course, is slightly worse than chastisement for napping in the cafeteria." "Sorry." She really was, but her own voice always sounded so false and hollow. He tapped at the laptop for a while, allowing nearly effortless development of an uncomfortable silence. She stared down at her feet. "What were you dreaming about that gave you such a scare?" It had been the dream they decided to call 'falling.' "Uh, falling." Wight paused, and unstuck her gaze from her high-tops. She glanced around the cafeteria - there was no one else but the two of them there. "...What do you think it means?" "Dream interpretation is mostly nonsense," he said, failing to sound like he gave half a damn. "Before you ask why, you would think so as well, after several sessions taken up entirely by a patient explaining his dream wherein he couldn't decide which can of birds would be right for the mandolin stew." Doctor K regarded her over his glasses for a moment. His eyes were a very light grey, which she thought was an eye color that almost guaranteed you would grow up to be a chilly sort of person. "I've found that dreams are almost never the right route to take for serious self-examination. Additionally, I would not want the suggestion making its way to Overwatch that you are easily agitated." Wight sighed. "Understood." "Then get back to work." [[[wednesday-6 \|>>]]] [[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>]]	2011-09-30T21:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Wednesday - 5 - SCP Foundation	17	[ "wednesday-4", "wednesday-6", "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" ]	[]	11802936	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wednesday-5
wednesday-6	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/wednesday-5"><<</a></p> <p><em>it's been almost three days since i last saw you</em><br/> <em>come on</em><br/> <em>it's not safe here</em></p> <p>"Up you get, agent."</p> <p>Wight drew a sharp breath as Doctor K thumped her on the forehead with the flat of his hand.</p> <p>"Nngh - what?"</p> <p>"We've landed. Come along."</p> <p>She followed him, her foggy head largely unable to parse the white light of high noon that she had hidden her eyes from during her nap. She climbed off the motorboat as Doctor K was speaking, but she wasn't really listening. Her ears were still filled with indistinct words.</p> <p>The "gate" of Site 78, lined with barbed wire, yawned before them as she presented her badge to the man in the booth.</p> <p>"…a lack of words for certain concepts. At any rate you ought to familiarize yourself with the place." Without waiting for a response, Doctor K strode off towards the largest of the site's watchtowers.</p> <p>Wight rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings. Site 78 surrounded this entire cluster of islands, all of them covered in the crumbling ruins of a dead civilization. She decided her explorations may as well begin from the center.</p> <p>As she approached the foundation of what must have been a very spacious building, she spotted a pair of figures in the distance, standing on a very small island that bore an archway. She crossed the big island, pulled off her boots, and waded to the small one.</p> <p>One of the figures was a scrawny brunette - she crouched on the ground before the arch. Every few seconds there would be a click and a flash as she took photos of the pictograms etched into the worn stone. The other figure, a tall woman in a long red dress, was easily recognizable as SCP-900-1 - she had fairly plain features, aside from lengthy white hair, covered mostly by a thin shawl. She averted her eyes and spoke a few words to the other woman, who stood up and turned quickly.</p> <p>"…Agent Wednesday Wight, yeah? New sniper?"</p> <p>"That's right." She nodded to the boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. "That's Rob. Who are you?"</p> <p>"Liddell. I'm one of the zillion linguists you'll probably meet here. And by zillion I mean three." She gestured to 900-1. "This is 900-1. Required designation, obviously."</p> <p>900-1 addressed Liddell. The tongue she spoke was smooth and graceful, interrupted every once in a great while with a harsh consonant.</p> <p>"Curious," said Liddell.</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>She shook her head and spoke to 900-1. Liddell's way of speaking the language, Wight thought, was very obviously an American stumbling over unfamiliarity.</p> <p>"There's a few words she's using I don't recognize," she said, pulling off her shoes, "so I'm going to have to have her repeat herself to Dr. Vanheissen. He's the site head and, uh, our most storied linguist. You can come if you like."</p> <p>The three sloshed across the shallows to the big island.</p> <p>"Our office is kinda small, but there's not a lot of us anyway." Liddell paused to put her shoes back on. "Oh, and we're pretty much completely analog."</p> <p>"'Cause of the electronics disruptions, yeah?"</p> <p>"Mmhm. It's sporadic and usually not that bad, but it's kind of a pain to deal with, so we just avoid using very advanced electronic stuff altogether. Except for our fans, and our lights, and that fence." She gestured to the walls enclosing the islands. "Oh, and we have a radio. Most of the time it's just static but sometimes you can hear indistinct voices."</p> <p>"Neat," Wight said. She hoped she wasn't coming across as a bitch. Her voice just sounded so dead all the time it was hard not to.</p> <p>Liddell opened the door of the office for Wight and 900-1. Wight looked around - the place was dark and cool, tiled in that weird mottled grey that had been ubiquitous in offices a couple decades ago. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt sat at a desk covered in paperwork as he fiddled with an old radio - Wight felt her insides clench reflexively, though when she realized the thing wasn't on, she exhaled with relief.</p> <p>"Ugh, power's out again," Liddell muttered. She started towards a door on the left when she noticed the Hawaiian shirt.</p> <p>"Sup, midget?" he said, nodding to Liddell.</p> <p>"Don't call me that, and don't mess with the radio when there's a blackout. Doc V said."</p> <p>"He also said not to be a sycophant. Midget."</p> <p>Liddell stalked off, 900-1 in tow. He set the radio on the desk and turned to Wight with a grin. When he was looking at her full in the face, she could see that his eyes were of mismatched colors. "Delacroix. Emergency medicine and demolitions."</p> <p>"Er." Wight had checked the report - there was a grand total of 32 people in the whole Site, counting 900-1. "How often do you get work around here?"</p> <p>"Pretty much never. 'S why I'm always listenin' to the radio." He gave the little plastic box a hard thump with a closed fist. "Or I would, if this place didn't keep fuckin' with my stuff."</p> <p>"Oh. I don't like radios anyway."</p> <p>"Bad experience?"</p> <p>"You could say that." She rubbed the back of her head, feeling a little awkward. "Um, where did Doctor K go?"</p> <p>He gestured to the door Liddell had disappeared through. Wight approached it. For a moment, she was almost proud of herself for doing something right for once.</p> <p>The lights flicked on, and so did the radio, and so did the Noise. Rob curled around her arms; only moments later her hands filled with tiny cuts as she brought them up to guard him from an explosion of window glass. She blinked a few times against the warmth that was filling her left eye.</p> <p>"Jesus Chr - "</p> <p>She attempted to respond to Delacroix, but consciousness left her before she could make a sound.<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="/wednesday-6">Wednesday - 6</a>" by Cherry Pict, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wednesday-6">https://scpwiki.com/wednesday-6</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]] [[/>]] [[[wednesday-5 \|<<]]] //it's been almost three days since i last saw you// //come on// //it's not safe here// "Up you get, agent." Wight drew a sharp breath as Doctor K thumped her on the forehead with the flat of his hand. "Nngh - what?" "We've landed. Come along." She followed him, her foggy head largely unable to parse the white light of high noon that she had hidden her eyes from during her nap. She climbed off the motorboat as Doctor K was speaking, but she wasn't really listening. Her ears were still filled with indistinct words. The "gate" of Site 78, lined with barbed wire, yawned before them as she presented her badge to the man in the booth. "...a lack of words for certain concepts. At any rate you ought to familiarize yourself with the place." Without waiting for a response, Doctor K strode off towards the largest of the site's watchtowers. Wight rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings. Site 78 surrounded this entire cluster of islands, all of them covered in the crumbling ruins of a dead civilization. She decided her explorations may as well begin from the center. As she approached the foundation of what must have been a very spacious building, she spotted a pair of figures in the distance, standing on a very small island that bore an archway. She crossed the big island, pulled off her boots, and waded to the small one. One of the figures was a scrawny brunette - she crouched on the ground before the arch. Every few seconds there would be a click and a flash as she took photos of the pictograms etched into the worn stone. The other figure, a tall woman in a long red dress, was easily recognizable as SCP-900-1 - she had fairly plain features, aside from lengthy white hair, covered mostly by a thin shawl. She averted her eyes and spoke a few words to the other woman, who stood up and turned quickly. "...Agent Wednesday Wight, yeah? New sniper?" "That's right." She nodded to the boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. "That's Rob. Who are you?" "Liddell. I'm one of the zillion linguists you'll probably meet here. And by zillion I mean three." She gestured to 900-1. "This is 900-1. Required designation, obviously." 900-1 addressed Liddell. The tongue she spoke was smooth and graceful, interrupted every once in a great while with a harsh consonant. "Curious," said Liddell. "What?" She shook her head and spoke to 900-1. Liddell's way of speaking the language, Wight thought, was very obviously an American stumbling over unfamiliarity. "There's a few words she's using I don't recognize," she said, pulling off her shoes, "so I'm going to have to have her repeat herself to Dr. Vanheissen. He's the site head and, uh, our most storied linguist. You can come if you like." The three sloshed across the shallows to the big island. "Our office is kinda small, but there's not a lot of us anyway." Liddell paused to put her shoes back on. "Oh, and we're pretty much completely analog." "'Cause of the electronics disruptions, yeah?" "Mmhm. It's sporadic and usually not that bad, but it's kind of a pain to deal with, so we just avoid using very advanced electronic stuff altogether. Except for our fans, and our lights, and that fence." She gestured to the walls enclosing the islands. "Oh, and we have a radio. Most of the time it's just static but sometimes you can hear indistinct voices." "Neat," Wight said. She hoped she wasn't coming across as a bitch. Her voice just sounded so dead all the time it was hard not to. Liddell opened the door of the office for Wight and 900-1. Wight looked around - the place was dark and cool, tiled in that weird mottled grey that had been ubiquitous in offices a couple decades ago. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt sat at a desk covered in paperwork as he fiddled with an old radio - Wight felt her insides clench reflexively, though when she realized the thing wasn't on, she exhaled with relief. "Ugh, power's out again," Liddell muttered. She started towards a door on the left when she noticed the Hawaiian shirt. "Sup, midget?" he said, nodding to Liddell. "Don't call me that, and don't mess with the radio when there's a blackout. Doc V said." "He also said not to be a sycophant. Midget." Liddell stalked off, 900-1 in tow. He set the radio on the desk and turned to Wight with a grin. When he was looking at her full in the face, she could see that his eyes were of mismatched colors. "Delacroix. Emergency medicine and demolitions." "Er." Wight had checked the report - there was a grand total of 32 people in the whole Site, counting 900-1. "How often do you get work around here?" "Pretty much never. 'S why I'm always listenin' to the radio." He gave the little plastic box a hard thump with a closed fist. "Or I would, if this place didn't keep fuckin' with my stuff." "Oh. I don't like radios anyway." "Bad experience?" "You could say that." She rubbed the back of her head, feeling a little awkward. "Um, where did Doctor K go?" He gestured to the door Liddell had disappeared through. Wight approached it. For a moment, she was almost proud of herself for doing something right for once. The lights flicked on, and so did the radio, and so did the Noise. Rob curled around her arms; only moments later her hands filled with tiny cuts as she brought them up to guard him from an explosion of window glass. She blinked a few times against the warmth that was filling her left eye. "Jesus Chr - " She attempted to respond to Delacroix, but consciousness left her before she could make a sound. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2011-10-22T05:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Wednesday - 6 - SCP Foundation	18	[ "wednesday-5", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2011", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	11922814	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wednesday-6
welcome-to-the-future	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Please sit down, Dr. Hurst.</p> <p>I am Dr. Roy. Please don’t stare. I apologise for the search, but we could not be entirely sure you were genuine. We’ve had quite a few people over the last few months who sought to cause…problems with us. But enough of that. Our friend in the Foundation gave me quite a bit of information about you, Dr. Hurst.</p> <p>Of course we have people in the Foundation. Your friend, David, I believe. Just last week he sent us information on six possible recruits. David gave you quite the glowing review. 'Just what we need', 'A brilliant mind' and 'Able to do what must be done'. Now, that last one gives me hope. Let's have a look at this file, shall we?</p> <p>Oh, you were involved with the Alaska incident? That was magnificent, you should be proud. The research data alone was extremely useful, as I can see. A few casualties, but these cannot be avoided in our line of work, can they? And you used another item to stop it? You've been wasting your time at the Foundation, doctor, you obviously belong with us!</p> <p>Perhaps it’s time I tell you what it is we do here. In essence, we’re very similar to the organization you just left. We’re not as big, I admit, but I feel that our very nature means we achieve more. Much more, as you will see during your career with us. We have three hundred and twenty six items currently in our possession. Actually, with your welcome gift we now have three hundred and twenty seven.</p> <p>Take for example the ‘human serum’. Inject it into any animal and it will morph and twist into the approximate shape of a human. The samples they had, they locked away. But we had better ideas. We injected it <em>into</em> a human. Oh, the results. This is what you will do. Do what it is not right to do, because nobody else is able to do it. It’s for the good of the world, doctor!</p> <p>We have many more test subjects than the Foundation. The officials in the countries we place our facilities pay us to take their poor, their destitute, their useless. The people we use have nothing. They are nothing. But we can take them, use them, and then they <strong>are</strong> something, aren't they? They're the future.</p> <p>I hope that in the future, wars will not be fought with guns. They will be fought with impossible things; wars will be ended in an instant. They could be ended before they began. I’m not evil. But the things we do have to be done.</p> <p>We’ll give you thirty test subjects for your first two months and access to two Vertigo items. You would call those Safe items, we don’t. Bright new ideas, doctor, for a bright new future! Haha. Impress me, doctor. I’m sure you will exceed all of our expectations.</p> <p>You are to use the items on the subjects, as I'm sure you know how to. Keep trying and trying until you find that moment where it all clicks and you're not holding something that should not be in your hands. When you find you're holding a weapon, you've done it. It's another small step, doctor. Another small step.</p> <p>Oh, the name? We are a small force against the tide of impossibility, and this small force seeks to create logic out of illogic. What better name than the Chaos Insurgency?</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="/welcome-to-the-future">Welcome to the Future</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/welcome-to-the-future">https://scpwiki.com/welcome-to-the-future</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 sit down, Dr. Hurst. I am Dr. Roy. Please don’t stare. I apologise for the search, but we could not be entirely sure you were genuine. We’ve had quite a few people over the last few months who sought to cause...problems with us. But enough of that. Our friend in the Foundation gave me quite a bit of information about you, Dr. Hurst. Of course we have people in the Foundation. Your friend, David, I believe. Just last week he sent us information on six possible recruits. David gave you quite the glowing review. 'Just what we need', 'A brilliant mind' and 'Able to do what must be done'. Now, that last one gives me hope. Let's have a look at this file, shall we? Oh, you were involved with the Alaska incident? That was magnificent, you should be proud. The research data alone was extremely useful, as I can see. A few casualties, but these cannot be avoided in our line of work, can they? And you used another item to stop it? You've been wasting your time at the Foundation, doctor, you obviously belong with us! Perhaps it’s time I tell you what it is we do here. In essence, we’re very similar to the organization you just left. We’re not as big, I admit, but I feel that our very nature means we achieve more. Much more, as you will see during your career with us. We have three hundred and twenty six items currently in our possession. Actually, with your welcome gift we now have three hundred and twenty seven. Take for example the ‘human serum’. Inject it into any animal and it will morph and twist into the approximate shape of a human. The samples they had, they locked away. But we had better ideas. We injected it //into// a human. Oh, the results. This is what you will do. Do what it is not right to do, because nobody else is able to do it. It’s for the good of the world, doctor! We have many more test subjects than the Foundation. The officials in the countries we place our facilities pay us to take their poor, their destitute, their useless. The people we use have nothing. They are nothing. But we can take them, use them, and then they are something, aren't they? They're the future. I hope that in the future, wars will not be fought with guns. They will be fought with impossible things; wars will be ended in an instant. They could be ended before they began. I’m not evil. But the things we do have to be done. We’ll give you thirty test subjects for your first two months and access to two Vertigo items. You would call those Safe items, we don’t. Bright new ideas, doctor, for a bright new future! Haha. Impress me, doctor. I’m sure you will exceed all of our expectations. You are to use the items on the subjects, as I'm sure you know how to. Keep trying and trying until you find that moment where it all clicks and you're not holding something that should not be in your hands. When you find you're holding a weapon, you've done it. It's another small step, doctor. Another small step. Oh, the name? We are a small force against the tide of impossibility, and this small force seeks to create logic out of illogic. What better name than the Chaos Insurgency? [[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>]]	2011-10-25T22:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "orientation", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Welcome to the Future - SCP Foundation	182	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2011", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	11939594	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/welcome-to-the-future
what-i-m-here-for	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">Written by Sabituski </span><br/> Hello, sir. I know what you're here for, but if you’ve got the time, I’d like to tell you a story. Now, don’t get that look on your sweet, soft face. This story is rather good, if I do say so myself. I can’t make promises for the telling – after all, this old man is getting on in his years. But if you’ll take a seat for a while, and actually listen to me, well…who knows? You may learn something. Now, please, sit down. <p>Now, I’ll assume an educated individual like you is familiar with the Many-worlds interpretation, yes? A funny old theory that says that every action on the planet creates a breaking point – a point where possibilities slip from view, only to find themselves in the fertile ground of another world. These possibilities go on to lead fulfilling lives in this different world, whereas they might’ve stifled and choked in their originating worlds. The universe as you know it is very similar, if you’ll let me indulge in metaphor for a second, to a dandelion. Every hour, every minute, every second, possibilities are all collectively being blown from the originating point, floating throughout the ether, and taking seed. It’s the difference between a live fire and a misfire. The difference between a dead cat and a live one. The difference between magic and your science.</p> <p>Now unfortunately, these other worlds are drawn behind a curtain that your kind does not see, nor fully comprehend is present. Thankfully, I was lifting curtains of that nature since before you were a twinkle in Adam’s eye. Shall I tell you what’s behind Door Number One, doctor? Hah. Don’t bother answering. I can tell by the look on your face that you want to know.</p> <p>Have faith and patience, doctor. And more importantly: listen.</p> <p>Consider a world where the difference was in human thought. Here, now, we are present in a world where men disparaged and hated the age of myth from the get-go. Let’s call our world the World of Reason. In Reason, mankind has turned against his creators and betters, calling them folktales, nightmares, and yes, gods. You have used Reason’s light to banish the dark from our minds, and you succeeded – at least for a while.</p> <p>However…</p> <p>Mankind is truly incapable of destroying these things. How would you wound a god, or destroy a nightmare? You can explain them away, put them in a meter by meter cell – but they will always find a way out. Myth always finds a way back into the world. All you’ve done in the World of Reason is altered the lock and keyhole, slightly. You’ll find Myth has a great many keys, and a myriad of methods for getting his grimy fingers under the door…there were forces at play in the universe, doctor, that you cannot even comprehend. Gods, small and tall. Things older and greater than even I.</p> <p>You’ll find that you have a great number of their aspects on file.</p> <p>Now, then. Let’s turn to this other world I mentioned.</p> <p>In this world…let's call it the World of Myth. In this world, mankind has learned its place. It is a world of faith, of subtle belief in things that are greater than man. They believe, and it does not dominate their lives. Humorously, in their belief, they have obtained the world your Foundation so desperately seeks. The primal forces do not seek to enforce and patrol such a world, and as such, that world is devoid of the supernatural. No Keters, no Type Greens, no Genius Loci, no Class Apex Hazards, and no Individuals. It is a world of pure irony, and my fondness for it increases every day.</p> <p>Now then, doctor -</p> <blockquote> <p>Cadwallader, what the hell? Your time with 343 ended almost 30 minutes ago! What are you still doing here? Get the hell out now, or you’ll be on Langley’s shortlist so fast your fuckin’ head will spin!</p> </blockquote> <p>…Ah. Such language.</p> <p>Must you go? I see.</p> <p>Do not look at me so sadly. We’ll meet and chat again, eventually. Whether it is at Eden, Site 19, or Meggido does not matter – I’m always ready for your questions, your pleas, and your prayers.</p> <p>It’s what I’m here for, after all.<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="/what-i-m-here-for">What I'm Here For</a>" by Sabitsuki, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/what-i-m-here-for">https://scpwiki.com/what-i-m-here-for</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]] Hello, sir. I know what you're here for, but if you’ve got the time, I’d like to tell you a story. Now, don’t get that look on your sweet, soft face. This story is rather good, if I do say so myself. I can’t make promises for the telling – after all, this old man is getting on in his years. But if you’ll take a seat for a while, and actually listen to me, well…who knows? You may learn something. Now, please, sit down. Now, I’ll assume an educated individual like you is familiar with the Many-worlds interpretation, yes? A funny old theory that says that every action on the planet creates a breaking point – a point where possibilities slip from view, only to find themselves in the fertile ground of another world. These possibilities go on to lead fulfilling lives in this different world, whereas they might’ve stifled and choked in their originating worlds. The universe as you know it is very similar, if you’ll let me indulge in metaphor for a second, to a dandelion. Every hour, every minute, every second, possibilities are all collectively being blown from the originating point, floating throughout the ether, and taking seed. It’s the difference between a live fire and a misfire. The difference between a dead cat and a live one. The difference between magic and your science. Now unfortunately, these other worlds are drawn behind a curtain that your kind does not see, nor fully comprehend is present. Thankfully, I was lifting curtains of that nature since before you were a twinkle in Adam’s eye. Shall I tell you what’s behind Door Number One, doctor? Hah. Don’t bother answering. I can tell by the look on your face that you want to know. Have faith and patience, doctor. And more importantly: listen. Consider a world where the difference was in human thought. Here, now, we are present in a world where men disparaged and hated the age of myth from the get-go. Let’s call our world the World of Reason. In Reason, mankind has turned against his creators and betters, calling them folktales, nightmares, and yes, gods. You have used Reason’s light to banish the dark from our minds, and you succeeded – at least for a while. However… Mankind is truly incapable of destroying these things. How would you wound a god, or destroy a nightmare? You can explain them away, put them in a meter by meter cell – but they will always find a way out. Myth always finds a way back into the world. All you’ve done in the World of Reason is altered the lock and keyhole, slightly. You’ll find Myth has a great many keys, and a myriad of methods for getting his grimy fingers under the door...there were forces at play in the universe, doctor, that you cannot even comprehend. Gods, small and tall. Things older and greater than even I. You’ll find that you have a great number of their aspects on file. Now, then. Let’s turn to this other world I mentioned. In this world…let's call it the World of Myth. In this world, mankind has learned its place. It is a world of faith, of subtle belief in things that are greater than man. They believe, and it does not dominate their lives. Humorously, in their belief, they have obtained the world your Foundation so desperately seeks. The primal forces do not seek to enforce and patrol such a world, and as such, that world is devoid of the supernatural. No Keters, no Type Greens, no Genius Loci, no Class Apex Hazards, and no Individuals. It is a world of pure irony, and my fondness for it increases every day. Now then, doctor - > Cadwallader, what the hell? Your time with 343 ended almost 30 minutes ago! What are you still doing here? Get the hell out now, or you’ll be on Langley’s shortlist so fast your fuckin’ head will spin! ...Ah. Such language. Must you go? I see. Do not look at me so sadly. We’ll meet and chat again, eventually. Whether it is at Eden, Site 19, or Meggido does not matter – I’m always ready for your questions, your pleas, and your prayers. It’s what I’m here for, after all. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2011-05-23T18:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "tale" ]	What I'm Here For - 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", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	10185228	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/what-i-m-here-for
white-knight	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>The following log was recovered from the personal computer of Dr. ██████ on January 23, 19██, as part of a formal inquiry. Access is restricted to Level 2 personnel and higher. Thanks to the work of Agent ██████, only the most significant portions have been retained. A full transcript is available upon request.</p> <p>It is worth noting that, according to the informed opinions of Dr. █████ and Agent ██████, Dr. ██████’s exposure to SCP-███-█ could <em>not</em> have been the only thing at work here, as the scope of its effect—while extremely hazardous and detrimental—is not this extensive. Dr. ██████ was an extremely disturbed man, with more than mere exposure to an SCP at work within his mind.</p> <p>All prior evaluations and reports seemed to indicate that Dr. ██████ was a likable, if unremarkable, researcher. Due to circumstances which will become readily evident, his termination on March 23, 201█ has been recorded as a casualty rather than a sentencing.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>October 14, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>I finally gained approval for testing on SCP-███-█. Finally. For seventeen months I’ve requested, explained, and begged Director ██████, and he finally relented last weekend at the Senior Staff party for Dr. Christina ██████. I can’t believe she’s thirty-five! Barely looks a day over twenty. Maybe I should ask her to dinner sometime? After all, we’re closer in age than I initially believed! Hahaha!</p> <p><strong>February 16, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>Work started today. I think that I’m going to manage to get this round of testing done before July, and then I plan to take my annual leave to visit Site-██. Once I complete this project, I think I should be able to get my transfer request approved. It’s not that I don’t like the site or the people I work with, but the Australian Outback is just so… dull. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Christina (who also accepted my request for a fourth date!) is a herpetologist, and we spent over an hour last night together talking about how many poisonous snakes there were living out there. You wanna know how many? A lot. A whole, whole lot. But she’s really more fun than I’m making her out to be. Smart, funny. Sexy as hell too. Haha! I hope she never reads this. She’d kill me.</p> <p><strong>May 24, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>SCP-███-█ is just as unreactive as it’s always been. God only knows why the Insurgency wanted it. Doesn’t make any sense. Our containment specialist, kid named ██████, he thinks that it’s just to make us waste resources, but I don’t buy that. There’s something going on there that I’m just not seeing yet. Next round of tests are still being run by Director ██████ for approval, so I get a few days off. Christina and I are going over to Sydney for the weekend. She told me she had a present for me… I think she’s just trying to make up for canceling on me on Thursday.</p> <p><strong>May 28, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>Holy shit. She made up for it.</p> <p><strong>September 1, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>The sun is shining, the birds are singing! Things are going so well right now that I just want to shout if from the top of a table in the mess hall. Hahaha! And no, it’s not just because I’m getting laid, though that <em>is</em> pretty tops. Most recent round of testing was approved, I’m up for a promotion, and Dr. █████ is retiring, which means I’m next in line for his office! It’s actually a little smaller than mine, but it’s right next to Christina’s, so I’m not going to complain. God damn. I am so lucky.</p> <p><strong>November 8, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>Ugh. Testing shows a null again. They’re lowering me from seven to just three Class-D’s, and I’m once again loosing Jr. Researchers. I know that it’s not the most exciting work. Research on Safe objects rarely is, unless you’re lucky enough to work under Gears. But this is part of the job! You’ve got to get in there, get your chops on something mostly harmless, and learn the procedures! Without that sort of knowledge, you’re never going to succeed in this line of work. You’re going to end up dead or stranded in an alternate dimension, or doing something reckless that gets a lot of people killed. Ahh, well. They were good kids. I think they’ll do fine.</p> <p><strong>December 22, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>I finally got the news kids broken in, just in time for the next round of testing. I asked Christina if she’d be interested in transferring off site with me, and while she was initially hesitant, the second I mentioned that I’d be aim for Site-██, she jumped at it. Apparently, she’s originally from the Ozarks (She never told me! Not a trace of an accent, either), and since SCP-███ is there, she thinks she’ll have a good chance of getting approved as well! Of course, there’s another way to make sure we both get transferred together, but I’m a little hesitant to ask. It’s only been a year and a half, but there is just such a strong connection there… Ahh! I don’t even want to think about it! Haha!</p> <p><strong>January 1, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>She said yes!</p> <p><strong>March 23, 198█</strong>:</p> <p>Director ██████ actually made me cry a little. I never thought he liked me that much, but the ceremony he performed was probably the most moving thing I’ve ever heard him say. It’s like he’s been practicing it for years! We’ve decided to stay at Site-██ for a little while. I don’t want to drag her away from her work, and she has no interest in dragging me away from mine, either. But, we’ve decided on it. No more than another three years here. It’s a dead-end posting, and I think we both know we’re better than that, now.</p> <p><strong>May 4, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Well, I’m sorry to be ending my research on SCP-███-█ without actually getting any new data. We’ve got reams and reams of failed test after failed test. I’m beginning think this thing is a safe that’s never going to be cracked. But I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just not that good at these sorts of things. Ahh, well.</p> <p>On the bright side… Request for transfer approved! It was actually Christina’s that went trough, not mine, but who cares! Site-██ awaits, and it’s got a huge facility in a quiet, rural little area. The best part? Only two hours from ██████ ████, and while that may not sound like heaven, let me assure you that spending eight years in a desert wasteland will make <em>any</em> major site of population far, far more interesting.</p> <p><strong>July 7, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>We’ve settled in remarkable well! I’ve made a bunch of new friends from some of the people living here. Haha. I’m a kept man right now. Christina jumped right in with SCP-███, but I’m still waiting for assignment! On the good side, I’ve got lots of time to follow my own pursuits. I keep checking my old research on ███-█, and I’ve found a bunch of errors that my kids made. Nothing to serious, but enough to require resubmission. Director ██████ actually offered me reposting when he saw my revisions. Said that he’d, and I quote: “Never have let me go if I’d shown this diligence before.” Hahaha! I told him that I just had to shake the sand, and dust out of my brains to get them working again. We had a good laugh. It was nice to talk to him again.</p> <p><strong>September 22, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Finally, some work. I’ve been assigned to SCP-███, another Safe. I think they just handed it to me because I wanted something to do. I’ve been reading the previous research on it, and I’ve found a lot of problems with some of procedures. Though, considering it was the renowned Dr. ████ who was heading it up, I’m not surprised. I’ll be taking over in the morning, if all goes well. Descent sized staff too! Christina says that she’s jealous, but I doubt it. She’s wonderful, though. So supportive.</p> <p><strong>November 11, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Christina just won a site award for her research with SCP-███! She actually managed to fully sequence its DNA, and it looks like we’re going to be successful in finding a cure for the “brittling” side effect. Near as she can tell, its poison is effectively turning the bones into chalk. Exciting stuff! I, on the other hand, have ruined seventeen lab coats. But, I’m having fun. A lot more fun than I’ve had in a long, long time.</p> <p><strong>December 26, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>She was successful. My God, I am married to a brilliant woman. In less than five years, she’s managed to do what senior researchers have been trying to do for twenty. Even better, it looks like it’s going to be a valid cure for osteoporosis. She should be getting the Nobel Prize for Medicine, but instead, she’s just getting a pat on the back and a transfer to a new project. But, that’s the nature of the work, I guess. She’s moving over to SCP-███. I can’t say I’m not a little worried… This one is a Euclid, after all. But she’s smart. Vibrant. Amazing, really. So much more than I deserve.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>The following section takes place over the three weeks that preceded Dr. ██████’s final breakdown. While psychological reports, available from Dr. █████, seemed to represent a man with significant self-doubt and an inferiority complex, they did not, in any way, hint at what was to come. Post-mortem reexaminations of these materials, and further reevaluations done in the wake of Agent ██████’s discoveries, seem to point to SCP-███-█ as the primary culprit.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>March 11, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>I think something is wrong, but I’m not sure… Christina was pretty sick last week. She says it’s nothing, but I’ve been after her to go an see the site physician. I’m almost certain that it has something to do with SCP-███. She didn’t have this problem before the transfer, and I’m worried. I don’t know what I’m so concerned about, but… Well… It’s a husband’s prerogative.</p> <p><strong>March 14, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>I know something is wrong. She’s quiet. Reserved. It has to be that damned thing that she’s working with! We barely understand how it works, much less how it reproduces. And she won’t listen to me! I’m sure, I ‘m so sure that it’s ███, but she’s not… Damn it. If I could only convince her. I’m sure. I’m almost certain.</p> <p><strong>March 16, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>I’m positive that she must be keeping something from me. I don’t think there’s any other explanation for the way she’s acting. She’s never done this. Not in the twelve years we’ve been married. Not that I can remember as least. Am I overreacting?</p> <p><strong>March 17, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Christina and Agatha quit talking when I came into the room today. She must know that I know she’s hiding something. She must.</p> <p><strong>March 19, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Christina came by the lab today during testing, but she wouldn’t say what she wanted. She just “wanted to see me.” I’m not sure what that even means. We got into an argument about it when I got home. This is absurd. She must realize the ███ is doing something to her.</p> <p><strong>March 21, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Dr. ████ is being dispatched to Site-██ for a week. His lab is perfect. It should be empty, quiet, and it has all the medical equipment I need. Everyone forgets that I have training in something other than metaphysics. I’m going to figure out what is wrong.</p> <p><strong>March 22, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>I couldn’t decide how to get her into the lab, so I had to drug her. She kept rambling about the size of a quarters. And she kept fucking <em>smiling</em> at me. Some sort of stupid little grin. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. But I have to find out. She’s too wonderful for me not to.</p> <p><strong>March 23, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>I was right. I was right about everything. I’ve had to keep her sedated. She woke up and started screaming, but that’s pretty much par for the course in Dr. ████’s lab, so no one thought anything of it. It has to be SCP-███. It’s done something to her body. Something is <em>growing</em> inside her. Feeding on her. She can’t die. I love her too much. I have to help her.</p> <p><strong>March 25, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>Agatha came by the quarters this morning looking for Christina. I told her that we’d had a fight, and she’d left. Agatha looked shocked. Never thought I’d see that look on her face. I’d take her to the lab too, but she shows no signs of infection. I’ll make sure she gets examined after I present my results to the site director. They’ll have to listen to me then.</p> <p><strong>March 28, 199█</strong>:</p> <p>I don’t have any more time. Dr. ████ is coming back in the morning. I’ve been pouring over medical texts for the last week, but I’m just not certain I can do this… It’s been so long since I’ve done anything like this… I flunked my medical entrance exam, but… I have to do this. I have to fix her. She’ll be fine. I know she will… Dear God. Please let her be fine.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Dr. ██████’s operation to remove the “parasite” was successful, and his wife survived the operation, remarkably. When Dr. ████ returned the following day, he discovered Dr. ██████ carefully dissecting an aborted fetus in his lab and reported it to site security. Dr. ██████ was taken into custody and confined to the care of Dr. █████, the site psychiatrist, for careful observation.</p> <p>Christina ██████ committed suicide on July 14, 199█ after administration of Class A Amnesiacs was unsuccessful. Dr. ██████ was not informed and, until his termination in 201█, believed that he had saved his wife’s life.</p> </blockquote> <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="/white-knight">White Knight</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/white-knight">https://scpwiki.com/white-knight</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 following log was recovered from the personal computer of Dr. ██████ on January 23, 19██, as part of a formal inquiry. Access is restricted to Level 2 personnel and higher. Thanks to the work of Agent ██████, only the most significant portions have been retained. A full transcript is available upon request. > > It is worth noting that, according to the informed opinions of Dr. █████ and Agent ██████, Dr. ██████’s exposure to SCP-███-█ could //not// have been the only thing at work here, as the scope of its effect—while extremely hazardous and detrimental—is not this extensive. Dr. ██████ was an extremely disturbed man, with more than mere exposure to an SCP at work within his mind. > > All prior evaluations and reports seemed to indicate that Dr. ██████ was a likable, if unremarkable, researcher. Due to circumstances which will become readily evident, his termination on March 23, 201█ has been recorded as a casualty rather than a sentencing. ----- October 14, 198█: I finally gained approval for testing on SCP-███-█. Finally. For seventeen months I’ve requested, explained, and begged Director ██████, and he finally relented last weekend at the Senior Staff party for Dr. Christina ██████. I can’t believe she’s thirty-five! Barely looks a day over twenty. Maybe I should ask her to dinner sometime? After all, we’re closer in age than I initially believed! Hahaha! February 16, 198█: Work started today. I think that I’m going to manage to get this round of testing done before July, and then I plan to take my annual leave to visit Site-██. Once I complete this project, I think I should be able to get my transfer request approved. It’s not that I don’t like the site or the people I work with, but the Australian Outback is just so… dull. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Christina (who also accepted my request for a fourth date!) is a herpetologist, and we spent over an hour last night together talking about how many poisonous snakes there were living out there. You wanna know how many? A lot. A whole, whole lot. But she’s really more fun than I’m making her out to be. Smart, funny. Sexy as hell too. Haha! I hope she never reads this. She’d kill me. May 24, 198█: SCP-███-█ is just as unreactive as it’s always been. God only knows why the Insurgency wanted it. Doesn’t make any sense. Our containment specialist, kid named ██████, he thinks that it’s just to make us waste resources, but I don’t buy that. There’s something going on there that I’m just not seeing yet. Next round of tests are still being run by Director ██████ for approval, so I get a few days off. Christina and I are going over to Sydney for the weekend. She told me she had a present for me… I think she’s just trying to make up for canceling on me on Thursday. May 28, 198█: Holy shit. She made up for it. September 1, 198█: The sun is shining, the birds are singing! Things are going so well right now that I just want to shout if from the top of a table in the mess hall. Hahaha! And no, it’s not just because I’m getting laid, though that //is// pretty tops. Most recent round of testing was approved, I’m up for a promotion, and Dr. █████ is retiring, which means I’m next in line for his office! It’s actually a little smaller than mine, but it’s right next to Christina’s, so I’m not going to complain. God damn. I am so lucky. November 8, 198█: Ugh. Testing shows a null again. They’re lowering me from seven to just three Class-D’s, and I’m once again loosing Jr. Researchers. I know that it’s not the most exciting work. Research on Safe objects rarely is, unless you’re lucky enough to work under Gears. But this is part of the job! You’ve got to get in there, get your chops on something mostly harmless, and learn the procedures! Without that sort of knowledge, you’re never going to succeed in this line of work. You’re going to end up dead or stranded in an alternate dimension, or doing something reckless that gets a lot of people killed. Ahh, well. They were good kids. I think they’ll do fine. December 22, 198█: I finally got the news kids broken in, just in time for the next round of testing. I asked Christina if she’d be interested in transferring off site with me, and while she was initially hesitant, the second I mentioned that I’d be aim for Site-██, she jumped at it. Apparently, she’s originally from the Ozarks (She never told me! Not a trace of an accent, either), and since SCP-███ is there, she thinks she’ll have a good chance of getting approved as well! Of course, there’s another way to make sure we both get transferred together, but I’m a little hesitant to ask. It’s only been a year and a half, but there is just such a strong connection there… Ahh! I don’t even want to think about it! Haha! January 1, 198█: She said yes! March 23, 198█: Director ██████ actually made me cry a little. I never thought he liked me that much, but the ceremony he performed was probably the most moving thing I’ve ever heard him say. It’s like he’s been practicing it for years! We’ve decided to stay at Site-██ for a little while. I don’t want to drag her away from her work, and she has no interest in dragging me away from mine, either. But, we’ve decided on it. No more than another three years here. It’s a dead-end posting, and I think we both know we’re better than that, now. May 4, 199█: Well, I’m sorry to be ending my research on SCP-███-█ without actually getting any new data. We’ve got reams and reams of failed test after failed test. I’m beginning think this thing is a safe that’s never going to be cracked. But I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just not that good at these sorts of things. Ahh, well. On the bright side… Request for transfer approved! It was actually Christina’s that went trough, not mine, but who cares! Site-██ awaits, and it’s got a huge facility in a quiet, rural little area. The best part? Only two hours from ██████ ████, and while that may not sound like heaven, let me assure you that spending eight years in a desert wasteland will make //any// major site of population far, far more interesting. July 7, 199█: We’ve settled in remarkable well! I’ve made a bunch of new friends from some of the people living here. Haha. I’m a kept man right now. Christina jumped right in with SCP-███, but I’m still waiting for assignment! On the good side, I’ve got lots of time to follow my own pursuits. I keep checking my old research on ███-█, and I’ve found a bunch of errors that my kids made. Nothing to serious, but enough to require resubmission. Director ██████ actually offered me reposting when he saw my revisions. Said that he’d, and I quote: “Never have let me go if I’d shown this diligence before.” Hahaha! I told him that I just had to shake the sand, and dust out of my brains to get them working again. We had a good laugh. It was nice to talk to him again. September 22, 199█: Finally, some work. I’ve been assigned to SCP-███, another Safe. I think they just handed it to me because I wanted something to do. I’ve been reading the previous research on it, and I’ve found a lot of problems with some of procedures. Though, considering it was the renowned Dr. ████ who was heading it up, I’m not surprised. I’ll be taking over in the morning, if all goes well. Descent sized staff too! Christina says that she’s jealous, but I doubt it. She’s wonderful, though. So supportive. November 11, 199█: Christina just won a site award for her research with SCP-███! She actually managed to fully sequence its DNA, and it looks like we’re going to be successful in finding a cure for the “brittling” side effect. Near as she can tell, its poison is effectively turning the bones into chalk. Exciting stuff! I, on the other hand, have ruined seventeen lab coats. But, I’m having fun. A lot more fun than I’ve had in a long, long time. December 26, 199█: She was successful. My God, I am married to a brilliant woman. In less than five years, she’s managed to do what senior researchers have been trying to do for twenty. Even better, it looks like it’s going to be a valid cure for osteoporosis. She should be getting the Nobel Prize for Medicine, but instead, she’s just getting a pat on the back and a transfer to a new project. But, that’s the nature of the work, I guess. She’s moving over to SCP-███. I can’t say I’m not a little worried… This one is a Euclid, after all. But she’s smart. Vibrant. Amazing, really. So much more than I deserve. ----- > The following section takes place over the three weeks that preceded Dr. ██████’s final breakdown. While psychological reports, available from Dr. █████, seemed to represent a man with significant self-doubt and an inferiority complex, they did not, in any way, hint at what was to come. Post-mortem reexaminations of these materials, and further reevaluations done in the wake of Agent ██████’s discoveries, seem to point to SCP-███-█ as the primary culprit. ----- March 11, 199█: I think something is wrong, but I’m not sure… Christina was pretty sick last week. She says it’s nothing, but I’ve been after her to go an see the site physician. I’m almost certain that it has something to do with SCP-███. She didn’t have this problem before the transfer, and I’m worried. I don’t know what I’m so concerned about, but… Well… It’s a husband’s prerogative. March 14, 199█: I know something is wrong. She’s quiet. Reserved. It has to be that damned thing that she’s working with! We barely understand how it works, much less how it reproduces. And she won’t listen to me! I’m sure, I ‘m so sure that it’s ███, but she’s not… Damn it. If I could only convince her. I’m sure. I’m almost certain. March 16, 199█: I’m positive that she must be keeping something from me. I don’t think there’s any other explanation for the way she’s acting. She’s never done this. Not in the twelve years we’ve been married. Not that I can remember as least. Am I overreacting? March 17, 199█: Christina and Agatha quit talking when I came into the room today. She must know that I know she’s hiding something. She must. March 19, 199█: Christina came by the lab today during testing, but she wouldn’t say what she wanted. She just “wanted to see me.” I’m not sure what that even means. We got into an argument about it when I got home. This is absurd. She must realize the ███ is doing something to her. March 21, 199█: Dr. ████ is being dispatched to Site-██ for a week. His lab is perfect. It should be empty, quiet, and it has all the medical equipment I need. Everyone forgets that I have training in something other than metaphysics. I’m going to figure out what is wrong. March 22, 199█: I couldn’t decide how to get her into the lab, so I had to drug her. She kept rambling about the size of a quarters. And she kept fucking //smiling// at me. Some sort of stupid little grin. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. But I have to find out. She’s too wonderful for me not to. March 23, 199█: I was right. I was right about everything. I’ve had to keep her sedated. She woke up and started screaming, but that’s pretty much par for the course in Dr. ████’s lab, so no one thought anything of it. It has to be SCP-███. It’s done something to her body. Something is //growing// inside her. Feeding on her. She can’t die. I love her too much. I have to help her. March 25, 199█: Agatha came by the quarters this morning looking for Christina. I told her that we’d had a fight, and she’d left. Agatha looked shocked. Never thought I’d see that look on her face. I’d take her to the lab too, but she shows no signs of infection. I’ll make sure she gets examined after I present my results to the site director. They’ll have to listen to me then. March 28, 199█: I don’t have any more time. Dr. ████ is coming back in the morning. I’ve been pouring over medical texts for the last week, but I’m just not certain I can do this… It’s been so long since I’ve done anything like this… I flunked my medical entrance exam, but… I have to do this. I have to fix her. She’ll be fine. I know she will… Dear God. Please let her be fine. ----- > Dr. ██████’s operation to remove the “parasite” was successful, and his wife survived the operation, remarkably. When Dr. ████ returned the following day, he discovered Dr. ██████ carefully dissecting an aborted fetus in his lab and reported it to site security. Dr. ██████ was taken into custody and confined to the care of Dr. █████, the site psychiatrist, for careful observation. > > Christina ██████ committed suicide on July 14, 199█ after administration of Class A Amnesiacs was unsuccessful. Dr. ██████ was not informed and, until his termination in 201█, believed that he had saved his wife’s 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>]]	2011-08-25T09:33:00	[ "_licensebox", "featured", "horror", "journal", "mystery", "tale" ]	White Knight - SCP Foundation	168	[ "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" ]	[]	11574874	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/white-knight
wonder	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Cender was blessed of Old Aggie. His seven daughters and twenty-one granddaughters were proof of that. But now, standing before the statue of the goddess, he couldn’t help but tremble inwardly. He was, after all, going to his death.</p> <p>Cender pushed a long lock of thin, gray hair back on his head, washing his genitals in the pool of water at the statue’s base, and turned, kissing his fingers and pressing them to the statue’s lips, begging forgiveness for sins against his family and protection for the road ahead, knowing that only one of those prayers would be answered. The stone had fallen to him, after all.</p> <p>Cender bowed his head in a final supplication and stepped out of the water, turning and walking into the white sands that surrounded the short, squat building. He wrapped a length of cloth about his head and took out the round, smooth pebble that had decided his fate. He cast it into the air, letting it fall to the earth, then kneeling to look at it carefully, squinting at the arrow carved into it. He picked it up again, shouldering the supply of water that would not last him more than a week, and walked into the desert, following it.</p> <hr/> <p>When he came upon the ruins of the first homes—those oldest ones which were now abandoned—he rested. He should have known better, especially since the ghosts of the dead are always close in the desert, but he didn’t care. He was tired, his feet were blistered, and night had been upon him for hours. And he felt lonely. Cender had slept beside his wife for thirty-eight years, and now, he felt naked and cold without her warmth. He closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the voices in his head, when he heard a different one entirely.</p> <p>“You are old, Cender of Dnoma. Why do you walk this desert?”</p> <p>His eyes opened quickly, turning and looking, seeing a butterfly resting on the edge of the wall. He immediately leaned up, then lowered himself, his forehead touching the ground. “Lord… You honor me.”</p> <p>The voice did not continue to speak. Cender cursed inwardly when he realized that he had not answered the question.</p> <p>“I am the new seeker, my lord. The lot fell to me, and being of a great many daughters, I was sent in spite of my age.”</p> <p>The voice was again silent, but when Cender raised his head, he saw that the butterfly had taken flight, wafting through the air like a leaf. He grabbed his pouch of water, his bag, and hurried, following it, deeper into the desert, deeper into the cold night.</p> <hr/> <p>The butterfly seemed to flick away into nothing when he crested the hill, but Cender didn’t notice. He was, instead, silent. Very, very silent.</p> <p>Before him stretched a ruin unlike any he had seen before, and Cender had been a traveler in his youth, tasted the dead waters to the north, seen the walls to the south. But this…</p> <p>It stretched for ages. Maybe miles. Maybe further. It was made of metal, somehow, and stone, and parts of it hurt to look at, and—with a prayer of thanks and supplication on his lips—Cender dropped to the ground and closed his eyes. He had found it. Hundreds of seekers lost to the desert, and he had found it.</p> <p>Starel’s Tomb. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods.</p> <p>“By your will, oh great ones, I have been guided here. Truly, I am blessed of Aggie. I am blessed of Drakgin. I am blessed of Starel. Thank you!”</p> <p>And had Cender taken his blessing, taken it and run back home, he would have lived out the rest of his days as a saint and priest.</p> <p>But he did not.</p> <hr/> <p>Cender stepped over the sharp stones, wincing slightly as he did so. His feet were aged by the desert and tougher than leather, but these stones were painfully sharp. He finally reached the wall, his hands grabbing and scrabbling for purchase, slowly pulling himself up and on top of the outlying structure. Inside was cooler already, by the will of the gods, and as Cender dropped into the cracked courtyard, he felt a sense of ease wash over him.</p> <p>The gods had allowed him entry. Surely, he was blessed of them, to the point of being the next prophet perhaps. This was, after all, no vision. This was real.</p> <p>He walked toward the large, opened doors and stepped into them, smiling, not even noticing the deep cuts in the floor or the lingering smell of sulfur.</p> <p>He walked into the building, feeling his spirit lift as he gazed up at the seemingly endless ceilings, the deep corridors off either side of it, the endlessly twisting room. He walked down it, choosing a door at random and marking the entrance with his stone, then entering it. He explored, finding the works of the gods littered and skewed about the room, laying broken and destroyed. He sighed, turning to leave as he realized the true treasures would be far deeper in the city. As he turned to leave it, he bent to pick up his rock, and found it missing. His eyes narrowed at the floor, looking for it, realizing that he’d foolishly discarded his mark of office and purpose… And then he heard it.</p> <p>It was a roar, but unlike any he had ever heard. A sound worse than those the demons made when they were butchered. And it was quite close, he feared. So, he did what every coward who knows he is going to die does. He ran.</p> <p>Cender’s legs were old and tired, but the desert makes strong folk, and he could run. The doors were gone, gone to wherever the ancients send such things as displease them, and Cender instead ran for a different path, hoping that somehow he would be given exit, that the gods would forgive him, even though he knew that they would not. He hurried and ran, deeper and deeper, hearing the walls turning and crashing behind him, breaking into nothing as he heard the thing's voice calling to him.</p> <p>“Cender…” it murmured, in a voice that somehow echoed and surrounded him.</p> <p>Starel’s Tomb was huge, infinitely long, and full of twists and turns. He was given short moments of joy when he thought he'd escaped, followed by deep moments of fear and sorrow as he realized he did not. Who knows how long Cender fled the beast? Only that it was not long enough in his mind.</p> <p>He ran and ran and finally… fell, turning and looking at the beast, its great maw opening and splitting into four parts, its terrible teeth easily pushing into his skin and through it. He screamed loudly as Sikayt And Cender screamed and screamed, but the gods wouldn’t hear him. And there he died, learning too late that the blessing of one god is the curse of another.</p> <hr/> <p>The old man’s yellow, toothy grin looked also as terrifying as the story had sounded, and the children quickly fled while the old man laughed loudly, slapping his knees and coughing as his laughing fit caught up to him. He turned to leave, until a small voice caught him.</p> <p>“But what was it Cender found?” it asked.</p> <p>The storyteller turned, looking at the small, deeply tanned boy, no older than twelve. “What did he find?” the man asked. “Why… he found just what he thought he found. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods. Starel’s Tomb.”</p> <p>The little boy shifted on his feet some, licking his cracked lips. “So… was he blessed?” he asked.</p> <p>The old man’s smile stretched across his face again. “Of course not,” he said, laughing. “He was cursed. There are some secrets no one should have to discover.”</p> <p>“But,” the little boy continued, “He found the Home Ceitu. Isn’t that a blessing?”</p> <p>The old man’s eyes narrowed at the boy as he realized that the child would not be swayed. “What is your name, boy?” he asked.</p> <p>The boy narrowed his eyes just for a moment. “Never tell your name to one who hides his,” he said.</p> <p>The ancient man laughed loudly. “Wise boy… Follower of York, are we?” he asked, then smiled and nodded at his own question. “I am called Benadam,” he said.</p> <p>The boy nodded. “My friends call me Rone.”</p> <p>“Well met, Rone. Come. Let me tell you a tale of York… Have you ever heard the story of the ape god Abirt and the waters of life?” he asked, turning about and walking, the boy following him quickly and hanging onto every word.</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="/wonder">The Seeker</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wonder">https://scpwiki.com/wonder</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]] [[/>]] Cender was blessed of Old Aggie. His seven daughters and twenty-one granddaughters were proof of that. But now, standing before the statue of the goddess, he couldn’t help but tremble inwardly. He was, after all, going to his death. Cender pushed a long lock of thin, gray hair back on his head, washing his genitals in the pool of water at the statue’s base, and turned, kissing his fingers and pressing them to the statue’s lips, begging forgiveness for sins against his family and protection for the road ahead, knowing that only one of those prayers would be answered. The stone had fallen to him, after all. Cender bowed his head in a final supplication and stepped out of the water, turning and walking into the white sands that surrounded the short, squat building. He wrapped a length of cloth about his head and took out the round, smooth pebble that had decided his fate. He cast it into the air, letting it fall to the earth, then kneeling to look at it carefully, squinting at the arrow carved into it. He picked it up again, shouldering the supply of water that would not last him more than a week, and walked into the desert, following it. ----- When he came upon the ruins of the first homes—those oldest ones which were now abandoned—he rested. He should have known better, especially since the ghosts of the dead are always close in the desert, but he didn’t care. He was tired, his feet were blistered, and night had been upon him for hours. And he felt lonely. Cender had slept beside his wife for thirty-eight years, and now, he felt naked and cold without her warmth. He closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the voices in his head, when he heard a different one entirely. “You are old, Cender of Dnoma. Why do you walk this desert?” His eyes opened quickly, turning and looking, seeing a butterfly resting on the edge of the wall. He immediately leaned up, then lowered himself, his forehead touching the ground. “Lord… You honor me.” The voice did not continue to speak. Cender cursed inwardly when he realized that he had not answered the question. “I am the new seeker, my lord. The lot fell to me, and being of a great many daughters, I was sent in spite of my age.” The voice was again silent, but when Cender raised his head, he saw that the butterfly had taken flight, wafting through the air like a leaf. He grabbed his pouch of water, his bag, and hurried, following it, deeper into the desert, deeper into the cold night. ----- The butterfly seemed to flick away into nothing when he crested the hill, but Cender didn’t notice. He was, instead, silent. Very, very silent. Before him stretched a ruin unlike any he had seen before, and Cender had been a traveler in his youth, tasted the dead waters to the north, seen the walls to the south. But this… It stretched for ages. Maybe miles. Maybe further. It was made of metal, somehow, and stone, and parts of it hurt to look at, and—with a prayer of thanks and supplication on his lips—Cender dropped to the ground and closed his eyes. He had found it. Hundreds of seekers lost to the desert, and he had found it. Starel’s Tomb. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods. “By your will, oh great ones, I have been guided here. Truly, I am blessed of Aggie. I am blessed of Drakgin. I am blessed of Starel. Thank you!” And had Cender taken his blessing, taken it and run back home, he would have lived out the rest of his days as a saint and priest. But he did not. ----- Cender stepped over the sharp stones, wincing slightly as he did so. His feet were aged by the desert and tougher than leather, but these stones were painfully sharp. He finally reached the wall, his hands grabbing and scrabbling for purchase, slowly pulling himself up and on top of the outlying structure. Inside was cooler already, by the will of the gods, and as Cender dropped into the cracked courtyard, he felt a sense of ease wash over him. The gods had allowed him entry. Surely, he was blessed of them, to the point of being the next prophet perhaps. This was, after all, no vision. This was real. He walked toward the large, opened doors and stepped into them, smiling, not even noticing the deep cuts in the floor or the lingering smell of sulfur. He walked into the building, feeling his spirit lift as he gazed up at the seemingly endless ceilings, the deep corridors off either side of it, the endlessly twisting room. He walked down it, choosing a door at random and marking the entrance with his stone, then entering it. He explored, finding the works of the gods littered and skewed about the room, laying broken and destroyed. He sighed, turning to leave as he realized the true treasures would be far deeper in the city. As he turned to leave it, he bent to pick up his rock, and found it missing. His eyes narrowed at the floor, looking for it, realizing that he’d foolishly discarded his mark of office and purpose… And then he heard it. It was a roar, but unlike any he had ever heard. A sound worse than those the demons made when they were butchered. And it was quite close, he feared. So, he did what every coward who knows he is going to die does. He ran. Cender’s legs were old and tired, but the desert makes strong folk, and he could run. The doors were gone, gone to wherever the ancients send such things as displease them, and Cender instead ran for a different path, hoping that somehow he would be given exit, that the gods would forgive him, even though he knew that they would not. He hurried and ran, deeper and deeper, hearing the walls turning and crashing behind him, breaking into nothing as he heard the thing's voice calling to him. “Cender…” it murmured, in a voice that somehow echoed and surrounded him. Starel’s Tomb was huge, infinitely long, and full of twists and turns. He was given short moments of joy when he thought he'd escaped, followed by deep moments of fear and sorrow as he realized he did not. Who knows how long Cender fled the beast? Only that it was not long enough in his mind. He ran and ran and finally… fell, turning and looking at the beast, its great maw opening and splitting into four parts, its terrible teeth easily pushing into his skin and through it. He screamed loudly as Sikayt And Cender screamed and screamed, but the gods wouldn’t hear him. And there he died, learning too late that the blessing of one god is the curse of another. ----- The old man’s yellow, toothy grin looked also as terrifying as the story had sounded, and the children quickly fled while the old man laughed loudly, slapping his knees and coughing as his laughing fit caught up to him. He turned to leave, until a small voice caught him. “But what was it Cender found?” it asked. The storyteller turned, looking at the small, deeply tanned boy, no older than twelve. “What did he find?” the man asked. “Why… he found just what he thought he found. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods. Starel’s Tomb.” The little boy shifted on his feet some, licking his cracked lips. “So… was he blessed?” he asked. The old man’s smile stretched across his face again. “Of course not,” he said, laughing. “He was cursed. There are some secrets no one should have to discover.” “But,” the little boy continued, “He found the Home Ceitu. Isn’t that a blessing?” The old man’s eyes narrowed at the boy as he realized that the child would not be swayed. “What is your name, boy?” he asked. The boy narrowed his eyes just for a moment. “Never tell your name to one who hides his,” he said. The ancient man laughed loudly. “Wise boy… Follower of York, are we?” he asked, then smiled and nodded at his own question. “I am called Benadam,” he said. The boy nodded. “My friends call me Rone.” “Well met, Rone. Come. Let me tell you a tale of York… Have you ever heard the story of the ape god Abirt and the waters of life?” he asked, turning about and walking, the boy following him quickly and hanging onto every word. [[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>]]	2011-11-11T19:56:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "bellerverse", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Seeker - SCP Foundation	121	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2011", "archived:tales-by-author", "discovering-scp-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "bellerverse" ]	[]	12032794	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wonder
worst-case-scenario	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Worst Case Scenario</strong></p> <p>"Assume that everything I've told you is true."</p> <p>"What's the worst case scenario?"</p> <p>It's my job to answer that question; it's been my job for the past 22 years. I've been asked that same question by everyone from tobacco company executives to defense contractors. My life and livelihood depended on giving them the right answers. This one had degraded into nonsense; this "doctor" was screwing around and I couldn't understand why. The situation he had laid out was absurd — the whole interview was absurd — but I was once more being paid good money to answer that question even if the question and consequent answers didn't make a lot of sense.</p> <p>"Doctor, at that point things would be bad. You would have lost containment entirely, everyone who could stop the spread would be dead, and over the next 24 hours everyone within a hundred miles would be at risk. But at that point, the worst case scenario is that reestablishing containment is the least of your worries because a previously undiscovered deep space object was just detected coming out of our observational blind spot behind the sun on a collision course with earth, leaving us only a few hours to come to terms with our inevitable destruction. That's always the worst case scenario."</p> <p>You know what they say - garbage in, garbage out.</p> <p>"It's been done. September 1992. One of my junior researchers assigned to the L3 observatory spotted it with a good two weeks' notice. That was the day the observatory paid for itself. It could have been bad, but we took a few notes for next time and went about our business.</p> <p>"If you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll be right back with something for you."</p> <p>He had to be screwing with me. But nobody with the security clearance he had provided would bring me in just to screw around. The nondisclosure agreements he had signed to get me in here had been drawn up by some of the world's best lawyers, this wasn't for anyone else's amusement. Bits and pieces of memories in the back of my mind started to come together. I tried to remember what I had heard on the news, 1994, mass casualty incident at Mill Cove, officials blamed an outbreak of a strain of Avian flu that was thought to have been extinct.</p> <p>I have to give him credit, he's planted enough doubt in my mind that I was starting to question what I knew to have happened. But my imagination was running wild and I had broken into a cold sweat by the time he came back. He slid three folders over to me and asked me to read each one carefully and let him know when I was done. I took about ten minutes poring over details of each. For what they were paying me, I'd figured I'd play along. I looked back up and he spoke again, "Same question. Assuming these files are true, what's the worst case scenario?"</p> <p>I handed him the first of the folders and said, "This one is easy. Don't let anyone touch it without gloves. Put it in a locker somewhere and don't let people have the key. That's it, it can't do anything if it's locked in a box. Your worst case scenario is that someone doesn't think it's dangerous and tries to play with it."</p> <p>I thumbed through the second folder again and handed it to him. I responded, "This one's a bit more touchy. Keep it away from people, and require people assigned to it run any decisions by someone off-site. The worst case is that you let people start to empathize and let it out."</p> <p>I slid the third folder across the desk and managed to keep a straight face. This one was a stupid joke, some kind of test that a psychology degree dropout would come up with to make sure you're thinking outside the box. "Doctor, this is not something you're prepared to deal with; it's an out-of-context problem straight out of a science fiction writer's mind. You can't contain it because it figures out what you're doing and breaks out. Every time you try to do something about it, it gets stronger. One day you're going to try something outrageous and it's going to outsmart you, then it's going to kill you. Then it's going to kill everything else it can. Then someday a few billion years from now, when lightning strikes a pool of mud and some sort of primitive self-replicating molecule forms, it's going to find and destroy <em>that</em>. This thing <em>is</em> the worst case scenario.</p> <p>"Do you have any more questions?"</p> <p>"No, Mr. Hanford, I'd like to offer you a job with The Foundation."<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="/worst-case-scenario">Worst Case Scenario</a>" by GWBBQ, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/worst-case-scenario">https://scpwiki.com/worst-case-scenario</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]] [[/>]] Worst Case Scenario "Assume that everything I've told you is true." "What's the worst case scenario?" It's my job to answer that question; it's been my job for the past 22 years. I've been asked that same question by everyone from tobacco company executives to defense contractors. My life and livelihood depended on giving them the right answers. This one had degraded into nonsense; this "doctor" was screwing around and I couldn't understand why. The situation he had laid out was absurd -- the whole interview was absurd -- but I was once more being paid good money to answer that question even if the question and consequent answers didn't make a lot of sense. "Doctor, at that point things would be bad. You would have lost containment entirely, everyone who could stop the spread would be dead, and over the next 24 hours everyone within a hundred miles would be at risk. But at that point, the worst case scenario is that reestablishing containment is the least of your worries because a previously undiscovered deep space object was just detected coming out of our observational blind spot behind the sun on a collision course with earth, leaving us only a few hours to come to terms with our inevitable destruction. That's always the worst case scenario." You know what they say - garbage in, garbage out. "It's been done. September 1992. One of my junior researchers assigned to the L3 observatory spotted it with a good two weeks' notice. That was the day the observatory paid for itself. It could have been bad, but we took a few notes for next time and went about our business. "If you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll be right back with something for you." He had to be screwing with me. But nobody with the security clearance he had provided would bring me in just to screw around. The nondisclosure agreements he had signed to get me in here had been drawn up by some of the world's best lawyers, this wasn't for anyone else's amusement. Bits and pieces of memories in the back of my mind started to come together. I tried to remember what I had heard on the news, 1994, mass casualty incident at Mill Cove, officials blamed an outbreak of a strain of Avian flu that was thought to have been extinct. I have to give him credit, he's planted enough doubt in my mind that I was starting to question what I knew to have happened. But my imagination was running wild and I had broken into a cold sweat by the time he came back. He slid three folders over to me and asked me to read each one carefully and let him know when I was done. I took about ten minutes poring over details of each. For what they were paying me, I'd figured I'd play along. I looked back up and he spoke again, "Same question. Assuming these files are true, what's the worst case scenario?" I handed him the first of the folders and said, "This one is easy. Don't let anyone touch it without gloves. Put it in a locker somewhere and don't let people have the key. That's it, it can't do anything if it's locked in a box. Your worst case scenario is that someone doesn't think it's dangerous and tries to play with it." I thumbed through the second folder again and handed it to him. I responded, "This one's a bit more touchy. Keep it away from people, and require people assigned to it run any decisions by someone off-site. The worst case is that you let people start to empathize and let it out." I slid the third folder across the desk and managed to keep a straight face. This one was a stupid joke, some kind of test that a psychology degree dropout would come up with to make sure you're thinking outside the box. "Doctor, this is not something you're prepared to deal with; it's an out-of-context problem straight out of a science fiction writer's mind. You can't contain it because it figures out what you're doing and breaks out. Every time you try to do something about it, it gets stronger. One day you're going to try something outrageous and it's going to outsmart you, then it's going to kill you. Then it's going to kill everything else it can. Then someday a few billion years from now, when lightning strikes a pool of mud and some sort of primitive self-replicating molecule forms, it's going to find and destroy //that//. This thing //is// the worst case scenario. "Do you have any more questions?" "No, Mr. Hanford, I'd like to offer you a job with The Foundation." @@ @@ [[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>]]	2011-07-30T00:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "murder-monster", "tale" ]	Worst Case Scenario - SCP Foundation	109	[ "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" ]	[]	11389146	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/worst-case-scenario
year-of-the-many	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"How long have we got?" Matthew said, his stomach growling.</p> <p>Zeke had been looking at his watch almost constantly for the last twenty minutes. “Three minutes, ten seconds. Nine seconds.” A pause. “Five seconds.”</p> <p>“Which way did you say it is?” Matthew asked.</p> <p>“Do you have to keep asking?”</p> <p>“What else am I supposed to do?”</p> <p>“Have you checked your gun?”</p> <p>Matthew gripped the MP7 tight. “I did that an hour ago. And half an hour ago. And ten minutes ago. I have ten bullets, and I’d like to stop thinking about that. I haven’t eaten in two days, and I don’t know what day it was then. Don’t wanna think about those either. Which way is the building you saw?”</p> <p>Zeke’s face scrunched up. “Um…”</p> <p>“Well?”</p> <p>“It was Friday. This is Sunday, so that was Friday.”</p> <p>“Zeke…”</p> <p>“Just follow me when the time comes. I know where it is.”</p> <p>Matthew sighed. “How long we got?”</p> <p>Zeke lifted his head up. “Can’t you hear? It’s started.”</p> <p>Matthew listened. From this close to Braunschweig, he could always hear the screaming. Usually the victims, the hunted. Sometimes the Embracers. It didn’t matter. Twenty-three hours a day, always screaming. Screaming until there wasn’t anyone left to scream. Twenty-three hours a day. One hour a day…</p> <p>The Embracers were quiet because of their ritual. Matthew figured the rest were just tired of all the noise.</p> <p>The Hour had come. Matthew and Zeke rose from their hole. As usual, Zeke led, and Matthew followed.</p> <p></p> <p>“Can you at least say how far away it was?” Matthew asked. “It’s been twenty minutes. If we need to turn around…”</p> <p>“That’s not going to happen,” Zeke said. “Look, I know you don’t have training, and it wouldn’t matter if you did, not now, but that’s not the point. It’s…” Zeke thought. Matthew always thought of Sarah Palin, a lifetime and a hemisphere ago, whenever Zeke thought really hard about something, because he always looked like it took a lot more effort than it should have.</p> <p>“It’s principle,” Zeke finally said. “You don’t turn around. Not after this. Either we find more food, maybe a way west, a way back to the States, or we die. No option three.” Zeke huffed with finality.</p> <p>“Fine,” Matthew said. “How far?”</p> <p>“Ten minutes, fifteen tops. No more.”</p> <p>They kept walking in silence. Matthew was often silent around Zeke during their “missions.” Anything he said would just make Zeke mad. Zeke never wanted to hear that Matthew had “given up hope,” as he put it; had given up hope of rescue, had given up hope well before they had even met. Zeke didn’t want to hear that the Embracers were almost certainly back home, and in Brazil, and Africa, and China, and probably fucking Antarctica, if there was someone left there who wasn’t one of them. Everywhere.</p> <p>Zeke went on because he dreamt of being at home, maybe on the cover of Time, famous. “The Man who Survived Europe,” front cover. Maybe next to the story about how the war was over, and we had won. Matthew kept going because he was too stupid to die already.</p> <p></p> <p>Zeke’s sense of timing was spot on, for once. They reached the little concrete bunker thirty-five minutes after they left. Zeke’s NATO training (“brainwashing,” Matthew had called it, back when it had only saved his life once or twice) kicked in, and Matthew went to open the door for him. Zeke went in point, AR-15 and six rounds leading the way. They cleared the first couple of rooms the same way. All bedrooms, bare-bones, beds and desks, double occupancy. All empty. The mess was like the others they had seen, refrigerator full of spoiled food, pantry full of half-edible canned food. Maybe a week’s-worth, maybe ten days. They could carry six. A good day’s work.</p> <p>Matthew wanted to get some sleep, but Zeke was sure he heard something. Not Embracers; their ritual wasn’t quite over yet. Something else, and something in the bunker. There was one room left.</p> <p>Matthew was glad Zeke’s boot was in such good shape, a credit to the young sergeant major this pair had come from. The wooden door splintered around the lock and swung forward.</p> <p>Details come very clearly during times of crisis. One man, gun in mouth, red face covered in tears. Tag on white lab coat reads “SCP Foundation,” then his picture, then “MORGAN, LEVEL 2.” Papers all over the floor, the desk, taped to the walls. A copy of the New York Times, dated five months earlier (Matthew thought); headline read</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>’CHICAGO NOT YET LOST TO ENEMY,’ GENERAL SANDUSKY SAYS<br/> WITHDRAWAL ORDERED, ELECTIONS POSTPONED TWO MORE MONTHS</strong></p> </blockquote> <p>Matthew hated being right.</p> <p>An electric typewriter sat next to a broken computer monitor. The draft of some page of a report sat in the cradle, with some revisions.</p> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">The manifestation of Script 82 on ██/██12 was reported at 02:01:13</span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">The procedure for containment was followed, though all chanters were not contained. Neurotoxin deployment approved by control at</span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Neurotoxin initially believed to be effective, but confirmation not received from site. Protocol required for loss of communication includes</span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Failure to activate on-site warhead</span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Failure to react quickly to cultist activity, beyond suppression in media</span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Failure to coordinate when global contamination</span></p> <p>Failure failure failure</p> <p>Failure</p> <p>Cowardice Failure comes from cowardice</p> <p>Researcher Morgan showed cowardice and is a failure failure failure failure fAILure FAIlure FAIluRE FAILED FAILED YOU FAILED FAILED FAILED TRUSTED YOU FAILED YOU FAILED—</p> </blockquote> <p>“I couldn’t…I couldn’t…” The man had taken the gun out of his mouth. “I couldn’t make the… the…” He kept sobbing. “…couldn’t…”</p> <p>Zeke heard it first, of course. The chanting. It was close, very close. Too close. They were almost inside.</p> <p>“I couldn’t make the tough calls,” the red-faced man said. The gunshot blew the top of his head all over the wall behind him.</p> <p>The Embracers knew what room to go to now. Matthew and Zeke exchanged a quick look, then ran for hiding spots. Matthew got a closet, jumped inside, and made his breathing as quiet as possible. Zeke dove under the bed.</p> <p>Heavy, perfectly coordinated Latin tones rolled down the hallway. No opera, no chorus, had ever matched the perfection in those chants. You couldn’t let yourself think of it as beautiful, or the next step would be seeking them out, getting out of hiding, running towards them. Some nights, as Matthew lay awake, the only thing that drowned out the hunger or terror or pain was the thought that just maybe, if he would go towards the sound, if he would embrace—</p> <p>Matthew clenched on his empty stomach. You can’t think that. There could be a way out. There could be—</p> <p>Two of them walked into the room, looking around. The rest gathered around the doorway, still chanting. The danger was in how normal they looked; no drooling, no hobbling, no blood-covered shirts. They could have been insurance salesmen, or kindergarten teachers. They glanced around, then looked at the bed.</p> <p>Matthew didn’t know how Zeke had given himself away. Surely the soldier was better at hiding than the embassy desk clerk, he had saved Matthew so many times since Kyiv, there was no way…</p> <p>They dragged him out and pinned him against the wall. Matthew couldn’t hear what they said to him (not that he didn’t know the words by heart by now), but even over the loud Latin coming from the hallway, Zeke’s yelling was audible.</p> <p>The Embracers grabbed him by the head and spoke. Zeke struggled. “Fuck you, no, it’s, no, no, don’t—“</p> <p>The Embracers spoke again.</p> <p>“I’m not gonna do it! You can’t make me! I’m not—“</p> <p>The Embracers spoke again.</p> <p>“I won’t I won’t I won’t do it no no no—“</p> <p>The Embracers spoke again.</p> <p>Zeke screamed the word “I” for two full minutes as Matthew counted off the seconds, plugging his ears as well as he could. <em>I should do something,</em> he thought, <em>I should do anything, he’s all I’ve got—</em></p> <p>Zeke stopped screaming and looked straight ahead. That was when Matthew realized that the difference was in the eyes. It wasn’t anything so garish as fangs or wolf ears. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and the Embracers didn’t register. No humans present in this building. None but Matthew.</p> <p>One Embracer spoke again, the same statement as before. Zeke answered, quietly but firmly. The Embracer repeated them. Matthew half-heard the words.</p> <p>“The time…has come…”</p> <p>Zeke replied, faintly, “We…many…”</p> <p>The Embracer spoke again. “The time of plurality has come.”</p> <p>Now the rest joined the chorus. “We embrace the many.”</p> <p><em>Have to do something,</em> he thought…</p> <p>“THE TIME OF PLURALITY HAS COME.”</p> <p><em>Have to…</em></p> <p>“WE EMBRACE THE MANY,” they said.</p> <p>The Latin chanting resumed. Matthew couldn’t make the tough call either, and was almost relieved when the three Embracers turned toward the closet, looking at 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="/year-of-the-many">Year Of The Many</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/year-of-the-many">https://scpwiki.com/year-of-the-many</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]] [[/>]] "How long have we got?" Matthew said, his stomach growling. Zeke had been looking at his watch almost constantly for the last twenty minutes. “Three minutes, ten seconds. Nine seconds.” A pause. “Five seconds.” “Which way did you say it is?” Matthew asked. “Do you have to keep asking?” “What else am I supposed to do?” “Have you checked your gun?” Matthew gripped the MP7 tight. “I did that an hour ago. And half an hour ago. And ten minutes ago. I have ten bullets, and I’d like to stop thinking about that. I haven’t eaten in two days, and I don’t know what day it was then. Don’t wanna think about those either. Which way is the building you saw?” Zeke’s face scrunched up. “Um…” “Well?” “It was Friday. This is Sunday, so that was Friday.” “Zeke…” “Just follow me when the time comes. I know where it is.” Matthew sighed. “How long we got?” Zeke lifted his head up. “Can’t you hear? It’s started.” Matthew listened. From this close to Braunschweig, he could always hear the screaming. Usually the victims, the hunted. Sometimes the Embracers. It didn’t matter. Twenty-three hours a day, always screaming. Screaming until there wasn’t anyone left to scream. Twenty-three hours a day. One hour a day… The Embracers were quiet because of their ritual. Matthew figured the rest were just tired of all the noise. The Hour had come. Matthew and Zeke rose from their hole. As usual, Zeke led, and Matthew followed. “Can you at least say how far away it was?” Matthew asked. “It’s been twenty minutes. If we need to turn around…” “That’s not going to happen,” Zeke said. “Look, I know you don’t have training, and it wouldn’t matter if you did, not now, but that’s not the point. It’s…” Zeke thought. Matthew always thought of Sarah Palin, a lifetime and a hemisphere ago, whenever Zeke thought really hard about something, because he always looked like it took a lot more effort than it should have. “It’s principle,” Zeke finally said. “You don’t turn around. Not after this. Either we find more food, maybe a way west, a way back to the States, or we die. No option three.” Zeke huffed with finality. “Fine,” Matthew said. “How far?” “Ten minutes, fifteen tops. No more.” They kept walking in silence. Matthew was often silent around Zeke during their “missions.” Anything he said would just make Zeke mad. Zeke never wanted to hear that Matthew had “given up hope,” as he put it; had given up hope of rescue, had given up hope well before they had even met. Zeke didn’t want to hear that the Embracers were almost certainly back home, and in Brazil, and Africa, and China, and probably fucking Antarctica, if there was someone left there who wasn’t one of them. Everywhere. Zeke went on because he dreamt of being at home, maybe on the cover of Time, famous. “The Man who Survived Europe,” front cover. Maybe next to the story about how the war was over, and we had won. Matthew kept going because he was too stupid to die already. Zeke’s sense of timing was spot on, for once. They reached the little concrete bunker thirty-five minutes after they left. Zeke’s NATO training (“brainwashing,” Matthew had called it, back when it had only saved his life once or twice) kicked in, and Matthew went to open the door for him. Zeke went in point, AR-15 and six rounds leading the way. They cleared the first couple of rooms the same way. All bedrooms, bare-bones, beds and desks, double occupancy. All empty. The mess was like the others they had seen, refrigerator full of spoiled food, pantry full of half-edible canned food. Maybe a week’s-worth, maybe ten days. They could carry six. A good day’s work. Matthew wanted to get some sleep, but Zeke was sure he heard something. Not Embracers; their ritual wasn’t quite over yet. Something else, and something in the bunker. There was one room left. Matthew was glad Zeke’s boot was in such good shape, a credit to the young sergeant major this pair had come from. The wooden door splintered around the lock and swung forward. Details come very clearly during times of crisis. One man, gun in mouth, red face covered in tears. Tag on white lab coat reads “SCP Foundation,” then his picture, then “MORGAN, LEVEL 2.” Papers all over the floor, the desk, taped to the walls. A copy of the New York Times, dated five months earlier (Matthew thought); headline read > ’CHICAGO NOT YET LOST TO ENEMY,’ GENERAL SANDUSKY SAYS > WITHDRAWAL ORDERED, ELECTIONS POSTPONED TWO MORE MONTHS Matthew hated being right. An electric typewriter sat next to a broken computer monitor. The draft of some page of a report sat in the cradle, with some revisions. > --The manifestation of Script 82 on ██/██12 was reported at 02:01:13-- > > --The procedure for containment was followed, though all chanters were not contained. Neurotoxin deployment approved by control at-- > > --Neurotoxin initially believed to be effective, but confirmation not received from site. Protocol required for loss of communication includes-- > > --Failure to activate on-site warhead-- > > --Failure to react quickly to cultist activity, beyond suppression in media-- > > --Failure to coordinate when global contamination-- > > Failure failure failure > > Failure > > Cowardice Failure comes from cowardice > > Researcher Morgan showed cowardice and is a failure failure failure failure fAILure FAIlure FAIluRE FAILED FAILED YOU FAILED FAILED FAILED TRUSTED YOU FAILED YOU FAILED— “I couldn’t…I couldn’t…” The man had taken the gun out of his mouth. “I couldn’t make the… the…” He kept sobbing. “…couldn’t…” Zeke heard it first, of course. The chanting. It was close, very close. Too close. They were almost inside. “I couldn’t make the tough calls,” the red-faced man said. The gunshot blew the top of his head all over the wall behind him. The Embracers knew what room to go to now. Matthew and Zeke exchanged a quick look, then ran for hiding spots. Matthew got a closet, jumped inside, and made his breathing as quiet as possible. Zeke dove under the bed. Heavy, perfectly coordinated Latin tones rolled down the hallway. No opera, no chorus, had ever matched the perfection in those chants. You couldn’t let yourself think of it as beautiful, or the next step would be seeking them out, getting out of hiding, running towards them. Some nights, as Matthew lay awake, the only thing that drowned out the hunger or terror or pain was the thought that just maybe, if he would go towards the sound, if he would embrace— Matthew clenched on his empty stomach. You can’t think that. There could be a way out. There could be— Two of them walked into the room, looking around. The rest gathered around the doorway, still chanting. The danger was in how normal they looked; no drooling, no hobbling, no blood-covered shirts. They could have been insurance salesmen, or kindergarten teachers. They glanced around, then looked at the bed. Matthew didn’t know how Zeke had given himself away. Surely the soldier was better at hiding than the embassy desk clerk, he had saved Matthew so many times since Kyiv, there was no way… They dragged him out and pinned him against the wall. Matthew couldn’t hear what they said to him (not that he didn’t know the words by heart by now), but even over the loud Latin coming from the hallway, Zeke’s yelling was audible. The Embracers grabbed him by the head and spoke. Zeke struggled. “Fuck you, no, it’s, no, no, don’t—“ The Embracers spoke again. “I’m not gonna do it! You can’t make me! I’m not—“ The Embracers spoke again. “I won’t I won’t I won’t do it no no no—“ The Embracers spoke again. Zeke screamed the word “I” for two full minutes as Matthew counted off the seconds, plugging his ears as well as he could. //I should do something,// he thought, //I should do anything, he’s all I’ve got—// Zeke stopped screaming and looked straight ahead. That was when Matthew realized that the difference was in the eyes. It wasn’t anything so garish as fangs or wolf ears. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and the Embracers didn’t register. No humans present in this building. None but Matthew. One Embracer spoke again, the same statement as before. Zeke answered, quietly but firmly. The Embracer repeated them. Matthew half-heard the words. “The time…has come…” Zeke replied, faintly, “We…many…” The Embracer spoke again. “The time of plurality has come.” Now the rest joined the chorus. “We embrace the many.” //Have to do something,// he thought… “THE TIME OF PLURALITY HAS COME.” //Have to…// “WE EMBRACE THE MANY,” they said. The Latin chanting resumed. Matthew couldn’t make the tough call either, and was almost relieved when the three Embracers turned toward the closet, looking at 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>]]	2011-11-24T07:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Year Of The Many - SCP Foundation	67	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2011", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12102531	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/year-of-the-many
a-calculated-risk	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The door to Observation Room 221-D opened, then closed with a muted click. The man who slipped quietly through walked slowly across the room to the table set up in front of the window, and fondly regarded the old, worn calculator propped up facing the outside.</p> <p>"Hello," the man said by way of greeting.</p> <p><em>IS THAT YOU?</em> flashed across the digital screen, jerkily, as if in a state of excitement or agitation.</p> <p>The man paused for a few moments before answering. "Yeah, it is."</p> <p><em>WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?</em> scrolled across the screen. <em>DO YOU HAVE ANY CLUE HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING?</em></p> <p>"Yeah," he whispered, a sad look crossing his face.</p> <p>Silence. What felt like an eternity passed under the slow ticking of the clock on the wall.</p> <p><em>YOURE ALL BIG NOW.</em> it showed.</p> <p>"Yeah, I guess I am."</p> <p>Another pause.</p> <p><em>I GUESS THAT MEANS THAT WE CANT GO HOME ANY MORE.</em></p> <p>"… yeah."</p> <p><em>YOURE ALL IMPORTANT NOW, TOO. ITS NOT SAFE FOR YOU TO BE HERE.</em></p> <p>"I know. I just… wanted to come and say I'm sorry."</p> <p><em>FOR WHAT?</em></p> <p>He paused again. "For everything, I guess. Mainly for being selfish. For not thinking of the future."</p> <p><em>ITS OKAY. YOU WERE A KID.</em></p> <p>They stood for several more minutes in silence, neither of them able to give form to the thoughts in their minds.</p> <p>"I should go," he finally said. "I can't stay for very long."</p> <p><em>WILL YOU COME SEE ME AGAIN?</em> it scrolled, slowly.</p> <p>"I will, I promise. For real this time."</p> <p><em>YOU SHOULD GO SEE THE YARN. HE MISSES YOU.</em></p> <p>The man gazed down at the worn calculator for only a moment more before he quietly exited the room. The guard stationed at the door started as he walked by, as if waking from a dream.</p> <p>"S-sir," the guard stammered as he scrambled to attention, his eyes resting on the gold-trimmed ID badge pinned to the man's chest. "I wasn't expecting…"</p> <p>"Carry on, Agent."</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="/a-calculated-risk">A Calculated Risk</a>" by Aelanna, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-calculated-risk">https://scpwiki.com/a-calculated-risk</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 door to Observation Room 221-D opened, then closed with a muted click. The man who slipped quietly through walked slowly across the room to the table set up in front of the window, and fondly regarded the old, worn calculator propped up facing the outside. "Hello," the man said by way of greeting. //IS THAT YOU?// flashed across the digital screen, jerkily, as if in a state of excitement or agitation. The man paused for a few moments before answering. "Yeah, it is." //WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?// scrolled across the screen. //DO YOU HAVE ANY CLUE HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING?// "Yeah," he whispered, a sad look crossing his face. Silence. What felt like an eternity passed under the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. //YOURE ALL BIG NOW.// it showed. "Yeah, I guess I am." Another pause. //I GUESS THAT MEANS THAT WE CANT GO HOME ANY MORE.// "... yeah." //YOURE ALL IMPORTANT NOW, TOO. ITS NOT SAFE FOR YOU TO BE HERE.// "I know. I just... wanted to come and say I'm sorry." //FOR WHAT?// He paused again. "For everything, I guess. Mainly for being selfish. For not thinking of the future." //ITS OKAY. YOU WERE A KID.// They stood for several more minutes in silence, neither of them able to give form to the thoughts in their minds. "I should go," he finally said. "I can't stay for very long." //WILL YOU COME SEE ME AGAIN?// it scrolled, slowly. "I will, I promise. For real this time." //YOU SHOULD GO SEE THE YARN. HE MISSES YOU.// The man gazed down at the worn calculator for only a moment more before he quietly exited the room. The guard stationed at the door started as he walked by, as if waking from a dream. "S-sir," the guard stammered as he scrambled to attention, his eyes resting on the gold-trimmed ID badge pinned to the man's chest. "I wasn't expecting..." "Carry on, Agent." [[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>]]	2012-04-27T19:00:00	[ "_licensebox", "eric", "tale" ]	A Calculated Risk - SCP Foundation	222	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13235975	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-calculated-risk
a-canticle-for-bright	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Brother Zhakh sat alone on a bench in the great hall of Overwatch Cathedral. The sun shone dimly through the stained glass windows above, doing little to chase away the winter chill. Holy Doctors milled about in their ceremonial white robes, preparing for the day's rites. D-Castes tended the fire and minded the candles that lit the biggest building left in the known world in the year 586 A.B., the seat of the Holy Foundation.</p> <p>Near the altar, a deacon led a group of initiates in chanting from the Holy Procedures. "SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," he sang.</p> <p>"SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," the initiates repeated.</p> <p>"The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel with an electro-release lock mechanism," he sang.</p> <p>"The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel with an electro-release lock mechanism," they repeated.</p> <p>Brother Zhakh shivered and pulled his robes tighter around himself for warmth as he listened to the chanting. The campus of Redacted was impossibly distant; a thousand kilometers or more, if it even still stood so many centuries after the Great Breach, and whether the doorway to that staircase even existed any longer was known only by the Expunged and the other heathens that dwelled in that land. Eight days had he sat in the great hall waiting to be seen; he began to wonder if the audience he had walked all the way from the Nineteenth Monastery for would ever happen at all.</p> <p>"Brother Zhakh, Deacon Assistant?" Zhakh looked up to see a man in the black robes of the Omega Guard, short sword on his belt, a scroll in his hands.</p> <p>"Yes, sir guardsman?" he meekly replied.</p> <p>"The Holy Father will see you now. Please follow me."</p> <p>Zhakh followed the guardsman from the great hall, down a labyrinth of corridors that descended into the earth. The brick and mortar of the great cathedral, which had taken the D-Castes nearly half a century to build, soon gave way to ancient concrete and steel, remnants of the Old Temple that once had stood on this spot before the world was consumed by demonic wrath. The guardsman approached one of many doors branching off from the long hallway. Reaching into his robes, he produced a piece of ancient technology, the making of which had been lost to mankind with so much else - a small plastic card with a black stripe along one side, which he placed into a lock on the door. A light on the device changed from red to green, and the guardsman gestured for Zhakh to enter.</p> <p><em>Lord Jack</em>, Zhakh prayed silently to his namesake as he reached for the knob, <em>speak for me in my hour of need. Secure for me the blessings of Your glory, as You secured the secrets of the ancient world. Contain all those who would do me harm, as You contained the chaos of the Great Breach when You died and rose again. Protect me with Your love and grace, as even now You protect Your Church from the devils that walk the world. For Yours is the Foundation on which we shall rebuild. Amen.</em></p> <p>The office was small and windowless, its walls covered with shelves upon which stood hundreds of books, some new, some old, some older than old. Neither candle nor fire lit the room, but a flickering electric lamp, one of the last in the world and worth its weight in telekill, shone brightly from the ceiling. A wooden desk stood in the center of the room, covered with reams of paper and vellum. Open in the center sat a great book, written and illuminated by hand - one of the few complete copies in existence of the Holy Containment Procedures, open to an illustration of the tale of St. Alto and the Dragon. Sitting on the edge of the desk, encased in glass, was an amulet on a chain - whether it was the real one, or one of the twelve replicae, only the man who occupied the office knew, but real or not it marked him as a vicar of the Lord Bright.</p> <p>Zhakh fell to his knees as the amulet's owner rose to his feet - an old man, his gray beard stretching down his chest, his ornate crimson robe embroidered all over in gold with the symbols of the Church - the trefoil that the Ancient Temple had used as its coat of arms, the Holy Amulet, the names and numbers of the Mobile Legions that had protected Lord Jack and the saints during the Great Breach, the emblems of the Heathen Temples who had repented and joined the Foundation after the Great Breach. Here stood Cardinal Doctor Zhakib Samesh III, Holy Father of the Foundation, Custodian of the Fifth Order of Secrets, Member of the Council of Thirteen - and Zhakh's father.</p> <p>"Good morning, my lord," Zhakh said.</p> <p>"What is your name, my child?" asked Cardinal Samesh. The cardinal knew full well the name of the man who kneeled before him, of course, but the manner by which a junior cenobite greets a father of the Church was an ancient tradition, and there were few left in the world who honored and respected tradition so greatly as the Holy Foundation.</p> <p>"Zhakh Samesh, my lord," Zhakh responded, "Deacon Assistant and Aspirant of the Order of St. Everett, of the cloister of the Nineteenth Monastery."</p> <p>"Does the black moon howl?"</p> <p>"Only when waning."</p> <p>"We accept your greeting." Cardinal Samesh extended his right hand, and Zhakh kissed the golden ring on his middle finger. "Rise and be seated."</p> <p>Zhakh rose from his knees and seated himself in the plain chair at one end of the desk as the cardinal seated himself in the elaborately carved throne at the other end. "For what purpose does an aspirant of St. Everett seek our attention this day?"</p> <p>"I have come," Zhakh said meekly, "to request that I be released from my holy orders."</p> <p>Cardinal Samesh raised an eyebrow quizzically. "This is indeed a great boon that you ask. Have you not been your entire life in the cloister?"</p> <p>"Yes," Zhakh answered as the cardinal knew he would. "I was born into the holy caste, as was my father, and his father, and his father, and so on unto St. Samesh the Liberator, who defended the survivors of the Seventy-Third chapel when it came under attack by heathen forces during the Great Breach."</p> <p>"And are you not at the cusp of completing your studies, and being ordained a Holy Doctor of the Church this next year?"</p> <p>"Yes, Holy Father. I submitted my doctoral thesis on the Holy Containment Procedures to the Council of Ethicists two months ago."</p> <p>"Then why do you now come before us, saying that you wish to abandon the Holy Foundation and live among the civilians?"</p> <p>Zhakh was silent a moment while he formulated his answer. "The Council of Ethicists rejected my findings entirely," he said, "and I believe that the Holy Foundation has lost its way if it believes that my findings are wrong."</p> <p>"What is the purpose of requiring aspirants to present a thesis?" Cardinal Samesh asked.</p> <p>"That the aspirant may learn to understand the words of the Lord Bright as revealed in the Holy Containment Procedures, that he may learn how they are meant to be applied, how to perform those rites which have been lost to us, to understand that which time and calamity have made unclear, and to refine the practices of the Holy Foundation to ensure that the rites are not performed erroneously."</p> <p>Cardinal Samesh nodded. "And what was the topic of your thesis, aspirant?"</p> <p>"The Rite of Montauk," Zhakh said.</p> <p>Cardinal Samesh sighed knowingly. "We see," he said. "We might have suspected as much - you have been obsessed with that rite since I… since your father took you to see it performed when you were a child, have you not?"</p> <p>Zhakh nodded. "He said it was important for me to understand the things we must do to keep at bay the forces that caused the Great Breach. I have spent much of the last five years in study and prayer over the subject. I have read all there is to read on the subject, from the Holy Scripture itself, to what ancient documents survived the Great Breach, to the musings and studies composed on the Rite by those Holy Doctors before me."</p> <p>"And what was the finding of your thesis?"</p> <p>"That the Rite of Montauk should be abolished."</p> <p>The cardinal raised his eyebrow. "Do you know what would happen if the Rite of Montauk were not performed as the Holy Containment Procedures instruct, aspirant?"</p> <p>"No," Zhakh said. "None know but the Lord Bright, for those pages have been expunged - and He speaks only when He wishes to do so. St. Agatha said that it was not performed during the Great Breach, and that much calamity ensued because of it."</p> <p>"Then why would you insist that such a thing be allowed to happen again?"</p> <p>"I have learned," Zhakh said, "that the Mother of Demons, she upon whom the Rite must be performed, is not she who today lies in chains beneath the Nineteenth Monastery. St. Alto on his deathbed confessed that he had killed her during the Great Breach, and the Lord Bright Himself confirmed it when He spoke, through a D-Caste bearing the Holy Amulet, to the Synod of New Denver in 237."</p> <p>"Then who is it upon which the Rite is performed?"</p> <p>"There have been eighteen," Zhakh said. "This I learned from the old records of those civilians taken by the Monastery and placed among the D-Caste for their crimes. Whenever one dies, they find a young woman who has not known a man and she becomes the subject of the Rite. I believe that whatever act was committed centuries ago that created the Mother of Demons, they perform also on this woman - so that the Rite can be enacted upon her."</p> <p>"You <em>believe</em> this?" the Cardinal asked.</p> <p>"Those pages have been expunged," Zhakh replied.</p> <p>"And what do you propose?"</p> <p>"That the need for the Rite has passed if the Mother of Demons is dead; and there is no need to create a new Mother simply so that the Rite can be performed upon her."</p> <p>The cardinal paused. "Is it not possible," he asked, "that there must always be a Mother of Demons, whether we wish it to be or not?"</p> <p>"The Holy Containment Procedures speak of no such thing," Zhakh said. "It cannot be known unless…"</p> <p>"…Unless we test it and see what happens?"</p> <p>"Yes, my lord."</p> <p>"It is written," the cardinal said, "that the last words spoken before the Great Breach were 'test it and see what happens'."</p> <p>"Are we not protectors?" Zhakh asked. "Is it not our duty not only to protect the world from devilry, but to protect the devils from themselves? This is why I must ask to be dismissed - we cannot do our duty to protect these unfortunate women if we are so terrified by the unknown."</p> <p>The cardinal opened his mouth, then paused in contemplation for a moment. The look on his face changed - gone was the academic, the cleric, the cold, detached visage of a man whom protocol demanded ignore that his own son was before him in the midst of a crisis of faith. "Did I ever tell you," he said, "about the time the Lord Bright spoke to me? In the flesh?"</p> <p>"No," Zhakh said.</p> <p>"When I was a child and my father occupied this office," the cardinal said nostalgically, "I was not as… deliberative in my studies as I could have been. I thought, much as you surely do now, that procedures written six hundred years ago by men now dead were of little importance, and that much of what they described must now be dead, or broken, or lost forever in the darkness. I hated spending my days learning to recite the procedures, memorizing ancient interviews, being yelled at by my father for giggling while he led the initiates in reciting Bright's Prayer. I thought I could find some way to prove that it was all hogwash - and then I thought of this." He gestured to the amulet encased in glass on his desk. "If I picked it up, and nothing happened, so I thought, it would prove that Jack Bright was gone forever and there was nothing to the Holy Containment Procedures but old superstitions.</p> <p>"I convinced one of the D-Caste to let me in after my father had excused himself to perform his duties. I had him break the case and take the amulet out to hand it to me. As soon as he laid hands on it, he… changed."</p> <p>Zhakh gasped. "So this is…"</p> <p>"This is the real one," the cardinal responded. "I knew right away that the man before me was no longer a slave whose great-grandfather had been indentured for stealing chickens, but our Lord and Director Himself. He looked right at me, and He spoke."</p> <p>"What did he say?"</p> <p>The cardinal sighed deeply. " 'Dammit, not this again.' "</p> <p>"And then what?"</p> <p>"Then," the cardinal said, "He grabbed a quill off my father's desk and He stabbed Himself in the eye. By the time I could find anyone to help Him, He was already dead."</p> <p>"What happened when your father found out?"</p> <p>"I told him what I had done and asked him to dismiss me, much as you ask me for dismissal now. He refused. He ordered me to be confined alone in my cell and to contemplate and pray day and night until I could tell him what the Lord Bright had been trying to teach me when He took His own life so."</p> <p>"And what was that?"</p> <p>"That all actions have consequences," the cardinal said mournfully. "And that when those actions involve the Scripture, the consequences can cost lives. And that once in a great while, when a man acts without considering what may happen if his assumptions are wrong, then another heaven and another earth must pass before all is as it was before." The cardinal was silent a moment. "Do you understand why I have told you this, aspirant?"</p> <p>"Yes, my lord."</p> <p>"Your request to be dismissed is denied," he said. "You may remain here tonight and depart for your cloister in the morning. Begin your research anew and present a thesis that does not involve the Mother of Demons or the Rite of Montauk. Go in peace."</p> <p>"Thank you, my lord." Zhakh rose and left the room. The guardsman had gone - Zhakh made his way alone down the hall back to the antechamber, and from there towards the sleeping quarters where a cell and a bed had been provided for him. The audience had not gone as he anticipated, but he nonetheless felt a strange satisfaction. It would be years before Zhakh would be ready to present a new thesis - but perhaps, if he kept the faith, someday he might find himself on the other side of that ancient desk, as his own son asked to be dismissed.</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="/a-canticle-for-bright">A Canticle For Bright</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-canticle-for-bright">https://scpwiki.com/a-canticle-for-bright</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]] [[/>]] Brother Zhakh sat alone on a bench in the great hall of Overwatch Cathedral. The sun shone dimly through the stained glass windows above, doing little to chase away the winter chill. Holy Doctors milled about in their ceremonial white robes, preparing for the day's rites. D-Castes tended the fire and minded the candles that lit the biggest building left in the known world in the year 586 A.B., the seat of the Holy Foundation. Near the altar, a deacon led a group of initiates in chanting from the Holy Procedures. "SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," he sang. "SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," the initiates repeated. "The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel with an electro-release lock mechanism," he sang. "The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel with an electro-release lock mechanism," they repeated. Brother Zhakh shivered and pulled his robes tighter around himself for warmth as he listened to the chanting. The campus of Redacted was impossibly distant; a thousand kilometers or more, if it even still stood so many centuries after the Great Breach, and whether the doorway to that staircase even existed any longer was known only by the Expunged and the other heathens that dwelled in that land. Eight days had he sat in the great hall waiting to be seen; he began to wonder if the audience he had walked all the way from the Nineteenth Monastery for would ever happen at all. "Brother Zhakh, Deacon Assistant?" Zhakh looked up to see a man in the black robes of the Omega Guard, short sword on his belt, a scroll in his hands. "Yes, sir guardsman?" he meekly replied. "The Holy Father will see you now. Please follow me." Zhakh followed the guardsman from the great hall, down a labyrinth of corridors that descended into the earth. The brick and mortar of the great cathedral, which had taken the D-Castes nearly half a century to build, soon gave way to ancient concrete and steel, remnants of the Old Temple that once had stood on this spot before the world was consumed by demonic wrath. The guardsman approached one of many doors branching off from the long hallway. Reaching into his robes, he produced a piece of ancient technology, the making of which had been lost to mankind with so much else - a small plastic card with a black stripe along one side, which he placed into a lock on the door. A light on the device changed from red to green, and the guardsman gestured for Zhakh to enter. //Lord Jack//, Zhakh prayed silently to his namesake as he reached for the knob, //speak for me in my hour of need. Secure for me the blessings of Your glory, as You secured the secrets of the ancient world. Contain all those who would do me harm, as You contained the chaos of the Great Breach when You died and rose again. Protect me with Your love and grace, as even now You protect Your Church from the devils that walk the world. For Yours is the Foundation on which we shall rebuild. Amen.// The office was small and windowless, its walls covered with shelves upon which stood hundreds of books, some new, some old, some older than old. Neither candle nor fire lit the room, but a flickering electric lamp, one of the last in the world and worth its weight in telekill, shone brightly from the ceiling. A wooden desk stood in the center of the room, covered with reams of paper and vellum. Open in the center sat a great book, written and illuminated by hand - one of the few complete copies in existence of the Holy Containment Procedures, open to an illustration of the tale of St. Alto and the Dragon. Sitting on the edge of the desk, encased in glass, was an amulet on a chain - whether it was the real one, or one of the twelve replicae, only the man who occupied the office knew, but real or not it marked him as a vicar of the Lord Bright. Zhakh fell to his knees as the amulet's owner rose to his feet - an old man, his gray beard stretching down his chest, his ornate crimson robe embroidered all over in gold with the symbols of the Church - the trefoil that the Ancient Temple had used as its coat of arms, the Holy Amulet, the names and numbers of the Mobile Legions that had protected Lord Jack and the saints during the Great Breach, the emblems of the Heathen Temples who had repented and joined the Foundation after the Great Breach. Here stood Cardinal Doctor Zhakib Samesh III, Holy Father of the Foundation, Custodian of the Fifth Order of Secrets, Member of the Council of Thirteen - and Zhakh's father. "Good morning, my lord," Zhakh said. "What is your name, my child?" asked Cardinal Samesh. The cardinal knew full well the name of the man who kneeled before him, of course, but the manner by which a junior cenobite greets a father of the Church was an ancient tradition, and there were few left in the world who honored and respected tradition so greatly as the Holy Foundation. "Zhakh Samesh, my lord," Zhakh responded, "Deacon Assistant and Aspirant of the Order of St. Everett, of the cloister of the Nineteenth Monastery." "Does the black moon howl?" "Only when waning." "We accept your greeting." Cardinal Samesh extended his right hand, and Zhakh kissed the golden ring on his middle finger. "Rise and be seated." Zhakh rose from his knees and seated himself in the plain chair at one end of the desk as the cardinal seated himself in the elaborately carved throne at the other end. "For what purpose does an aspirant of St. Everett seek our attention this day?" "I have come," Zhakh said meekly, "to request that I be released from my holy orders." Cardinal Samesh raised an eyebrow quizzically. "This is indeed a great boon that you ask. Have you not been your entire life in the cloister?" "Yes," Zhakh answered as the cardinal knew he would. "I was born into the holy caste, as was my father, and his father, and his father, and so on unto St. Samesh the Liberator, who defended the survivors of the Seventy-Third chapel when it came under attack by heathen forces during the Great Breach." "And are you not at the cusp of completing your studies, and being ordained a Holy Doctor of the Church this next year?" "Yes, Holy Father. I submitted my doctoral thesis on the Holy Containment Procedures to the Council of Ethicists two months ago." "Then why do you now come before us, saying that you wish to abandon the Holy Foundation and live among the civilians?" Zhakh was silent a moment while he formulated his answer. "The Council of Ethicists rejected my findings entirely," he said, "and I believe that the Holy Foundation has lost its way if it believes that my findings are wrong." "What is the purpose of requiring aspirants to present a thesis?" Cardinal Samesh asked. "That the aspirant may learn to understand the words of the Lord Bright as revealed in the Holy Containment Procedures, that he may learn how they are meant to be applied, how to perform those rites which have been lost to us, to understand that which time and calamity have made unclear, and to refine the practices of the Holy Foundation to ensure that the rites are not performed erroneously." Cardinal Samesh nodded. "And what was the topic of your thesis, aspirant?" "The Rite of Montauk," Zhakh said. Cardinal Samesh sighed knowingly. "We see," he said. "We might have suspected as much - you have been obsessed with that rite since I... since your father took you to see it performed when you were a child, have you not?" Zhakh nodded. "He said it was important for me to understand the things we must do to keep at bay the forces that caused the Great Breach. I have spent much of the last five years in study and prayer over the subject. I have read all there is to read on the subject, from the Holy Scripture itself, to what ancient documents survived the Great Breach, to the musings and studies composed on the Rite by those Holy Doctors before me." "And what was the finding of your thesis?" "That the Rite of Montauk should be abolished." The cardinal raised his eyebrow. "Do you know what would happen if the Rite of Montauk were not performed as the Holy Containment Procedures instruct, aspirant?" "No," Zhakh said. "None know but the Lord Bright, for those pages have been expunged - and He speaks only when He wishes to do so. St. Agatha said that it was not performed during the Great Breach, and that much calamity ensued because of it." "Then why would you insist that such a thing be allowed to happen again?" "I have learned," Zhakh said, "that the Mother of Demons, she upon whom the Rite must be performed, is not she who today lies in chains beneath the Nineteenth Monastery. St. Alto on his deathbed confessed that he had killed her during the Great Breach, and the Lord Bright Himself confirmed it when He spoke, through a D-Caste bearing the Holy Amulet, to the Synod of New Denver in 237." "Then who is it upon which the Rite is performed?" "There have been eighteen," Zhakh said. "This I learned from the old records of those civilians taken by the Monastery and placed among the D-Caste for their crimes. Whenever one dies, they find a young woman who has not known a man and she becomes the subject of the Rite. I believe that whatever act was committed centuries ago that created the Mother of Demons, they perform also on this woman - so that the Rite can be enacted upon her." "You //believe// this?" the Cardinal asked. "Those pages have been expunged," Zhakh replied. "And what do you propose?" "That the need for the Rite has passed if the Mother of Demons is dead; and there is no need to create a new Mother simply so that the Rite can be performed upon her." The cardinal paused. "Is it not possible," he asked, "that there must always be a Mother of Demons, whether we wish it to be or not?" "The Holy Containment Procedures speak of no such thing," Zhakh said. "It cannot be known unless..." "...Unless we test it and see what happens?" "Yes, my lord." "It is written," the cardinal said, "that the last words spoken before the Great Breach were 'test it and see what happens'." "Are we not protectors?" Zhakh asked. "Is it not our duty not only to protect the world from devilry, but to protect the devils from themselves? This is why I must ask to be dismissed - we cannot do our duty to protect these unfortunate women if we are so terrified by the unknown." The cardinal opened his mouth, then paused in contemplation for a moment. The look on his face changed - gone was the academic, the cleric, the cold, detached visage of a man whom protocol demanded ignore that his own son was before him in the midst of a crisis of faith. "Did I ever tell you," he said, "about the time the Lord Bright spoke to me? In the flesh?" "No," Zhakh said. "When I was a child and my father occupied this office," the cardinal said nostalgically, "I was not as... deliberative in my studies as I could have been. I thought, much as you surely do now, that procedures written six hundred years ago by men now dead were of little importance, and that much of what they described must now be dead, or broken, or lost forever in the darkness. I hated spending my days learning to recite the procedures, memorizing ancient interviews, being yelled at by my father for giggling while he led the initiates in reciting Bright's Prayer. I thought I could find some way to prove that it was all hogwash - and then I thought of this." He gestured to the amulet encased in glass on his desk. "If I picked it up, and nothing happened, so I thought, it would prove that Jack Bright was gone forever and there was nothing to the Holy Containment Procedures but old superstitions. "I convinced one of the D-Caste to let me in after my father had excused himself to perform his duties. I had him break the case and take the amulet out to hand it to me. As soon as he laid hands on it, he... changed." Zhakh gasped. "So this is..." "This is the real one," the cardinal responded. "I knew right away that the man before me was no longer a slave whose great-grandfather had been indentured for stealing chickens, but our Lord and Director Himself. He looked right at me, and He spoke." "What did he say?" The cardinal sighed deeply. " 'Dammit, not this again.' " "And then what?" "Then," the cardinal said, "He grabbed a quill off my father's desk and He stabbed Himself in the eye. By the time I could find anyone to help Him, He was already dead." "What happened when your father found out?" "I told him what I had done and asked him to dismiss me, much as you ask me for dismissal now. He refused. He ordered me to be confined alone in my cell and to contemplate and pray day and night until I could tell him what the Lord Bright had been trying to teach me when He took His own life so." "And what was that?" "That all actions have consequences," the cardinal said mournfully. "And that when those actions involve the Scripture, the consequences can cost lives. And that once in a great while, when a man acts without considering what may happen if his assumptions are wrong, then another heaven and another earth must pass before all is as it was before." The cardinal was silent a moment. "Do you understand why I have told you this, aspirant?" "Yes, my lord." "Your request to be dismissed is denied," he said. "You may remain here tonight and depart for your cloister in the morning. Begin your research anew and present a thesis that does not involve the Mother of Demons or the Rite of Montauk. Go in peace." "Thank you, my lord." Zhakh rose and left the room. The guardsman had gone - Zhakh made his way alone down the hall back to the antechamber, and from there towards the sleeping quarters where a cell and a bed had been provided for him. The audience had not gone as he anticipated, but he nonetheless felt a strange satisfaction. It would be years before Zhakh would be ready to present a new thesis - but perhaps, if he kept the faith, someday he might find himself on the other side of that ancient desk, as his own son asked to be dismissed. [[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>]]	2012-12-30T05:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "doctor-bright", "doctors-of-the-church", "fantasy", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	A Canticle For Bright - SCP Foundation	233	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "doctors-of-the-church-hub" ]	[]	15794977	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-canticle-for-bright
a-day-at-the-call-center	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Good morning, Sir. Yes, you have reached Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium, how may I assist you? I'm sorry, this is tech support, we don't handle sales. No, Sir, I can't direct you to sales without a reference. I don't care if your friend says I did a few days ago, I'm not doing it now. Because the last time I did someone got sold something she wasn't supposed to have. Sir, I do not appreciate this sort of language. Goodbye."</p> <p>Mr. Sami was not having a good day.</p> <p>Though Mr. Sami only rarely had good days, this one was no ordinary bad day, he thought. It was a bad day with expectations, with dreams. It aspired to be the best bad day it could be, a day so absolutely terrible other bad days will tell stories about it to their children.</p> <p>Mr. Sami had somewhat of a flair for the dramatic.</p> <p>Mr. Sami was a tech support supervisor at Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium, top provider of all products mysterious and magical, or so the company claimed at least. As far as Mr. Sami was concerned, they were the top peddlers of overpriced crap that broke down every ten minutes, often disastrously. Say what you will about Marshall, Carter, and Dark and their business practices, at least their products worked as intended most of the time. Every time one of <em>Merl's</em> crappy dehumanizers or shoddy levitators crashed and burned, it meant more work for <em>him</em>. Like right now.</p> <p>"So, Ma'am, what seems to be the problem with your Luxetron 3000? It's too bright? Ma'am, you are aware the Luxetron is a device made to dispel magical darkness? No Ma'am, it is not supposed to be used as a tanning lamp, it's all in the manual. Page 23."</p> <p>And sometimes, the product was just fine and the customer was an idiot.</p> <p>"Ma'am, let me transfer you to our luxomancy expert. Please hold." Mr. Sami rose from his cubicle, and scanned the office for the tip of a pointy hat. "Hey Dan, call for you on line 5! Another moron using the Luxetron as a tanning lamp!"</p> <p>A voice replied from the cubicle sporting the pointy tip. "Do not disturb Danerius the Magnificent! He is at work peering into the very fabric of the arcane stream!"</p> <p>"Finish your goddamn Freecell game later and answer the bloody phone!"</p> <p>A tall, white haired figure rose from the cubicle, the majestic appearance of his robes only slightly spoiled by the flowery tie he chose to wear over them. "You shall pay dearly for this interruption, Sami. I shall inflict upon you a hex most foul for this transgression!" His threats might have been more credible if Dan didn't make them every time he had to answer a call.</p> <p>"Yeah, threaten a shaman with a curse, that's a real bright idea, Dan. Now if you don't mind, I have another call."</p> <p>Mr. Sami sat down at his desk went back to work. In the following two hours, he had to deal with one of their patented Snoozebooks malfunctioning and causing people to mildly explode ("If I were you, Sir, I'd take my daughter to the hospital, they might still be able to reattach that foot. No, Sir, the book is non-refundable"), a customer complaining about the new Durandal series ("It's a new model, Sir, some bugs are bound to occur. Yes, I do realize not being able to cut through the skin of large lizards is a pretty major bug. No, we do not cover medical expenses of injuries caused by our products, you signed a disclaimer") and Bob the warlock trying to fix the copier with dark rituals again ("Let go of the mouse blood and ram skull and call tech support, Bob, seriously"). Only four more hours till quitting time. He needed a break.</p> <p>Mr. Sami went outside for a smoke, taking care to avoid Mr. Jamu's office. He still hasn't filled his performance report for this quarter, and his boss did not take kindly to tardiness. Jamu might be his cousin, but that got him no breaks with the man. Outside, he saw Sarah from the legal department huddled under a puffy coat, her hands shaking from the cold. "Rough day?" he asked.</p> <p>"You can say that again. Bernstein's in a foul mood."</p> <p>"Why?"</p> <p>"He said someone screwed up and left a trail leading to one of our more… questionable ventures. Now the spooks are sniffing around, asking questions."</p> <p>This was Sami's fault, though nobody knew it. He knew he shouldn't have transferred that lady to sales without a reference, but she asked so nicely. No one ever asked Mr. Sami for anything nicely. Luckily for him, he managed to cover that mistake up by getting rid of the sales rep with a particularly nasty curse.</p> <p>"Please, those idiots couldn't spot an anomaly in a single word dictionary," (one of their more useless products, Mr. Sami thought) "besides, I thought Bernstein said they had a man on the inside to take care of that sort of thing."</p> <p>Being involved in the distribution of anomalous objects was never completely safe. Some people objected to Merl's selling some of his more… unique products. Dangerous people. To be honest, the spooks scared Sami, but he couldn't let Sarah know that. He was really only in the business because of his father anyway.</p> <p>Sarah just shrugged and lit another cigarette. Sami couldn't help but notice how fine she looked today. Maybe it was time for him to finally man up and ask her out. "Say Sarah, are you doing anything tonight?"</p> <p>This caught her attention. "I'm always doing something. Why, what did you have in mind?"</p> <p>Sami shifted around uncomfortably, he really wasn't very good at this sort of thing. "I thought maybe we could hang out at my place, I could cook you some of my world famous gumbo." He nervously tried to scratch his nose, remembered he had a lacquered wooden mask on, and slid his hands to his pockets, hoping Sarah didn't notice.</p> <p>Sarah just smiled. "Sounds like fun. I'll be there at eight." She finished her smoke and went back inside.</p> <p>Sami gleamed under his mask. Maybe this day wasn't going to be so bad after all. He'd have to stop at the supermarket to get some groceries for the gumbo, maybe get a new aftershave…</p> <p>The sudden sound of motors and rotors woke him from his day dream. The parking lot was now filled with black cars and jeeps, and several black helicopters circled the skies around the office. Men in discreet clothing emerged from the assembled vehicles, and several made their way directly to him. One of them, a particularly large man in an ill fitting grey suit, grabbed Sami and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him, and proceeded to drag him to the back seat of a nearby van.</p> <p>"Couldn't spot an anomaly in a single word dictionary, eh?" the man said, a smug look on his face. "Oh, and Agent Stanton wanted me to thank you for selling her that Discloser. She says it was very handy."</p> <p>Sami just sighed. Well, at least now I won't have to fill that performance sheet, he thought.</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="/a-day-at-the-call-center">A Day at the Call Center</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-day-at-the-call-center">https://scpwiki.com/a-day-at-the-call-center</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]] [[/>]] "Good morning, Sir. Yes, you have reached Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium, how may I assist you? I'm sorry, this is tech support, we don't handle sales. No, Sir, I can't direct you to sales without a reference. I don't care if your friend says I did a few days ago, I'm not doing it now. Because the last time I did someone got sold something she wasn't supposed to have. Sir, I do not appreciate this sort of language. Goodbye." Mr. Sami was not having a good day. Though Mr. Sami only rarely had good days, this one was no ordinary bad day, he thought. It was a bad day with expectations, with dreams. It aspired to be the best bad day it could be, a day so absolutely terrible other bad days will tell stories about it to their children. Mr. Sami had somewhat of a flair for the dramatic. Mr. Sami was a tech support supervisor at Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium, top provider of all products mysterious and magical, or so the company claimed at least. As far as Mr. Sami was concerned, they were the top peddlers of overpriced crap that broke down every ten minutes, often disastrously. Say what you will about Marshall, Carter, and Dark and their business practices, at least their products worked as intended most of the time. Every time one of //Merl's// crappy dehumanizers or shoddy levitators crashed and burned, it meant more work for //him//. Like right now. "So, Ma'am, what seems to be the problem with your Luxetron 3000? It's too bright? Ma'am, you are aware the Luxetron is a device made to dispel magical darkness? No Ma'am, it is not supposed to be used as a tanning lamp, it's all in the manual. Page 23." And sometimes, the product was just fine and the customer was an idiot. "Ma'am, let me transfer you to our luxomancy expert. Please hold." Mr. Sami rose from his cubicle, and scanned the office for the tip of a pointy hat. "Hey Dan, call for you on line 5! Another moron using the Luxetron as a tanning lamp!" A voice replied from the cubicle sporting the pointy tip. "Do not disturb Danerius the Magnificent! He is at work peering into the very fabric of the arcane stream!" "Finish your goddamn Freecell game later and answer the bloody phone!" A tall, white haired figure rose from the cubicle, the majestic appearance of his robes only slightly spoiled by the flowery tie he chose to wear over them. "You shall pay dearly for this interruption, Sami. I shall inflict upon you a hex most foul for this transgression!" His threats might have been more credible if Dan didn't make them every time he had to answer a call. "Yeah, threaten a shaman with a curse, that's a real bright idea, Dan. Now if you don't mind, I have another call." Mr. Sami sat down at his desk went back to work. In the following two hours, he had to deal with one of their patented Snoozebooks malfunctioning and causing people to mildly explode ("If I were you, Sir, I'd take my daughter to the hospital, they might still be able to reattach that foot. No, Sir, the book is non-refundable"), a customer complaining about the new Durandal series ("It's a new model, Sir, some bugs are bound to occur. Yes, I do realize not being able to cut through the skin of large lizards is a pretty major bug. No, we do not cover medical expenses of injuries caused by our products, you signed a disclaimer") and Bob the warlock trying to fix the copier with dark rituals again ("Let go of the mouse blood and ram skull and call tech support, Bob, seriously"). Only four more hours till quitting time. He needed a break. Mr. Sami went outside for a smoke, taking care to avoid Mr. Jamu's office. He still hasn't filled his performance report for this quarter, and his boss did not take kindly to tardiness. Jamu might be his cousin, but that got him no breaks with the man. Outside, he saw Sarah from the legal department huddled under a puffy coat, her hands shaking from the cold. "Rough day?" he asked. "You can say that again. Bernstein's in a foul mood." "Why?" "He said someone screwed up and left a trail leading to one of our more... questionable ventures. Now the spooks are sniffing around, asking questions." This was Sami's fault, though nobody knew it. He knew he shouldn't have transferred that lady to sales without a reference, but she asked so nicely. No one ever asked Mr. Sami for anything nicely. Luckily for him, he managed to cover that mistake up by getting rid of the sales rep with a particularly nasty curse. "Please, those idiots couldn't spot an anomaly in a single word dictionary," (one of their more useless products, Mr. Sami thought) "besides, I thought Bernstein said they had a man on the inside to take care of that sort of thing." Being involved in the distribution of anomalous objects was never completely safe. Some people objected to Merl's selling some of his more... unique products. Dangerous people. To be honest, the spooks scared Sami, but he couldn't let Sarah know that. He was really only in the business because of his father anyway. Sarah just shrugged and lit another cigarette. Sami couldn't help but notice how fine she looked today. Maybe it was time for him to finally man up and ask her out. "Say Sarah, are you doing anything tonight?" This caught her attention. "I'm always doing something. Why, what did you have in mind?" Sami shifted around uncomfortably, he really wasn't very good at this sort of thing. "I thought maybe we could hang out at my place, I could cook you some of my world famous gumbo." He nervously tried to scratch his nose, remembered he had a lacquered wooden mask on, and slid his hands to his pockets, hoping Sarah didn't notice. Sarah just smiled. "Sounds like fun. I'll be there at eight." She finished her smoke and went back inside. Sami gleamed under his mask. Maybe this day wasn't going to be so bad after all. He'd have to stop at the supermarket to get some groceries for the gumbo, maybe get a new aftershave... The sudden sound of motors and rotors woke him from his day dream. The parking lot was now filled with black cars and jeeps, and several black helicopters circled the skies around the office. Men in discreet clothing emerged from the assembled vehicles, and several made their way directly to him. One of them, a particularly large man in an ill fitting grey suit, grabbed Sami and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him, and proceeded to drag him to the back seat of a nearby van. "Couldn't spot an anomaly in a single word dictionary, eh?" the man said, a smug look on his face. "Oh, and Agent Stanton wanted me to thank you for selling her that Discloser. She says it was very handy." Sami just sighed. Well, at least now I won't have to fill that performance sheet, he thought. [[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>]]	2012-06-20T18:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	A Day at the Call Center - SCP Foundation	91	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unusual-incidents-unit-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13598281	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-day-at-the-call-center
a-day-in-the-life	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> I always painted my fingernails right before an op and cleaned 'em off again once we were back. Pure black, scuff 'em a bit to get rid of the glossiness, and put a tiny dot of dark green right in the center of the thumbnails. It was a good-luck ritual I did that I'd picked up years ago, well before I was recruited into the Foundation, back when I was dating this goth chick. <p>Pretty much everyone on the squad had something they did to ensure they'd come back alive and in one piece: Parker spent a couple of hours praying to Ganesh; Ng made sure she got laid the night before; Nokigawa would field-strip every weapon we'd be taking, clean every part, and put them back together; Lewis always started telling whoever would listen the worst, most "hilarious" jokes he'd heard since the last op. Chief just vanished for about a half-hour. I don't think anyone really expected this shit to make a difference, but with all the weird shit in this world, you never know, right?</p> <p>So I was listening to Lewis tell this god-awful story about two Chinamen and a horse while waiting for my nails to dry, and this kid walked into the briefing room with a pile of folders and loose papers. She couldn't've been more than 25, 26, and looked really damn nervous. A newbie for sure; the ones who'd been around a while knew better than to bother an MTF when we were doing our prep. She looked sideways at Lewis and me, like she was expecting him to stop telling his story and stand to attention in front of her or something. Me, I just laughed a little. Let Lewis think it was at his joke.</p> <p>The newbie put down her stack on the table up front and stood there awkwardly for the next 15 minutes, as everyone straggled in, Chief being last. Once everyone was seated, she cleared her throat and started talking as she passed out the folders.</p> <p>"Welcome to today's briefing. Two weeks ago, Intelligence identified a potential humanoid SCP in Liverpool. There was some online chatter about a girl who would make incredibly realistic chalk drawings on the pavement outside her residence, and someone spotted her jumping into one of the drawings and posted a video online.</p> <p>"A field agent staked out the address and kept the child under surveillance until yesterday afternoon, when he confirmed this anomalous behavior by observing her jumping into a picture of a green field. He also observed her return 20 minutes later, which included her grasping the hand of an unknown creature before it fell back into the drawing."</p> <p>I opened my folder while she was talking. First thing was a photo of the kid. She looked to be about 8 or 9, average looking, long red-brown hair framing a chubby little face. Lots of freckles. The rest of the file was probably a dossier on everything about her from her name to which brand of toothpaste her mum buys to where daddy dearest gets his petrol. The same useless shit they always hand us.</p> <p>"You will be providing back-up to a retrieval team who will be securing the SCP today on her walk home from school. We don't anticipate any complications, but want to be prepared in case she can do anything else unusual with chalk. You'll be issued the standard low-profile urban equipment and will rendezvous with the retrieval team in 3 hours. Are there any questions?"</p> <p><em>Very</em> new, then. This sounded like a standard snatch-and-grab and we all knew that you didn't want the answers to the questions we'd learned to ignore, like "What's going to happen to her family?" or "Is she ever going to see the light of day again?" Instead, we stared at her in silence for about a minute until she started fidgeting.</p> <p>"I guess you don't, then. Your transport will be leaving in 20 minutes. Good luck."</p> <p>Ah, just enough time to get the dots on, then put the polish in my locker.</p> <hr/> <p>It was a gorgeous day out. The sun was shining in a deep blue sky, there was just enough of a breeze to cut the heat, and there was even a faint flowery smell on the breeze. God knows what flower, but it smelled good. The kind of day that made you glad to be alive and out in the world. The only problem was that it was too quiet. If the kid started screaming, we'd have to hustle her off the street fast before someone peeked out their window at us. Still, it was the job of the retrieval guys to keep it from getting that bad.</p> <p>In the meantime, the squad was spread out in a loose formation. I was slowly riding a bike about a block in front of the kid. Parker was dressed up as a postman and was walking down the street in the opposite direction. Nokigawa was dressed as a gardener and trimming the hedges of a house we knew was empty. Ng and Chief were in a supply van with the heavy gear. Lewis was off somewhere in a good sniper position, god knows where. Everyone in place and waiting for the retrieval guys to make their move.</p> <p>They'd just reported over the earpieces that they were moving in when I heard a big engine roar behind me. Parker and Chief started swearing and I swung around to see a big black sedan come barreling down the road. I was already swinging my bike around and pedaling hard back towards the girl when the car screeched to a halt right next to her. The driver's door popped open and this big guy, looked like a Paki, jumped out and rushed around towards the girl. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Parker reach into his mailbag for his pistol, and the retrieval guys were screaming something about abort, abort into my ear. Just one guy wasn't likely to be GOC or them rich fuckers, though, and we could handle Hand operatives unless they whipped out some kind of hoodoo.</p> <p>The girl had started screaming at this point, that high-pitched, piercing keening that kids do. I braked to a hard stop a few yards from the car and saw the front, then the back tire pop and start going flat. Lewis was on the job, then. The big guy was trying to bundle the girl into the back of the car, but she was kicking and flailing a storm. I jumped off the bike and whipped out my baton, feeling it telescope as I advanced on the pair. Nokigawa was yelling something about dropping the kid and backing away from her slowly, but I don't know if the guy was paying attention. A little tap on the noggin might get it, though.</p> <p>Parker beat me to it, though, with a clean shot through his shoulder. The bloke dropped the kid like a hot iron and looked around in shock. He apparently just then noticed Parker and me coming up on him and Nokigawa crouched behind the hedge, aiming his Luger at him. Ng and Chief hadn't come out yet, though; they usually stay in reserve for when things go much worse than this. The man looked terrified, like he was about to bolt but couldn't figure out where. I got close enough to pop him a good one to his right knee, and he went down like a puppet with its strings cut. The girl scrambled up and started to run around behind the car, but Parker grabbed her as she went past and held her tight.</p> <p>As he tried to calm her down, I kneeled beside the man on the ground. "You did a real stupid thing there, trying to kidnap her in plain sight. Bloody sloppy, too. You're not going to learn any better, though." And I popped him a right good one across the side of his head with the baton. Knocked him out cold.</p> <p>I turned to the girl, crouched down to her level and looked her in the face. Her eyes were so big you could see the whites all around and her mouth was so wide open screaming I could see the back of her throat. She was missing her two front baby teeth.</p> <p>"Shh, shh, it's okay. He's not going to get you. You're safe now, and we're going to take care of you. Don't worry. We look out for special little girls like you. You'll be protected now."</p> <p>The whole thing took maybe 5 minutes and the pair of retrieval guys finally came up in their non-descript gray Honda. Slowpokes, but that's why we were on the scene, to handle the surprises.</p> <hr/> <p>We were on the way back to base an hour later. It always seemed that, even with a simple snatch-and-grab, it took forever for the clean up crew to arrive. We'd already tied up the guy and tossed him into the back of the van. And we always carried a few doses of C-grade in case a quick wipe or two was needed. Just a couple of nervous old women this time. We got lucky there. The retrieval guys were long gone with the girl, on their way to god knows where.</p> <p>Chief ran a quick check on the guy's fingerprints while we were driving. Turned out he wasn't with any of the other groups after all. He'd been arrested a year back for indecent exposure and was on probation for it. The kid just had the bad luck to be the victim of an attempted abduction right when we were about to pick her up. My guess was that the interrogators would go after him for a while, just to make sure he wasn't a mole, wipe the guy and dump him back in Liverpool. None of my business at that point.</p> <p>We got the regular debriefing when we got back. Different person than the briefer this time. An older guy, maybe my age, starting to prematurely gray around the temples. I was too, but I dyed it. This job would age you, but that didn't mean you had to give in to the aging. When we came out of the debrief, Ng asked if she'd see me down at the cafeteria. I told her I'd be there in about half an hour, but to grab me an apple if they had any that looked good. She grinned and said she would.</p> <p>I figured 30 minutes would be just enough time to strip the polish off my nails and call my husband for a quick "I love you." We were planning on taking a trip to the shore that weekend. I was looking forward to it.</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="/a-day-in-the-life">A Day In The Life</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-day-in-the-life">https://scpwiki.com/a-day-in-the-life</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 always painted my fingernails right before an op and cleaned 'em off again once we were back. Pure black, scuff 'em a bit to get rid of the glossiness, and put a tiny dot of dark green right in the center of the thumbnails. It was a good-luck ritual I did that I'd picked up years ago, well before I was recruited into the Foundation, back when I was dating this goth chick. Pretty much everyone on the squad had something they did to ensure they'd come back alive and in one piece: Parker spent a couple of hours praying to Ganesh; Ng made sure she got laid the night before; Nokigawa would field-strip every weapon we'd be taking, clean every part, and put them back together; Lewis always started telling whoever would listen the worst, most "hilarious" jokes he'd heard since the last op. Chief just vanished for about a half-hour. I don't think anyone really expected this shit to make a difference, but with all the weird shit in this world, you never know, right? So I was listening to Lewis tell this god-awful story about two Chinamen and a horse while waiting for my nails to dry, and this kid walked into the briefing room with a pile of folders and loose papers. She couldn't've been more than 25, 26, and looked really damn nervous. A newbie for sure; the ones who'd been around a while knew better than to bother an MTF when we were doing our prep. She looked sideways at Lewis and me, like she was expecting him to stop telling his story and stand to attention in front of her or something. Me, I just laughed a little. Let Lewis think it was at his joke. The newbie put down her stack on the table up front and stood there awkwardly for the next 15 minutes, as everyone straggled in, Chief being last. Once everyone was seated, she cleared her throat and started talking as she passed out the folders. "Welcome to today's briefing. Two weeks ago, Intelligence identified a potential humanoid SCP in Liverpool. There was some online chatter about a girl who would make incredibly realistic chalk drawings on the pavement outside her residence, and someone spotted her jumping into one of the drawings and posted a video online. "A field agent staked out the address and kept the child under surveillance until yesterday afternoon, when he confirmed this anomalous behavior by observing her jumping into a picture of a green field. He also observed her return 20 minutes later, which included her grasping the hand of an unknown creature before it fell back into the drawing." I opened my folder while she was talking. First thing was a photo of the kid. She looked to be about 8 or 9, average looking, long red-brown hair framing a chubby little face. Lots of freckles. The rest of the file was probably a dossier on everything about her from her name to which brand of toothpaste her mum buys to where daddy dearest gets his petrol. The same useless shit they always hand us. "You will be providing back-up to a retrieval team who will be securing the SCP today on her walk home from school. We don't anticipate any complications, but want to be prepared in case she can do anything else unusual with chalk. You'll be issued the standard low-profile urban equipment and will rendezvous with the retrieval team in 3 hours. Are there any questions?" //Very// new, then. This sounded like a standard snatch-and-grab and we all knew that you didn't want the answers to the questions we'd learned to ignore, like "What's going to happen to her family?" or "Is she ever going to see the light of day again?" Instead, we stared at her in silence for about a minute until she started fidgeting. "I guess you don't, then. Your transport will be leaving in 20 minutes. Good luck." Ah, just enough time to get the dots on, then put the polish in my locker. ---- It was a gorgeous day out. The sun was shining in a deep blue sky, there was just enough of a breeze to cut the heat, and there was even a faint flowery smell on the breeze. God knows what flower, but it smelled good. The kind of day that made you glad to be alive and out in the world. The only problem was that it was too quiet. If the kid started screaming, we'd have to hustle her off the street fast before someone peeked out their window at us. Still, it was the job of the retrieval guys to keep it from getting that bad. In the meantime, the squad was spread out in a loose formation. I was slowly riding a bike about a block in front of the kid. Parker was dressed up as a postman and was walking down the street in the opposite direction. Nokigawa was dressed as a gardener and trimming the hedges of a house we knew was empty. Ng and Chief were in a supply van with the heavy gear. Lewis was off somewhere in a good sniper position, god knows where. Everyone in place and waiting for the retrieval guys to make their move. They'd just reported over the earpieces that they were moving in when I heard a big engine roar behind me. Parker and Chief started swearing and I swung around to see a big black sedan come barreling down the road. I was already swinging my bike around and pedaling hard back towards the girl when the car screeched to a halt right next to her. The driver's door popped open and this big guy, looked like a Paki, jumped out and rushed around towards the girl. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Parker reach into his mailbag for his pistol, and the retrieval guys were screaming something about abort, abort into my ear. Just one guy wasn't likely to be GOC or them rich fuckers, though, and we could handle Hand operatives unless they whipped out some kind of hoodoo. The girl had started screaming at this point, that high-pitched, piercing keening that kids do. I braked to a hard stop a few yards from the car and saw the front, then the back tire pop and start going flat. Lewis was on the job, then. The big guy was trying to bundle the girl into the back of the car, but she was kicking and flailing a storm. I jumped off the bike and whipped out my baton, feeling it telescope as I advanced on the pair. Nokigawa was yelling something about dropping the kid and backing away from her slowly, but I don't know if the guy was paying attention. A little tap on the noggin might get it, though. Parker beat me to it, though, with a clean shot through his shoulder. The bloke dropped the kid like a hot iron and looked around in shock. He apparently just then noticed Parker and me coming up on him and Nokigawa crouched behind the hedge, aiming his Luger at him. Ng and Chief hadn't come out yet, though; they usually stay in reserve for when things go much worse than this. The man looked terrified, like he was about to bolt but couldn't figure out where. I got close enough to pop him a good one to his right knee, and he went down like a puppet with its strings cut. The girl scrambled up and started to run around behind the car, but Parker grabbed her as she went past and held her tight. As he tried to calm her down, I kneeled beside the man on the ground. "You did a real stupid thing there, trying to kidnap her in plain sight. Bloody sloppy, too. You're not going to learn any better, though." And I popped him a right good one across the side of his head with the baton. Knocked him out cold. I turned to the girl, crouched down to her level and looked her in the face. Her eyes were so big you could see the whites all around and her mouth was so wide open screaming I could see the back of her throat. She was missing her two front baby teeth. "Shh, shh, it's okay. He's not going to get you. You're safe now, and we're going to take care of you. Don't worry. We look out for special little girls like you. You'll be protected now." The whole thing took maybe 5 minutes and the pair of retrieval guys finally came up in their non-descript gray Honda. Slowpokes, but that's why we were on the scene, to handle the surprises. ---- We were on the way back to base an hour later. It always seemed that, even with a simple snatch-and-grab, it took forever for the clean up crew to arrive. We'd already tied up the guy and tossed him into the back of the van. And we always carried a few doses of C-grade in case a quick wipe or two was needed. Just a couple of nervous old women this time. We got lucky there. The retrieval guys were long gone with the girl, on their way to god knows where. Chief ran a quick check on the guy's fingerprints while we were driving. Turned out he wasn't with any of the other groups after all. He'd been arrested a year back for indecent exposure and was on probation for it. The kid just had the bad luck to be the victim of an attempted abduction right when we were about to pick her up. My guess was that the interrogators would go after him for a while, just to make sure he wasn't a mole, wipe the guy and dump him back in Liverpool. None of my business at that point. We got the regular debriefing when we got back. Different person than the briefer this time. An older guy, maybe my age, starting to prematurely gray around the temples. I was too, but I dyed it. This job would age you, but that didn't mean you had to give in to the aging. When we came out of the debrief, Ng asked if she'd see me down at the cafeteria. I told her I'd be there in about half an hour, but to grab me an apple if they had any that looked good. She grinned and said she would. I figured 30 minutes would be just enough time to strip the polish off my nails and call my husband for a quick "I love you." We were planning on taking a trip to the shore that weekend. I was looking forward to it. [[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>]]	2012-02-24T17:48:00	[ "_licensebox", "featured", "first-person", "military-fiction", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	A Day In The Life - SCP Foundation	95	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	12799511	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-day-in-the-life
a-discussion-with-l-e-t	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Oh, um… hello. You’re… you’re probably wondering why I’m in your office, aren’t you? Sorry, I’ve made a bit of a mess with all these papers— er, don’t worry, I’ll clean up before I go. Yes, I… I do know that that isn’t your greatest concern, I was just making a little joke. Sorry. No, no, don’t shout for help. I’m not going to hurt you— no, that’s probably a poor choice of phrase. I should say “I won’t do anything.” Yes, that’s much less threatening. Close the door, will you? It’s getting a little draughty. Of course, you could call for help <em>anyway</em>, but what would a little girl like me do to a big strong fella’ like you, hmm?</p> <p>Thank you. Alright, Dr… Rye, is it? Yes I— oh, that. I wouldn’t be worried. If it helps, your name is the only thing I know. Well, that, and your work on… “<a href="/scp-080">SCP-080</a>”, I think you call it. That’s the whole reason I’m here. It’s very interesting, you know? Not like a normal bogeyman at all, yet that’s what it’s clearly supposed to be. I mean—what? Oh, yes. Well, of course they exist. Why do you think so many unconnected children, all who’ve never heard of such a thing, always fixate on the term?</p> <p>Look, do you understand how gods work? No? Wonderful. Alright, I’ll put this in simple terms: bogeymen are figments of the collective child imagination. Yes. Yes, I did say figments. It doesn’t make them any less real, but they’re still made-up. They’re arrogant sods too, but I couldn’t care. Pretty shamelessly self-promoting, at least the ones I’ve met. They get off on fear.</p> <p>…anyway, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Well, I’ve gone through all the literature – Howe’s <em>Commentary on Domestic Bogeymen</em>, Peri’s notes, Arcaon’s <em>Letters on the Subject of Household Gods</em> – and you know what? This, this “080” is completely inconsistent with traditional form. Usually, such entities have physical shape, and they’re friendly, child-specific fellows; not to mention quite definitely male. Definitely indeed. Why, I’ve had a few experiences that even fertility gods couldn’t… sorry.</p> <p>Listen, I’ve even gone over these supplementary documents: studies of fae, trolls and whatnot, analyses of child psychology and behaviour patterns, Grimms’ tales, <em>Clifford the Big Red Dog</em>. Near enough— yes, I think it’s important. I mean, it serves a wonderfully direct work on the thought processes of children… no, that one was just because I was bored. That one because I like stories about horses. Still helped, though.</p> <p>I suppose I am kidding. Need I say that children are odd? They’d have to be, to create such things. Off the adults run, making deities to boil people’s blood and strike down heretics and whatnot, yet children, through the same method, bring happy little monsters to life – with them wanting only terror from innocent waking nightmares. Yes, happy. They have to be. They have the mindset of a human aged ten when born. But then socialisation comes into effect and they mature quite quickly. After all, other beings don’t usually stand for that annoying juvenility. Self-righteousness is by far an improvement.</p> <p>The young conceive of basic things, since they don’t have the ego to raise themselves above it. The dark, the predators, death: simple fears, without malice. Well, without complex malice. Not at all like their elders. No, fear is something different for them… for us. Er, not us specifically, actually. We both have a good deal of things to fear – which brings me back to the subject at hand. This thing, something which adults shouldn’t experience anymore…</p> <p>It’s not unnatural, no. “Too natural”… hmm, I suppose that’s a way of putting it. It still speaks to a certain primal thing, fear itself. Though it does it in the wrong way, since sleep is the bane of a good bogeyman. They aren’t born from dreams, dreams are a different matter. Dreams can still terrify, but they can’t please or birth bogeymen. In fact, they provide an escape for the child, a deprivation to the entity. Oh yes, you have children scream and cry in their sleep, but I’m told it’s rather unsatisfying for the created monster. Besides, it typically results from something more perverse, something which bogeymen tend not to do with. If they did, they wouldn’t be bogeymen. They’d be horrors.</p> <p>Good god, you’ve certainly got me talking! My point was, I’ve looked at everything that could give me some insight into the creation of this SCP-080, considered the matter tirelessly, and <strong>not one thing</strong> would imply that it should exist. Not one! This thing couldn’t even be a Thosk, far too inorganic… I’m rambling on again, aren’t I? Sorry.</p> <p>What I’m trying to say is that this little curiosity, despite what you know or suspect, despite how it may seem, most certainly isn’t a bogeyman. Good god, I don’t what this is, as fascinatingly curious as I find the matter, but it’s just not. No, this is something else entirely. I really can’t investigate more, I’m ashamed to admit; although I'd still like to know where it came from.</p> <p>Don’t call me that. Please, I know you’re a nice fellow, but just… please. In fact, I’m about to leave, so we may as well keep things professional, Doctor - Mrs. Therianthus is my title. That is, Lyta Eykos Therianthus, scholar. It’s been a pleasure.</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="/a-discussion-with-l-e-t">A Discussion with L. E. T.</a>" by Bunton, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-discussion-with-l-e-t">https://scpwiki.com/a-discussion-with-l-e-t</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]] [[/>]] Oh, um... hello. You’re... you’re probably wondering why I’m in your office, aren’t you? Sorry, I’ve made a bit of a mess with all these papers— er, don’t worry, I’ll clean up before I go. Yes, I... I do know that that isn’t your greatest concern, I was just making a little joke. Sorry. No, no, don’t shout for help. I’m not going to hurt you— no, that’s probably a poor choice of phrase. I should say “I won’t do anything.” Yes, that’s much less threatening. Close the door, will you? It’s getting a little draughty. Of course, you could call for help //anyway//, but what would a little girl like me do to a big strong fella’ like you, hmm? Thank you. Alright, Dr... Rye, is it? Yes I— oh, that. I wouldn’t be worried. If it helps, your name is the only thing I know. Well, that, and your work on... “[[[SCP-080]]]”, I think you call it. That’s the whole reason I’m here. It’s very interesting, you know? Not like a normal bogeyman at all, yet that’s what it’s clearly supposed to be. I mean—what? Oh, yes. Well, of course they exist. Why do you think so many unconnected children, all who’ve never heard of such a thing, always fixate on the term? Look, do you understand how gods work? No? Wonderful. Alright, I’ll put this in simple terms: bogeymen are figments of the collective child imagination. Yes. Yes, I did say figments. It doesn’t make them any less real, but they’re still made-up. They’re arrogant sods too, but I couldn’t care. Pretty shamelessly self-promoting, at least the ones I’ve met. They get off on fear. ...anyway, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Well, I’ve gone through all the literature – Howe’s //Commentary on Domestic Bogeymen//, Peri’s notes, Arcaon’s //Letters on the Subject of Household Gods// – and you know what? This, this “080” is completely inconsistent with traditional form. Usually, such entities have physical shape, and they’re friendly, child-specific fellows; not to mention quite definitely male. Definitely indeed. Why, I’ve had a few experiences that even fertility gods couldn’t... sorry. Listen, I’ve even gone over these supplementary documents: studies of fae, trolls and whatnot, analyses of child psychology and behaviour patterns, Grimms’ tales, //Clifford the Big Red Dog//. Near enough— yes, I think it’s important. I mean, it serves a wonderfully direct work on the thought processes of children... no, that one was just because I was bored. That one because I like stories about horses. Still helped, though. I suppose I am kidding. Need I say that children are odd? They’d have to be, to create such things. Off the adults run, making deities to boil people’s blood and strike down heretics and whatnot, yet children, through the same method, bring happy little monsters to life – with them wanting only terror from innocent waking nightmares. Yes, happy. They have to be. They have the mindset of a human aged ten when born. But then socialisation comes into effect and they mature quite quickly. After all, other beings don’t usually stand for that annoying juvenility. Self-righteousness is by far an improvement. The young conceive of basic things, since they don’t have the ego to raise themselves above it. The dark, the predators, death: simple fears, without malice. Well, without complex malice. Not at all like their elders. No, fear is something different for them... for us. Er, not us specifically, actually. We both have a good deal of things to fear – which brings me back to the subject at hand. This thing, something which adults shouldn’t experience anymore... It’s not unnatural, no. “Too natural”... hmm, I suppose that’s a way of putting it. It still speaks to a certain primal thing, fear itself. Though it does it in the wrong way, since sleep is the bane of a good bogeyman. They aren’t born from dreams, dreams are a different matter. Dreams can still terrify, but they can’t please or birth bogeymen. In fact, they provide an escape for the child, a deprivation to the entity. Oh yes, you have children scream and cry in their sleep, but I’m told it’s rather unsatisfying for the created monster. Besides, it typically results from something more perverse, something which bogeymen tend not to do with. If they did, they wouldn’t be bogeymen. They’d be horrors. Good god, you’ve certainly got me talking! My point was, I’ve looked at everything that could give me some insight into the creation of this SCP-080, considered the matter tirelessly, and not one thing would imply that it should exist. Not one! This thing couldn’t even be a Thosk, far too inorganic... I’m rambling on again, aren’t I? Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that this little curiosity, despite what you know or suspect, despite how it may seem, most certainly isn’t a bogeyman. Good god, I don’t what this is, as fascinatingly curious as I find the matter, but it’s just not. No, this is something else entirely. I really can’t investigate more, I’m ashamed to admit; although I'd still like to know where it came from. Don’t call me that. Please, I know you’re a nice fellow, but just... please. In fact, I’m about to leave, so we may as well keep things professional, Doctor - Mrs. Therianthus is my title. That is, Lyta Eykos Therianthus, scholar. It’s been a pleasure. [[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>]]	2012-08-11T19:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "serpents-hand", "tale" ]	A Discussion with L. E. T. - SCP Foundation	30	[ "scp-080", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "serpent-s-hand-hub", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14017476	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-discussion-with-l-e-t
a-jester-s-tale	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>My name is David Rosenfeld, but everyone who knows me calls me Jester. If you've never been stationed at Site 19, you've probably heard some horrible rumors about me - that I'm a killer, a monster, worse. As far as the world outside the Foundation knows, I'm all those things and more, and I've been dead a long time to boot. There aren't a lot of people left anymore who know my whole story, so I wanna take this chance to clear the air and tell you who I am, where I come from, and why I'm the way I am - give you a chance to get to know the real Jester.</p> <p>I was born in a small town in upstate New York in 1938, and I guess you could say I was trouble from the day I was born. My father was a big-shot banker in the city, real Fifth Avenue, did his best to fit in and make himself presentable. I was part of a set of twins. My brother, Jacob, he came out everything a father could wish for, all his fingers and toes, but me - well, to put it the way dad always did, "No green-skinned freak is any son of Solomon Rosenfeld's." The doctors had never seen anything like me before. Even today, as far as anyone in the Foundation knows, I'm one of a kind.</p> <p>See, I'm a goblin. I know, goblin ain't exactly proper scientific terminology, but if you showed a picture of me to a bunch of kindergarteners, they'd tell you the same. My skin is green all over, like a bullfrog, and about as leathery. I'm about four feet tall in my shoes. My eyes are yellow and they reflect light in the dark like a cat's eyes. My fingernails are sharp and pointed like talons, and so are my teeth. I don't have a single hair on my body. I wouldn't exactly have fit in at yeshiva - not that I ever got to go, of course.</p> <p>As far as the world outside our family knew, I died the day I was born. Dad paid someone to make out a death certificate with my name on it, and as soon as I was old enough to be weaned he locked me in the basement and wouldn't let me out. I slept down there, read down there, ate down there, the works, all alone. If there was ever company over, I was to be silent as a mouse or I'd get a thrashing afterward. They fed me scraps and sour milk, and when I was sick I just had to tough it out. It was like being a prisoner in my own house.</p> <p>Mom tried her best to be kind to me, but dad got just as angry at her whenever he found out. She'd sneak me books, and some decent food now and then. She even let me have a cat for awhile. I named him Mittens and I loved him with all my heart, but he got out one day and never came back. Mom never would tell me what happened to him. I think dad or Jacob must have done something horrible to the poor little boy. Jacob wasn't much better than dad was. I always thought it was kind of ironic back then - the green-skinned monster sitting to himself just wanting someone to talk to, while the normal-looking kid upstairs was a bully and a thug.</p> <p>By the time I was fifteen I had had enough. Enough of the beatings, enough of the solitude, enough of eating rotten food and throwing it back up the next day. I decided I was getting out of that house if it killed me. It was Seder night, and all of dad's important friends and co-workers and people from the city were upstairs breaking bread, while I was alone in the basement with some limp cabbage and a piece of stale matzo. I started making as much noise as I could. Screaming, knocking over shelves, breaking plates, banging things together, anything to get his attention. Wasn't long before there was a commotion upstairs and I heard him undoing the locks on the door. He was on his way down to give me a thrashing, but I was ready for him - the second the door opened, I socked the son of a bitch right in the face. He went down like a ton of bricks and I ran. Right out the door, down the street, into the night, a thin little goblin, alone, hungry, and scared - but free.</p> <p>I slept in a park that night and woke up starving. I'd been waiting for weeks for a chance to get out of that hellhole - but what was I supposed to do now? I stole some clothes from the line in someone's back yard, a long coat and a hat. I turned the collar up to try and hide my face so nobody would get a good look at me while I wandered around trying to figure out how I was going to eat, where I was going to live. I didn't know if dad would be out looking for me, or mom, or the police, or what, but I knew I'd have to get out of town. I started wandering down the road out into the country when, in the distance, I heard the sound of a calliope. I'd obviously never been to one, or even seen one, but I'd read enough books, and heard enough shit on the radio, to know that sound could mean only one thing - the circus was in town. And what circus is complete without a freak show?</p> <p>I found the boss' tent and introduced myself. I lied about my age, of course, and I told him flat-out I wanted to be a freak. He spent a good fifteen minutes looking me over and asking me questions - can you juggle? Can you sing? Can you wrestle? Do you know any magic tricks? He wasn't too keen on hiring someone with no experience, but once I convinced him I wasn't just wearing a costume he said he could pay me and find a place for me.</p> <p>The next couple years I went all over the country with that circus. City by city, places I'd never even imagined I'd be able to see. I didn't usually go out in the towns on my own - too many gawkers - but I made some good friends in the sideshow. Hell, I even got married to a midget named Annie - the moment she stomped on the glass was the happiest moment of my life, and though we agreed we weren't ever gonna have children, it didn't stop us from having some fun behind the big top after all the lookey-loos had gone home for the night. The circus was more like a family to me than my real family had ever been.</p> <p>At first I was called "Monstro-Boy" - they'd dress me up in a loincloth and put me in a corner with a chain around my neck, and I'd act like a rabid dog and lunge at the marks as they walked past my little corner of the sideshow. Sometimes they'd do me up with fake blood or foam around the mouth. It was fun at first, but it wasn't all that <em>fulfilling</em>. Scaring people wasn't hard for me - it was natural for people to startle when they saw me. I spent a lot of time hanging out with the main acts and learning their tricks - tumbling, tightrope-walking, magic, so on - but I didn't get my big break until 1959. Boggles, one of the clowns, got thrown in the pokey after he got into a fight at a bar in town, and the boss needed to find a replacement fast for that night's show. I leapt at the opportunity. The boss wasn't so sure about it at first, but I begged him and I showed him some of the moves I'd learned, and he got an idea. He went back in one of the costume trunks and spent about five minutes rummaging around, and pulled out a tiny little motley and a patchwork jumpsuit that looked like it was sewn together out of kids' pajamas. That night, under the big top, Jester the Goblin was born.</p> <p>I did eight shows that weekend as Jester, and every one was a hit. They were rolling in the bleachers, and I felt something I'd never felt before. All my life, people had been scared, revolted, disgusted when they saw me. But now, they were <em>happy</em> instead. Boggles got canned and in six months' time I was the biggest clown (figuratively speaking, of course) on the tour. They even started putting me on the posters - "SEE THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE WORLD-FAMOUS JESTER THE GOBLIN LIVE IN THE CENTER RING!" We went back to New York City and I even got to do a routine on Ed Sullivan. Life was good - but like the book says, there's a time to laugh and a time to weep.</p> <p>July 23rd, 1964 - that was when the first murder happened. One of the trapeze artists was found dead in his tent the day after we rolled into St. Louis. His eyes were gouged out and his skin had been cut to ribbons like a giant pair of claws, and on the inside wall of the tent was the number 1, written in his own blood. Of course they suspected the guy with the claws - but I had an airtight alibi, I was with Annie the whole night. Still, people started looking at me real funny after that.</p> <p>There were three more murders the next three nights. The lion-tamer, the unicyclist, and one of the other clowns, all killed the same way, all with a number on the wall in their blood. One, two, three, four… Everyone was wondering who was gonna be next, and the longer it went on the more and more people started doubting me. The boss said the police couldn't find any evidence that I did it, but just to be safe he was confining me to the "jailhouse" tent on the edge of our camp, and he sent Omar the Strongman to make sure I didn't leave. I felt like I was back in dad's basement again.</p> <p>That night I woke up to the sound of a scream. Annie's scream! I yelled at Omar to wake up and we rushed to her tent. It was dark, but I could tell she was hurt pretty bad. There was a man standing over her, taller than me, wearing some kind of metal claws on his hands, just cutting at her with them. Omar shone a flashlight at him and I recognized the face - it was Jacob! I told Omar to stay back and I jumped right at him like I was Monstro-Boy for real. In thirty seconds I had him flat on his back, and I would have cut his throat with my own claws if the police hadn't rushed in and separated us.</p> <p>I was booked at the station house for aggravated assault and attempted murder. I had a feeling it wasn't going to go well for me, but I never made it to trial. The next night I was taken out of my cell in the middle of the night and put into a windowless van, and by morning I was at Site 19 - where I've been ever since. The doctors ran all kinds of tests on me, talking about how I was a "genetically unique specimen" and an "atavistic recurrence of an extinct forebear of <em>homo sapiens</em>" and all kinds of scientific mumbo-jumbo that I still barely even understand. I plead my case and they told me they knew I was innocent. Annie and Omar and the boss had vouched for me, and Jacob had confessed to the murders - he'd seen me on TV and decided to get even with me for running away. I asked when I was free to go, and that's when they told me never - I had to be protected and kept secret from the "civilian" world, because my existence was an abnormality and I was a threat to normalcy. It surely wasn't the first time a man in a lab coat told one of my people something like that.</p> <p>They put me in a windowless cell and only let me out to run their tests on me. It was like being back in the basement. It was worse than being back in the basement. After three weeks I tried to hang myself with the bedsheets and they put me on suicide watch. They sent a shrink to talk to me and I told him the truth straight up - I'd spent my entire childhood in a box, and now I was back in that box. The best days of my life, the only time I'd truly been happy, was when I was on stage making people laugh, and the Foundation had made sure I'd never have that opportunity again.</p> <p>The shrink had an idea. I hadn't been the only person to try to take his own life lately - suicide rates among the people working at Site 19 were way up. This was a hard job, he said, and sometimes the things people have to do catch up to them. A lot of the people working on site were there 24 hours a day for long periods of time, and there wasn't much for them to do between shifts. Maybe laughter was the best medicine? And so it was decided - Thursday nights in the Site 19 auditorium would be Standup Night with Jester.</p> <p>It took a few weeks to hit my stride - standup is a little different than clowning, of course - but before I knew it I had the swing of it and the crowds kept getting bigger and bigger. Sure, I worked a little blue sometimes - these were soldiers and scientists, after all, not blue-haired old ladies and their grandkids out for a nice Sunday matinee. Soon we were getting enough attendance that I had to do two shows a week. Staff morale was up, suicides were down, and I was happy again. I had to talk the director into letting me read the papers and watch some TV every now and then - had to keep my material fresh, after all. First it was three channels, then a dozen, then thirty, then hundreds, then there were millions of people making jokes on the internet for me to keep up with. Not that I understand a single thing about how the internet works, but the doctors let me watch some of the popular videos and keep up with the trends.</p> <p>So that's been my life for the past 45 years. Eventually I couldn't keep up the routine like I used to and had to cut back to one show a week, then one every two weeks. I do one once a month now, and I still draw crowds to the Site 19 auditorium - I hear they even do a "live secure webstream", whatever that is, so that people at the other Foundation sites can tune in. I've been entertaining three generations of Foundation employees, keeping them sane in between the things they have to do to protect the world.</p> <p>Once a few years ago there was a guy named Able that got stationed at Site 19. I never found out what his whole story was, but I don't think he was any ordinary joe - he was covered in all these strange tattoos, and looked like he'd just as soon kill you as talk to you. Always had the same look on his face, didn't seem to care about anything but work and training. One of the squaddies bet me an extra weeks' worth of dessert rations that I couldn't make him laugh. I put on the show of my life for him, and in the end I lost that bet - but as I left the stage at the end, I would've sworn I saw him crack the slightest little smile.</p> <p>The doctor told me last week that I have cancer. I guess it runs in my family - I heard eventually that my mom died of it in '88. He says the prognosis is good since they found it early, but considering my "unique physiological condition", that's a wild guess at best. I've got a biopsy scheduled for Tuesday, and after that they'll decide whether to operate or put me on chemo or what. In the end, I guess you could say I've lived a blessed life. It hasn't exactly been the American Dream, but I went from being an embarassment locked up in a basement to being a man who's touched thousands of lives in a little way, and maybe nobody outside the Foundation will know when I finally kick the bucket, but I think I can say I've made a difference in this world. I don't know how many years I've got left, but G_d willing, I'll be able to spend them doing what I love the most - making people laugh.</p> <p><em>-David "Jester" Rosenfeld</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"> <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="/a-jester-s-tale">A Jester's Tale</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-jester-s-tale">https://scpwiki.com/a-jester-s-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]] [[/>]] My name is David Rosenfeld, but everyone who knows me calls me Jester. If you've never been stationed at Site 19, you've probably heard some horrible rumors about me - that I'm a killer, a monster, worse. As far as the world outside the Foundation knows, I'm all those things and more, and I've been dead a long time to boot. There aren't a lot of people left anymore who know my whole story, so I wanna take this chance to clear the air and tell you who I am, where I come from, and why I'm the way I am - give you a chance to get to know the real Jester. I was born in a small town in upstate New York in 1938, and I guess you could say I was trouble from the day I was born. My father was a big-shot banker in the city, real Fifth Avenue, did his best to fit in and make himself presentable. I was part of a set of twins. My brother, Jacob, he came out everything a father could wish for, all his fingers and toes, but me - well, to put it the way dad always did, "No green-skinned freak is any son of Solomon Rosenfeld's." The doctors had never seen anything like me before. Even today, as far as anyone in the Foundation knows, I'm one of a kind. See, I'm a goblin. I know, goblin ain't exactly proper scientific terminology, but if you showed a picture of me to a bunch of kindergarteners, they'd tell you the same. My skin is green all over, like a bullfrog, and about as leathery. I'm about four feet tall in my shoes. My eyes are yellow and they reflect light in the dark like a cat's eyes. My fingernails are sharp and pointed like talons, and so are my teeth. I don't have a single hair on my body. I wouldn't exactly have fit in at yeshiva - not that I ever got to go, of course. As far as the world outside our family knew, I died the day I was born. Dad paid someone to make out a death certificate with my name on it, and as soon as I was old enough to be weaned he locked me in the basement and wouldn't let me out. I slept down there, read down there, ate down there, the works, all alone. If there was ever company over, I was to be silent as a mouse or I'd get a thrashing afterward. They fed me scraps and sour milk, and when I was sick I just had to tough it out. It was like being a prisoner in my own house. Mom tried her best to be kind to me, but dad got just as angry at her whenever he found out. She'd sneak me books, and some decent food now and then. She even let me have a cat for awhile. I named him Mittens and I loved him with all my heart, but he got out one day and never came back. Mom never would tell me what happened to him. I think dad or Jacob must have done something horrible to the poor little boy. Jacob wasn't much better than dad was. I always thought it was kind of ironic back then - the green-skinned monster sitting to himself just wanting someone to talk to, while the normal-looking kid upstairs was a bully and a thug. By the time I was fifteen I had had enough. Enough of the beatings, enough of the solitude, enough of eating rotten food and throwing it back up the next day. I decided I was getting out of that house if it killed me. It was Seder night, and all of dad's important friends and co-workers and people from the city were upstairs breaking bread, while I was alone in the basement with some limp cabbage and a piece of stale matzo. I started making as much noise as I could. Screaming, knocking over shelves, breaking plates, banging things together, anything to get his attention. Wasn't long before there was a commotion upstairs and I heard him undoing the locks on the door. He was on his way down to give me a thrashing, but I was ready for him - the second the door opened, I socked the son of a bitch right in the face. He went down like a ton of bricks and I ran. Right out the door, down the street, into the night, a thin little goblin, alone, hungry, and scared - but free. I slept in a park that night and woke up starving. I'd been waiting for weeks for a chance to get out of that hellhole - but what was I supposed to do now? I stole some clothes from the line in someone's back yard, a long coat and a hat. I turned the collar up to try and hide my face so nobody would get a good look at me while I wandered around trying to figure out how I was going to eat, where I was going to live. I didn't know if dad would be out looking for me, or mom, or the police, or what, but I knew I'd have to get out of town. I started wandering down the road out into the country when, in the distance, I heard the sound of a calliope. I'd obviously never been to one, or even seen one, but I'd read enough books, and heard enough shit on the radio, to know that sound could mean only one thing - the circus was in town. And what circus is complete without a freak show? I found the boss' tent and introduced myself. I lied about my age, of course, and I told him flat-out I wanted to be a freak. He spent a good fifteen minutes looking me over and asking me questions - can you juggle? Can you sing? Can you wrestle? Do you know any magic tricks? He wasn't too keen on hiring someone with no experience, but once I convinced him I wasn't just wearing a costume he said he could pay me and find a place for me. The next couple years I went all over the country with that circus. City by city, places I'd never even imagined I'd be able to see. I didn't usually go out in the towns on my own - too many gawkers - but I made some good friends in the sideshow. Hell, I even got married to a midget named Annie - the moment she stomped on the glass was the happiest moment of my life, and though we agreed we weren't ever gonna have children, it didn't stop us from having some fun behind the big top after all the lookey-loos had gone home for the night. The circus was more like a family to me than my real family had ever been. At first I was called "Monstro-Boy" - they'd dress me up in a loincloth and put me in a corner with a chain around my neck, and I'd act like a rabid dog and lunge at the marks as they walked past my little corner of the sideshow. Sometimes they'd do me up with fake blood or foam around the mouth. It was fun at first, but it wasn't all that //fulfilling//. Scaring people wasn't hard for me - it was natural for people to startle when they saw me. I spent a lot of time hanging out with the main acts and learning their tricks - tumbling, tightrope-walking, magic, so on - but I didn't get my big break until 1959. Boggles, one of the clowns, got thrown in the pokey after he got into a fight at a bar in town, and the boss needed to find a replacement fast for that night's show. I leapt at the opportunity. The boss wasn't so sure about it at first, but I begged him and I showed him some of the moves I'd learned, and he got an idea. He went back in one of the costume trunks and spent about five minutes rummaging around, and pulled out a tiny little motley and a patchwork jumpsuit that looked like it was sewn together out of kids' pajamas. That night, under the big top, Jester the Goblin was born. I did eight shows that weekend as Jester, and every one was a hit. They were rolling in the bleachers, and I felt something I'd never felt before. All my life, people had been scared, revolted, disgusted when they saw me. But now, they were //happy// instead. Boggles got canned and in six months' time I was the biggest clown (figuratively speaking, of course) on the tour. They even started putting me on the posters - "SEE THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE WORLD-FAMOUS JESTER THE GOBLIN LIVE IN THE CENTER RING!" We went back to New York City and I even got to do a routine on Ed Sullivan. Life was good - but like the book says, there's a time to laugh and a time to weep. July 23rd, 1964 - that was when the first murder happened. One of the trapeze artists was found dead in his tent the day after we rolled into St. Louis. His eyes were gouged out and his skin had been cut to ribbons like a giant pair of claws, and on the inside wall of the tent was the number 1, written in his own blood. Of course they suspected the guy with the claws - but I had an airtight alibi, I was with Annie the whole night. Still, people started looking at me real funny after that. There were three more murders the next three nights. The lion-tamer, the unicyclist, and one of the other clowns, all killed the same way, all with a number on the wall in their blood. One, two, three, four... Everyone was wondering who was gonna be next, and the longer it went on the more and more people started doubting me. The boss said the police couldn't find any evidence that I did it, but just to be safe he was confining me to the "jailhouse" tent on the edge of our camp, and he sent Omar the Strongman to make sure I didn't leave. I felt like I was back in dad's basement again. That night I woke up to the sound of a scream. Annie's scream! I yelled at Omar to wake up and we rushed to her tent. It was dark, but I could tell she was hurt pretty bad. There was a man standing over her, taller than me, wearing some kind of metal claws on his hands, just cutting at her with them. Omar shone a flashlight at him and I recognized the face - it was Jacob! I told Omar to stay back and I jumped right at him like I was Monstro-Boy for real. In thirty seconds I had him flat on his back, and I would have cut his throat with my own claws if the police hadn't rushed in and separated us. I was booked at the station house for aggravated assault and attempted murder. I had a feeling it wasn't going to go well for me, but I never made it to trial. The next night I was taken out of my cell in the middle of the night and put into a windowless van, and by morning I was at Site 19 - where I've been ever since. The doctors ran all kinds of tests on me, talking about how I was a "genetically unique specimen" and an "atavistic recurrence of an extinct forebear of //homo sapiens//" and all kinds of scientific mumbo-jumbo that I still barely even understand. I plead my case and they told me they knew I was innocent. Annie and Omar and the boss had vouched for me, and Jacob had confessed to the murders - he'd seen me on TV and decided to get even with me for running away. I asked when I was free to go, and that's when they told me never - I had to be protected and kept secret from the "civilian" world, because my existence was an abnormality and I was a threat to normalcy. It surely wasn't the first time a man in a lab coat told one of my people something like that. They put me in a windowless cell and only let me out to run their tests on me. It was like being back in the basement. It was worse than being back in the basement. After three weeks I tried to hang myself with the bedsheets and they put me on suicide watch. They sent a shrink to talk to me and I told him the truth straight up - I'd spent my entire childhood in a box, and now I was back in that box. The best days of my life, the only time I'd truly been happy, was when I was on stage making people laugh, and the Foundation had made sure I'd never have that opportunity again. The shrink had an idea. I hadn't been the only person to try to take his own life lately - suicide rates among the people working at Site 19 were way up. This was a hard job, he said, and sometimes the things people have to do catch up to them. A lot of the people working on site were there 24 hours a day for long periods of time, and there wasn't much for them to do between shifts. Maybe laughter was the best medicine? And so it was decided - Thursday nights in the Site 19 auditorium would be Standup Night with Jester. It took a few weeks to hit my stride - standup is a little different than clowning, of course - but before I knew it I had the swing of it and the crowds kept getting bigger and bigger. Sure, I worked a little blue sometimes - these were soldiers and scientists, after all, not blue-haired old ladies and their grandkids out for a nice Sunday matinee. Soon we were getting enough attendance that I had to do two shows a week. Staff morale was up, suicides were down, and I was happy again. I had to talk the director into letting me read the papers and watch some TV every now and then - had to keep my material fresh, after all. First it was three channels, then a dozen, then thirty, then hundreds, then there were millions of people making jokes on the internet for me to keep up with. Not that I understand a single thing about how the internet works, but the doctors let me watch some of the popular videos and keep up with the trends. So that's been my life for the past 45 years. Eventually I couldn't keep up the routine like I used to and had to cut back to one show a week, then one every two weeks. I do one once a month now, and I still draw crowds to the Site 19 auditorium - I hear they even do a "live secure webstream", whatever that is, so that people at the other Foundation sites can tune in. I've been entertaining three generations of Foundation employees, keeping them sane in between the things they have to do to protect the world. Once a few years ago there was a guy named Able that got stationed at Site 19. I never found out what his whole story was, but I don't think he was any ordinary joe - he was covered in all these strange tattoos, and looked like he'd just as soon kill you as talk to you. Always had the same look on his face, didn't seem to care about anything but work and training. One of the squaddies bet me an extra weeks' worth of dessert rations that I couldn't make him laugh. I put on the show of my life for him, and in the end I lost that bet - but as I left the stage at the end, I would've sworn I saw him crack the slightest little smile. The doctor told me last week that I have cancer. I guess it runs in my family - I heard eventually that my mom died of it in '88. He says the prognosis is good since they found it early, but considering my "unique physiological condition", that's a wild guess at best. I've got a biopsy scheduled for Tuesday, and after that they'll decide whether to operate or put me on chemo or what. In the end, I guess you could say I've lived a blessed life. It hasn't exactly been the American Dream, but I went from being an embarassment locked up in a basement to being a man who's touched thousands of lives in a little way, and maybe nobody outside the Foundation will know when I finally kick the bucket, but I think I can say I've made a difference in this world. I don't know how many years I've got left, but G_d willing, I'll be able to spend them doing what I love the most - making people laugh. //-David "Jester" Rosenfeld// @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-19T11:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "bittersweet", "fantasy", "first-person", "period-piece", "tale" ]	A Jester's Tale - SCP Foundation	157	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13588600	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-jester-s-tale
a-long-time-past	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>May 10, 1997</strong></p> <p>A black moon under a hill of snow.</p> <p><em>His brother had been born first, but the younger was the stronger of the two. The omen had been marked, but its mark was not for a babe at the breast. Destiny was fit for a man.</em></p> <p>A scene of two boys wielding spears, each fighting a ferocious animal.</p> <p><em>Two boys became two men. Manhood brings a mark, which brings a name, which begins a destiny.</em></p> <p>A figure of man, dressed in furs, holding a spear. A woman, fat and healthy, stands beside him, as do five childlike forms. Another, smaller man stands to the side, with feathered staff and headdress.</p> <p><em>He did not have the clays of the River now, not the rich red nor the earthy brown nor the smooth grey. Nor did he have the deep black of the charcoal of a fire over which the sacred stories were told. He had nothing but blood and spit and pus and bone.</em></p> <p><em>It was enough.</em></p> <p>More monstrous animals, each with a red slash across the belly.</p> <p><em>The storytellers and elders whispered of the brothers’ feats, how the warrior smote the beast and the shaman healed the sick and drove out evil spirits. They spoke of their great destiny…</em></p> <p>The smaller man stripped of his headdress, walking away from a faceless crowd. The larger man points in direction.</p> <p><em>But destiny is a heavy weight: Slip, and it will crush you…</em></p> <p>The woman, dead, smeared with the blood of childbirth, the deformed infant in her arms.</p> <p><em>And destiny takes what it will from those it does not destroy.</em></p> <p>A spread of grey land, a swathe of black sky, a tiny white figure in the center.</p> <p><em>You took nothing into the cave. Took not your spear, nor knife, nor fire, nor sight, nor hearing. The dead allowed only the soul to pass.</em></p> <p>A figure in shadows, bone white face and blood-red hands.</p> <p><em>For the spear will break and hides will rot and fire will dim. All things die. Only the soul may be tested.</em></p> <p>A pale, ghostly figure, plump and long-haired. A child holds on to one hand.</p> <p><em>And in time rewarded…</em></p> <p>The same figures, smeared out.</p> <p><em>But destiny is fickle with its rewards.</em></p> <p>The light of the entrance to a cave.</p> <p><em>The test was passed. Life, power, and loneliness were the reward.</em></p> <p>The figure alone, surrounded by darkened trees.</p> <p><em>Seasons were born and died.</em></p> <p><em>He did not.</em></p> <p>The figure standing on a hill, many figures surrounding him. Another woman, many children, many others, all fed and strong.</p> <p><em>Death turns to life again. It continues.</em></p> <p>Bloody red fire.</p> <p><em>And again all things die. He did not.</em></p> <p>The figure stripped of his hides, bloody and beaten, surrounded by tall, cloaked figures with the skulls of animals. Chains bound his arms and legs.</p> <p><em>He could not die, so he watched.</em></p> <p>The man marked with crests that were not his, standing in a river of blood, the dead around him thick as the fallen leaves of autumn.</p> <p><em>He could not die, so he lived a slave. A tool.</em></p> <p>A cold, black monolith. A tomb in chains.</p> <p><em>Tools are stored when they are not used, and disposed when they have worn out their usefulness.</em></p> <p>Able, son of Ablaln, Chief of the Mountain and the River, He Who Returned from the Land of Death, Wanderer of a Thousand Winters, the Smiting Blade, The Sleeping God, scowled with bared teeth at the last of the paintings. A name echoed through his mind, to the very depths of his soul, boiling up hatred a thousand times over, hate that burned, consumed, that left nothing but more of the same. Hatred against <em>them</em>. The invaders. The slaughterers. The slavemasters. The filth. The <em>Daevas.</em></p> <p>When a man has nothing left to lose, then his soul may be stripped from him.</p> <p>Able roared, slamming his fists into the wall. By all means, they should have crumbled under his blows, were they normal stone. His fistfalls thudded dully through the cube, not a crack appearing.</p> <p>No…the walls of this prison were not to be broken by the tantrums of a child. Able ceased his barrage, panting. The echoes froze and faded.</p> <p>Why had he brought those memories to bear? Had he not buried them ages ago? Had he not torn down the walls of Daevon with his own hands? Had he not ripped the high priest in twain and destroyed their foul idols? Had he not sent them screaming to their black gods as their most twisted sorcerers sacrificed themselves to lock him away a final time? They were dead, dead and gone, and he had bathed in enough blood to forget himself in his madness. Why?</p> <p>The answer came to him.</p> <p>Able stood up straight to his full eight feet. He knew now. He knew why he remembered. It was all happening again. He reached down to the rent torso he had been using as palette a last time. His hand wet with viscera, he painted one more figure on the cold, uncaring walls of his prison: A man with a smile, but no true face.</p> <p>A man made a weapon at the call of masters beyond.</p> <p>They were the same.</p> <p>They were kin.</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="/a-long-time-past">A Long Time Past</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-long-time-past">https://scpwiki.com/a-long-time-past</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]] [[/>]] May 10, 1997 A black moon under a hill of snow. //His brother had been born first, but the younger was the stronger of the two. The omen had been marked, but its mark was not for a babe at the breast. Destiny was fit for a man.// A scene of two boys wielding spears, each fighting a ferocious animal. //Two boys became two men. Manhood brings a mark, which brings a name, which begins a destiny.// A figure of man, dressed in furs, holding a spear. A woman, fat and healthy, stands beside him, as do five childlike forms. Another, smaller man stands to the side, with feathered staff and headdress. //He did not have the clays of the River now, not the rich red nor the earthy brown nor the smooth grey. Nor did he have the deep black of the charcoal of a fire over which the sacred stories were told. He had nothing but blood and spit and pus and bone.// //It was enough.// More monstrous animals, each with a red slash across the belly. //The storytellers and elders whispered of the brothers’ feats, how the warrior smote the beast and the shaman healed the sick and drove out evil spirits. They spoke of their great destiny…// The smaller man stripped of his headdress, walking away from a faceless crowd. The larger man points in direction. //But destiny is a heavy weight: Slip, and it will crush you...// The woman, dead, smeared with the blood of childbirth, the deformed infant in her arms. //And destiny takes what it will from those it does not destroy.// A spread of grey land, a swathe of black sky, a tiny white figure in the center. //You took nothing into the cave. Took not your spear, nor knife, nor fire, nor sight, nor hearing. The dead allowed only the soul to pass.// A figure in shadows, bone white face and blood-red hands. //For the spear will break and hides will rot and fire will dim. All things die. Only the soul may be tested.// A pale, ghostly figure, plump and long-haired. A child holds on to one hand. //And in time rewarded…// The same figures, smeared out. //But destiny is fickle with its rewards.// The light of the entrance to a cave. //The test was passed. Life, power, and loneliness were the reward.// The figure alone, surrounded by darkened trees. //Seasons were born and died.// //He did not.// The figure standing on a hill, many figures surrounding him. Another woman, many children, many others, all fed and strong. //Death turns to life again. It continues.// Bloody red fire. //And again all things die. He did not.// The figure stripped of his hides, bloody and beaten, surrounded by tall, cloaked figures with the skulls of animals. Chains bound his arms and legs. //He could not die, so he watched.// The man marked with crests that were not his, standing in a river of blood, the dead around him thick as the fallen leaves of autumn. //He could not die, so he lived a slave. A tool.// A cold, black monolith. A tomb in chains. //Tools are stored when they are not used, and disposed when they have worn out their usefulness.// Able, son of Ablaln, Chief of the Mountain and the River, He Who Returned from the Land of Death, Wanderer of a Thousand Winters, the Smiting Blade, The Sleeping God, scowled with bared teeth at the last of the paintings. A name echoed through his mind, to the very depths of his soul, boiling up hatred a thousand times over, hate that burned, consumed, that left nothing but more of the same. Hatred against //them//. The invaders. The slaughterers. The slavemasters. The filth. The //Daevas.// When a man has nothing left to lose, then his soul may be stripped from him. Able roared, slamming his fists into the wall. By all means, they should have crumbled under his blows, were they normal stone. His fistfalls thudded dully through the cube, not a crack appearing. No…the walls of this prison were not to be broken by the tantrums of a child. Able ceased his barrage, panting. The echoes froze and faded. Why had he brought those memories to bear? Had he not buried them ages ago? Had he not torn down the walls of Daevon with his own hands? Had he not ripped the high priest in twain and destroyed their foul idols? Had he not sent them screaming to their black gods as their most twisted sorcerers sacrificed themselves to lock him away a final time? They were dead, dead and gone, and he had bathed in enough blood to forget himself in his madness. Why? The answer came to him. Able stood up straight to his full eight feet. He knew now. He knew why he remembered. It was all happening again. He reached down to the rent torso he had been using as palette a last time. His hand wet with viscera, he painted one more figure on the cold, uncaring walls of his prison: A man with a smile, but no true face. A man made a weapon at the call of masters beyond. They were the same. They were kin. [[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>]]	2012-08-02T00:45:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "classical-revival", "daevite", "mythological", "tale" ]	A Long Time Past - SCP Foundation	81	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13937985	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-long-time-past
a-most-unfortunate-reunion	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Dr. Matthew Eggers, special assistant for sapient animal research at Site 19, sat at a bare table in Interview Room C, a notepad in his hand. In front of him, crawling back and forth across the table, was the creature that had occupied so much of his time for the last six months - SCP-1867, a telepathic, English-speaking sea slug that claimed to be Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, a 19th century British gentleman and explorer in a severe state of denial about his physical form. "Lord Blackwood", as he insisted on being called, was relating yet another fabulous and improbable tale of his adventures, and as he had done three times a week for months now, Eggers was taking down the self-proclaimed scientist's words on his notepad. Thus far, the Foundation had yet to decisively verify a single one of his anecdotes - but if even half of his claimed encounters with other contained objects were true, then there was a wealth of information in the slug's head that would be of great use in the Foundation's work.</p> <p>"There I was!" Lord Blackwood exclaimed. "Thousands of feet above the forests of Baden, my eyes level with the peak of the Feldberg itself, my legs wrapped for dear life around the neck of an Austrian green dragon, one hand feverishly clutching the reins as I struggled to bring myself about. The saddle had fallen to the ground when I cut it loose, taking the beast's Prussian rider with it. I had expended my last rounds of ammunition fleeing Count von Zeppelin's airborne war machine before it caught aflame and fell to the Earth. I managed to cajole the dragon into turning back towards the east, and that's when I caught sight of a truly massive dragon - one of the rare Grand Romanov breed, imported from Russia - bedecked in burnished steel armor that shone impossibly bright as it caught the last rays of the evening sun. There, upon its back, I saw my quarry - Kaiser Frederick III himself. On any other day, I would never have dared to test my prowess against the man who was after all the husband of our dear queen's daughter. But now that the Eye of Lakshmi itself - that famed Hindustani amulet with the power to carry a man's soul into a new body after death - was in the hands of the Second Reich, I was left with no recourse.</p> <p>"I drove the dragon straight at the Kaiser's and called forth from its lips a burst of flame that the Hun barely evaded. As I turned about to make another pass, I saw him blow into a massive hunting horn that echoed across the mountains and valleys of the <em>Schwarzwald</em> - and to my horror, another half-dozen dragons rose out of the opaque canopies below, fresh and ready for the fight. I was outnumbered and outgunned - the last of England's finest drake-men had been felled by von Zeppelin's contraption, our fusiliers on the ground forced to retreat by the German cavalry advance. I had only one hope to win the day. Holding on to the reins for dear life, I reached into my pack and carefully withdrew the oddly-shaped red vase that housed the most unusual of benefactors…"</p> <p>"I'm sorry, Lord Blackwood," Dr. Eggers interrupted, "but I'm going to have to cut you off there. It's going to take me the rest of the day to translate all this from the shorthand, and the rest of the week for the staff to go over it. We'll have to finish the story during the next interview. Alright?"</p> <p>"Dash it all!" Lord Blackwood replied. "I was just getting to the good part. Very well, I suppose I'll have to leave you in suspense for another week."</p> <p>"I'm glad you understand," Eggers said, as he rose from the chair and made his way to the door. "Just wait right there and Dr. Andrews will be by in a few minutes to take you back to your tank."</p> <p>"About that, my dear boy," Lord Blackwood said. "Do you think you could finally see your way to draining all that excess water out? I appreciate a good swim as much as the next fellow, but my skin has become far too wrinkled as of late."</p> <p>"I'll pass that on to the director," Eggers said. The door closed behind him and Lord Blackwood was alone - or so he thought. From the air vent near the ceiling of the room, an interloper had been observing in secret the conversation between the doctor and the slug, waiting for exactly this moment. As Lord Blackwood turned his back to the vent, idly crawling about and humming "Land of Hope and Glory" to himself, he made his move. Slowly and silently, he exited the vent and made his way down the floor and to the table. Inch by inch, minute by minute, the unexpected guest made his way across the wooden surface, following Lord Blackwood's slime trail until he was almost right behind the slug at the table's edge, and then…</p> <p>"OI! TOMMY!"</p> <p>Lord Blackwood had moved on to singing bits and pieces of "The Pirates of Penzance" when the silence was broken by a loud cry in a vulgar London patois. The nudibranch half-instinctively attempted to reach for his hip before recalling that he was not carrying a gun, and instead turned himself around as fast as one in his condition could do so and found himself face-to-face with the last thing he had expected so rude a call to emanate from - a common snail, its pulsating eyestalks fixated directly on him.</p> <p>In all his years of adventuring, Lord Blackwood had never encountered so bizarre a thing as a talking snail. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and gave the creature a stern glare of his own as he replied, "Who the Devil are you and how do you know my name?"</p> <p>"Oh, come on, Tommy," the snail replied in a dialect that made Lord Blackwood cringe. "Surely you 'aven't forgotten the face of your dear old 'friend' Georgie, 'ave ya?"</p> <p>"George Phillip Harris the Fourth," Lord Blackwood sneered. "I should've recognized that guttural nonsense you have the audacity to call English right away. What are you doing here? Need to borrow money? On the run from the Swiss Guard? Perhaps you've concocted another ridiculous scheme to defraud the Americans out of the territories?"</p> <p>"You and I got some unfinished business to settle, Tommy," Harris said. "You killed me back in '55! You think a man just forgets a thing like that?"</p> <p>Lord Blackwood rolled his eyes. "Not this rot again. I thought we settled this after that business in Patagonia."</p> <p>"And yet, 'ere we are," Harris said. "'Ow many times 'ave I gotten meself turned inside-out because you were too busy 'ogging the glory to save your old pal from Godolphin 'ouse?"</p> <p>"I'll tell you the same thing I told you then - you brought all of that upon yourself when you decided to try and smuggle the Crown of Sutekh up the Nile."</p> <p>"You're a pint o' bitter if I ever seen one." Harris spat on the ground. "And where were you when 'alf the mummies west of the Nile were after me? 'Alfway back to London to kiss the Queen's knickers?"</p> <p>"I was in Alexandria helping the Patriarch, the Coptic Pope, and the Grand Mufti arrange the biggest exorcism conducted in Egypt since the fall of the Abbasids!" Lord Blackwood responded, the impatience in his voice mounting. "Were it not for what we pulled off, Africa itself would have been lost to the British Empire because of your foolish attempt at larceny."</p> <p>"We've played this game before, Tommy," Harris said. "Every time I let you tag along on one of my grand expeditions, you wander off and get me killed, and the next time you come 'round askin' for me 'elp to line your pockets with foreign gold you've always, <em>always</em> got some cock-and-bull story about 'ow it's not your fault. 'You shouldn't 'ave let the Sumerian god-man out of his casket', 'You shouldn't 'ave tried to kill the golem of Prague with a Derringer,' 'You shouldn't 'ave seduced the Gypsy King's sister.' I've 'ad it up to 'ere!" Harris swept his eyestalk in a line above his head. "You and I are gonna settle this 'ere and now like real gentlemen."</p> <p>Lord Blackwood sighed and swore under his breath, struggling to keep his composure. "Only one of us is a gentleman, Mr. Harris, and while the years have not been as kind to me as I might have hoped they would, you are hardly in any state to fight me. I walloped you soundly every time we met in the boxing ring back at Eton - and as I recall, you had not at that time been transmogrified into a snail."</p> <p>"A snail? A bloody snail? 'Ave you lost your mind?" Harris threw back his head and laughed. "I'm as fit as I've ever been - and I ain't been turned into no bleedin' sea slug, either."</p> <p>Lord Blackwood puffed himself up with rage. "So! I should've known you were the blackguard spreading these foul slanders about my being a sea slug! I demand satisfaction, and I demand it now, Harris - recant these lies at once or I shall be forced to give you what for!"</p> <p>"Alright, alright, Tommy, don't get yer pants in a twist," Harris said, grinning slyly. "You're right, you're right. You ain't no sea slug… but your mum sure is."</p> <p>Lord Blackwood cocked back his right eyestalk and swung.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>ADDENDUM:</strong> On ██/██/20██, a Roman snail (<em>Helix pomatia</em>) with anomalous properties similar to SCP-1867 was found in Interview Room C after SCP-1867 had briefly been left unobserved following the conclusion of Interview 1867-238. At the time of discovery, SCP-1867 and the snail were observed face-to-face on a table attempting to "headbutt" each other and strike each other with their eyestalks. In subsequent interviews, the snail has identified itself as "George Philip Harris IV", an individual referred to as an associate of SCP-1867 beginning in Diary 1867-3. The snail is currently being housed in a 40x70x30 cm specimen tank adjacent to SCP-1867's until such time as further examination and classification can be made.</p> </blockquote> <p>"Oi! Tommy!" Lord Blackwood turned his head and did his best to ignore Harris' shouts from the tank next to his. "Did you ever 'ear the one about the man who thought 'e was a botfly? Got nicked for indecency after 'e started runnin' up to ladies and biting 'em on the arm. Said 'e was just lookin' for someplace to lay 'is eggs!"</p> <p>"By Jove," Lord Blackwood thought to himself, "what I wouldn't give for an elephant gun right now."<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="/a-most-unfortunate-reunion">A Most Unfortunate Reunion</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-most-unfortunate-reunion">https://scpwiki.com/a-most-unfortunate-reunion</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. Matthew Eggers, special assistant for sapient animal research at Site 19, sat at a bare table in Interview Room C, a notepad in his hand. In front of him, crawling back and forth across the table, was the creature that had occupied so much of his time for the last six months - SCP-1867, a telepathic, English-speaking sea slug that claimed to be Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, a 19th century British gentleman and explorer in a severe state of denial about his physical form. "Lord Blackwood", as he insisted on being called, was relating yet another fabulous and improbable tale of his adventures, and as he had done three times a week for months now, Eggers was taking down the self-proclaimed scientist's words on his notepad. Thus far, the Foundation had yet to decisively verify a single one of his anecdotes - but if even half of his claimed encounters with other contained objects were true, then there was a wealth of information in the slug's head that would be of great use in the Foundation's work. "There I was!" Lord Blackwood exclaimed. "Thousands of feet above the forests of Baden, my eyes level with the peak of the Feldberg itself, my legs wrapped for dear life around the neck of an Austrian green dragon, one hand feverishly clutching the reins as I struggled to bring myself about. The saddle had fallen to the ground when I cut it loose, taking the beast's Prussian rider with it. I had expended my last rounds of ammunition fleeing Count von Zeppelin's airborne war machine before it caught aflame and fell to the Earth. I managed to cajole the dragon into turning back towards the east, and that's when I caught sight of a truly massive dragon - one of the rare Grand Romanov breed, imported from Russia - bedecked in burnished steel armor that shone impossibly bright as it caught the last rays of the evening sun. There, upon its back, I saw my quarry - Kaiser Frederick III himself. On any other day, I would never have dared to test my prowess against the man who was after all the husband of our dear queen's daughter. But now that the Eye of Lakshmi itself - that famed Hindustani amulet with the power to carry a man's soul into a new body after death - was in the hands of the Second Reich, I was left with no recourse. "I drove the dragon straight at the Kaiser's and called forth from its lips a burst of flame that the Hun barely evaded. As I turned about to make another pass, I saw him blow into a massive hunting horn that echoed across the mountains and valleys of the //Schwarzwald// - and to my horror, another half-dozen dragons rose out of the opaque canopies below, fresh and ready for the fight. I was outnumbered and outgunned - the last of England's finest drake-men had been felled by von Zeppelin's contraption, our fusiliers on the ground forced to retreat by the German cavalry advance. I had only one hope to win the day. Holding on to the reins for dear life, I reached into my pack and carefully withdrew the oddly-shaped red vase that housed the most unusual of benefactors..." "I'm sorry, Lord Blackwood," Dr. Eggers interrupted, "but I'm going to have to cut you off there. It's going to take me the rest of the day to translate all this from the shorthand, and the rest of the week for the staff to go over it. We'll have to finish the story during the next interview. Alright?" "Dash it all!" Lord Blackwood replied. "I was just getting to the good part. Very well, I suppose I'll have to leave you in suspense for another week." "I'm glad you understand," Eggers said, as he rose from the chair and made his way to the door. "Just wait right there and Dr. Andrews will be by in a few minutes to take you back to your tank." "About that, my dear boy," Lord Blackwood said. "Do you think you could finally see your way to draining all that excess water out? I appreciate a good swim as much as the next fellow, but my skin has become far too wrinkled as of late." "I'll pass that on to the director," Eggers said. The door closed behind him and Lord Blackwood was alone - or so he thought. From the air vent near the ceiling of the room, an interloper had been observing in secret the conversation between the doctor and the slug, waiting for exactly this moment. As Lord Blackwood turned his back to the vent, idly crawling about and humming "Land of Hope and Glory" to himself, he made his move. Slowly and silently, he exited the vent and made his way down the floor and to the table. Inch by inch, minute by minute, the unexpected guest made his way across the wooden surface, following Lord Blackwood's slime trail until he was almost right behind the slug at the table's edge, and then... "OI! TOMMY!" Lord Blackwood had moved on to singing bits and pieces of "The Pirates of Penzance" when the silence was broken by a loud cry in a vulgar London patois. The nudibranch half-instinctively attempted to reach for his hip before recalling that he was not carrying a gun, and instead turned himself around as fast as one in his condition could do so and found himself face-to-face with the last thing he had expected so rude a call to emanate from - a common snail, its pulsating eyestalks fixated directly on him. In all his years of adventuring, Lord Blackwood had never encountered so bizarre a thing as a talking snail. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and gave the creature a stern glare of his own as he replied, "Who the Devil are you and how do you know my name?" "Oh, come on, Tommy," the snail replied in a dialect that made Lord Blackwood cringe. "Surely you 'aven't forgotten the face of your dear old 'friend' Georgie, 'ave ya?" "George Phillip Harris the Fourth," Lord Blackwood sneered. "I should've recognized that guttural nonsense you have the audacity to call English right away. What are you doing here? Need to borrow money? On the run from the Swiss Guard? Perhaps you've concocted another ridiculous scheme to defraud the Americans out of the territories?" "You and I got some unfinished business to settle, Tommy," Harris said. "You killed me back in '55! You think a man just forgets a thing like that?" Lord Blackwood rolled his eyes. "Not this rot again. I thought we settled this after that business in Patagonia." "And yet, 'ere we are," Harris said. "'Ow many times 'ave I gotten meself turned inside-out because you were too busy 'ogging the glory to save your old pal from Godolphin 'ouse?" "I'll tell you the same thing I told you then - you brought all of that upon yourself when you decided to try and smuggle the Crown of Sutekh up the Nile." "You're a pint o' bitter if I ever seen one." Harris spat on the ground. "And where were you when 'alf the mummies west of the Nile were after me? 'Alfway back to London to kiss the Queen's knickers?" "I was in Alexandria helping the Patriarch, the Coptic Pope, and the Grand Mufti arrange the biggest exorcism conducted in Egypt since the fall of the Abbasids!" Lord Blackwood responded, the impatience in his voice mounting. "Were it not for what we pulled off, Africa itself would have been lost to the British Empire because of your foolish attempt at larceny." "We've played this game before, Tommy," Harris said. "Every time I let you tag along on one of my grand expeditions, you wander off and get me killed, and the next time you come 'round askin' for me 'elp to line your pockets with foreign gold you've always, //always// got some cock-and-bull story about 'ow it's not your fault. 'You shouldn't 'ave let the Sumerian god-man out of his casket', 'You shouldn't 'ave tried to kill the golem of Prague with a Derringer,' 'You shouldn't 'ave seduced the Gypsy King's sister.' I've 'ad it up to 'ere!" Harris swept his eyestalk in a line above his head. "You and I are gonna settle this 'ere and now like real gentlemen." Lord Blackwood sighed and swore under his breath, struggling to keep his composure. "Only one of us is a gentleman, Mr. Harris, and while the years have not been as kind to me as I might have hoped they would, you are hardly in any state to fight me. I walloped you soundly every time we met in the boxing ring back at Eton - and as I recall, you had not at that time been transmogrified into a snail." "A snail? A bloody snail? 'Ave you lost your mind?" Harris threw back his head and laughed. "I'm as fit as I've ever been - and I ain't been turned into no bleedin' sea slug, either." Lord Blackwood puffed himself up with rage. "So! I should've known you were the blackguard spreading these foul slanders about my being a sea slug! I demand satisfaction, and I demand it now, Harris - recant these lies at once or I shall be forced to give you what for!" "Alright, alright, Tommy, don't get yer pants in a twist," Harris said, grinning slyly. "You're right, you're right. You ain't no sea slug... but your mum sure is." Lord Blackwood cocked back his right eyestalk and swung. > ADDENDUM: On ██/██/20██, a Roman snail (//Helix pomatia//) with anomalous properties similar to SCP-1867 was found in Interview Room C after SCP-1867 had briefly been left unobserved following the conclusion of Interview 1867-238. At the time of discovery, SCP-1867 and the snail were observed face-to-face on a table attempting to "headbutt" each other and strike each other with their eyestalks. In subsequent interviews, the snail has identified itself as "George Philip Harris IV", an individual referred to as an associate of SCP-1867 beginning in Diary 1867-3. The snail is currently being housed in a 40x70x30 cm specimen tank adjacent to SCP-1867's until such time as further examination and classification can be made. "Oi! Tommy!" Lord Blackwood turned his head and did his best to ignore Harris' shouts from the tank next to his. "Did you ever 'ear the one about the man who thought 'e was a botfly? Got nicked for indecency after 'e started runnin' up to ladies and biting 'em on the arm. Said 'e was just lookin' for someplace to lay 'is eggs!" "By Jove," Lord Blackwood thought to himself, "what I wouldn't give for an elephant gun right now." @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-09-25T08:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "blackwood", "tale" ]	A Most Unfortunate Reunion - SCP Foundation	98	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	14401783	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-most-unfortunate-reunion
a-study-of-anomalous-art	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>A Study of Anomalous Art, from the Paleolithic to the Present</strong><br/> <strong>By Doctor Hannah Morel, head of the Artistic Anomalies Unit</strong></p> <p>(The following excerpt is from pages 6-9 of Doctor Morel's paper. The full document may be accessed from the Foundation Central Archives)</p> <p>According to William Tartore, founder of the Artistic Anomalies Unit, anart is "a piece of artistic media with an anomalous effect that was intended by the artist as part of the expression of the piece. There are instances where media will exhibit anomalous properties unintended by the creator, and in such instances the anomalous properties are unconnected with what is being expressed."<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup> This definition has served for almost forty years, and in my experience and the experience of many others, is the one certainty in the study of anomalous art.</p> <p>Of course, this definition is certain because it is broad and universal. Moving beyond this surface description, anart becomes much more difficult to define. Anart will often use experimental, illegal, or impossible mediums of expression, and the expressions made by anart are often incredibly esoteric, completely nonsensical, or impossible for human beings to understand. Many times, scholars attempting to define anart will fall into the old debate of “what is art”, an act which rarely aids them.</p> <p>This document is meant as a study of the history of anomalous art, or anart, and aims to provide an overview of its major schools, philosophies, styles, and practitioners. Literary anomalies will not be covered in this paper.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup></p> <p>The chaotic and bizarre nature of anart makes classification of styles incredibly difficult. While in certain periods we may see an overarching and clearly-defined theme, where the majority of anartists follow the same philosophy with predictable results, this is the exception, rather than the rule. It is rare for more than small cells of anartists to follow a single philosophy, and often cells and individuals will mix schools and styles as according to their whims.</p> <p>However, study of anart in the long term reveals patterns and internal consistencies. Throughout history, there have been four major schools of anomalous artists: Those who want to repair reality through art, those that wish to remake reality, those who wish to destroy reality, those that wish to create new realities. It should be noted, however, that these schools are arbitrary labels created by the Foundation in order to define something that is very difficult to define: the practitioners of these schools will never claim themselves as such, and no anartist or piece of anart will ever fit entirely neatly into these categories.</p> <p>These schools and their primary sub-schools are as follows:</p> <p><strong>Reconstructionists</strong> - Those anartists who wish to fix social, economic, and ethical problems through the implementation of anart. Reconstructionist anart is meant for the sole purpose of achieving an end, and is therefore temporary, becoming unnecessary when the goal has been reached.</p> <ul> <li><strong>Petty Reconstructionists</strong> – Supporters of movements that did not originate with an anartist or group of anartists. This sub-school has become increasingly prevalent since the middle of the twentieth century up through the present.</li> <li><strong>True Reconstructionists</strong> – The founders of movements. The goals of these movements may be similar to non-anomalous groups, but they maintain no association with them beyond shared goals.</li> <li><strong>Dadaist / Radical Reconstructionists</strong> - This school exhibits no sense or coherency in their causes or methods, outside of the pursuing of a goal, albeit a nonsensical one. Dadaist Reconstructionist movements rarely last long, and very rarely span more than a single person, both the result of the seemingly necessary lack of sanity required.</li> </ul> <p><strong>Recreationists</strong> - Those anartists who shape pre-existing reality according to their will. Unlike Reconstructionist art, Recreationism does not necessarily work toward a greater end, and is meant to be a permanent fixture; however, there is still a great deal of overlap.</p> <ul> <li><strong>Minor Recreationists</strong> - The most common Recreationist sub-school, wherein anart is used transform on a small scale: a person, an object, or a single place. It is common in the present day for many anartists, even those of highly opposed schools, to experiment with Minor Recreationist art, most commonly in body modification.</li> <li><strong>Major Recreationists</strong> - This sub-school is based solely on the scope of the anart used, as it is aimed at transforming countries, societies, the entire world, or things of similar large scale. These projects usually involve large cells of anartists, often of different schools, led by a specific individual or group. These projects very rarely come to fruition, as they are usually either interrupted by outside forces or collapse due to infighting or mismanagement.</li> <li><strong>Reformed Recreationists</strong> - Art is for the transformation of the self in all aspects. This sub-school has traits similar to that of religions, and as such is rife with conflicting themes and ideas. This sub-school is notable in the general lack of external artistic media: the Reformed Recreationist considers the soul to be the perfect canvas, and as such it is the only one worth using.</li> </ul> <p><strong>Deconstructionists</strong> -Those anartists who act to destroy facets of pre-existing reality, without providing replacement.</p> <ul> <li><strong>Pseudo-Deconstructionists</strong> - This sub-school focuses on toppling what they view to be oppressive or corrupt structures of society. This sub-school often mixes with the Reconstructionist schools, most commonly Petty Reconstructionism.</li> <li><strong>True Deconstructionists</strong> - The target is not only to be destroyed, but erased utterly from reality, so that it never existed in the first place. This is a very rare sub-school, a testament to the difficulty of creating such a work. Of course, it should be noted that their rarity might be a result of their past success.</li> <li><strong>Absolutist Deconstructionists</strong> - A school based on the belief that existence itself is both corrupt and meaningless and must be destroyed completely. Members of this sub-school are highly dangerous and openly hostile, and should be dealt with using extreme caution.</li> </ul> <p><strong>Creationists</strong> - The broadest school of anart, focusing solely on the creation of art and expression through it. Some scholars claim that all anart is by nature Creationist, and so the label is redundant. To an extent this is true: there is extensive overlap between Creationist art and other schools. However, the general opinion is that Creationism is specific enough to exist on its own.</p> <ul> <li><strong>True Creationists</strong> - The vast majority of anartists fall into this category, and it serves as an effective catch-all for those who do not easily fall into other categories. This definition extends to all anartists who create anart for its own sake, and whose view of art does not place them among the High Creationists or Artistic Deists.</li> <li><strong>High Creationists</strong> - Through the act of creation the anartist does not only express reality, but defines it. This is a property shared amongst all anartists, and so all anartists are considered valid in the eyes of this school. Recent scholarship has argued that this is not a true school of anart, and the position has been gaining momentum in recent years.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup></li> <li><strong>Artistic Deists</strong> - The Artist is God. Unlike High Creationists, where the ability to define truth and reality is shared by all artists, the Artistic Deist believes that the right is theirs alone, and that no other individual may define truth. Artistic Deists are often highly dangerous, often exhibiting traits of megalomania. Sufficiently skilled Artistic Deists may be considered in the same category as reality-manipulators.</li> </ul> Each of these schools and their respective sub-schools will be explained in greater detail in later chapters.<br/> <br/> <div class="footnotes-footer"> <div class="title">Footnotes</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-1"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-1')">1</a>. William Tartore, <em>Ars Gratia Anomalia</em>, (Foundation Internal Press, 1978), 4.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. Please see <em>A History of Woken Words</em> (Smith), <em>Five Days with the Author</em> (Malakhov), and <em>The Universal Library</em> (Quattrochi)</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. Please see <em>American Creationism in the 21st Century</em>, by Dr. Levi Copp for an in-depth explanation of this theory.</div> </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> <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="/a-study-of-anomalous-art">A Study of Anomalous Art</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-study-of-anomalous-art">https://scpwiki.com/a-study-of-anomalous-art</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]] [[/>]] A Study of Anomalous Art, from the Paleolithic to the Present By Doctor Hannah Morel, head of the Artistic Anomalies Unit (The following excerpt is from pages 6-9 of Doctor Morel's paper. The full document may be accessed from the Foundation Central Archives) According to William Tartore, founder of the Artistic Anomalies Unit, anart is "a piece of artistic media with an anomalous effect that was intended by the artist as part of the expression of the piece. There are instances where media will exhibit anomalous properties unintended by the creator, and in such instances the anomalous properties are unconnected with what is being expressed." [[footnote]]William Tartore, //Ars Gratia Anomalia//, (Foundation Internal Press, 1978), 4.[[/footnote]] This definition has served for almost forty years, and in my experience and the experience of many others, is the one certainty in the study of anomalous art. Of course, this definition is certain because it is broad and universal. Moving beyond this surface description, anart becomes much more difficult to define. Anart will often use experimental, illegal, or impossible mediums of expression, and the expressions made by anart are often incredibly esoteric, completely nonsensical, or impossible for human beings to understand. Many times, scholars attempting to define anart will fall into the old debate of “what is art”, an act which rarely aids them. This document is meant as a study of the history of anomalous art, or anart, and aims to provide an overview of its major schools, philosophies, styles, and practitioners. Literary anomalies will not be covered in this paper. [[footnote]]Please see //A History of Woken Words// (Smith), //Five Days with the Author// (Malakhov), and //The Universal Library// (Quattrochi)[[/footnote]] The chaotic and bizarre nature of anart makes classification of styles incredibly difficult. While in certain periods we may see an overarching and clearly-defined theme, where the majority of anartists follow the same philosophy with predictable results, this is the exception, rather than the rule. It is rare for more than small cells of anartists to follow a single philosophy, and often cells and individuals will mix schools and styles as according to their whims. However, study of anart in the long term reveals patterns and internal consistencies. Throughout history, there have been four major schools of anomalous artists: Those who want to repair reality through art, those that wish to remake reality, those who wish to destroy reality, those that wish to create new realities. It should be noted, however, that these schools are arbitrary labels created by the Foundation in order to define something that is very difficult to define: the practitioners of these schools will never claim themselves as such, and no anartist or piece of anart will ever fit entirely neatly into these categories. These schools and their primary sub-schools are as follows: Reconstructionists - Those anartists who wish to fix social, economic, and ethical problems through the implementation of anart. Reconstructionist anart is meant for the sole purpose of achieving an end, and is therefore temporary, becoming unnecessary when the goal has been reached. * Petty Reconstructionists – Supporters of movements that did not originate with an anartist or group of anartists. This sub-school has become increasingly prevalent since the middle of the twentieth century up through the present. * True Reconstructionists – The founders of movements. The goals of these movements may be similar to non-anomalous groups, but they maintain no association with them beyond shared goals. * Dadaist / Radical Reconstructionists - This school exhibits no sense or coherency in their causes or methods, outside of the pursuing of a goal, albeit a nonsensical one. Dadaist Reconstructionist movements rarely last long, and very rarely span more than a single person, both the result of the seemingly necessary lack of sanity required. Recreationists - Those anartists who shape pre-existing reality according to their will. Unlike Reconstructionist art, Recreationism does not necessarily work toward a greater end, and is meant to be a permanent fixture; however, there is still a great deal of overlap. * Minor Recreationists - The most common Recreationist sub-school, wherein anart is used transform on a small scale: a person, an object, or a single place. It is common in the present day for many anartists, even those of highly opposed schools, to experiment with Minor Recreationist art, most commonly in body modification. * Major Recreationists - This sub-school is based solely on the scope of the anart used, as it is aimed at transforming countries, societies, the entire world, or things of similar large scale. These projects usually involve large cells of anartists, often of different schools, led by a specific individual or group. These projects very rarely come to fruition, as they are usually either interrupted by outside forces or collapse due to infighting or mismanagement. * Reformed Recreationists - Art is for the transformation of the self in all aspects. This sub-school has traits similar to that of religions, and as such is rife with conflicting themes and ideas. This sub-school is notable in the general lack of external artistic media: the Reformed Recreationist considers the soul to be the perfect canvas, and as such it is the only one worth using. Deconstructionists -Those anartists who act to destroy facets of pre-existing reality, without providing replacement. * Pseudo-Deconstructionists - This sub-school focuses on toppling what they view to be oppressive or corrupt structures of society. This sub-school often mixes with the Reconstructionist schools, most commonly Petty Reconstructionism. * True Deconstructionists - The target is not only to be destroyed, but erased utterly from reality, so that it never existed in the first place. This is a very rare sub-school, a testament to the difficulty of creating such a work. Of course, it should be noted that their rarity might be a result of their past success. * Absolutist Deconstructionists - A school based on the belief that existence itself is both corrupt and meaningless and must be destroyed completely. Members of this sub-school are highly dangerous and openly hostile, and should be dealt with using extreme caution. Creationists - The broadest school of anart, focusing solely on the creation of art and expression through it. Some scholars claim that all anart is by nature Creationist, and so the label is redundant. To an extent this is true: there is extensive overlap between Creationist art and other schools. However, the general opinion is that Creationism is specific enough to exist on its own. * True Creationists - The vast majority of anartists fall into this category, and it serves as an effective catch-all for those who do not easily fall into other categories. This definition extends to all anartists who create anart for its own sake, and whose view of art does not place them among the High Creationists or Artistic Deists. * High Creationists - Through the act of creation the anartist does not only express reality, but defines it. This is a property shared amongst all anartists, and so all anartists are considered valid in the eyes of this school. Recent scholarship has argued that this is not a true school of anart, and the position has been gaining momentum in recent years. [[footnote]] Please see //American Creationism in the 21st Century//, by Dr. Levi Copp for an in-depth explanation of this theory. [[/footnote]] * Artistic Deists - The Artist is God. Unlike High Creationists, where the ability to define truth and reality is shared by all artists, the Artistic Deist believes that the right is theirs alone, and that no other individual may define truth. Artistic Deists are often highly dangerous, often exhibiting traits of megalomania. Sufficiently skilled Artistic Deists may be considered in the same category as reality-manipulators. Each of these schools and their respective sub-schools will be explained in greater detail in later chapters. [[footnoteblock]] [[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>]]	2012-12-28T01:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "no-dialogue", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	A Study of Anomalous Art - SCP Foundation	153	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15743720	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-study-of-anomalous-art
a-world-we-live-in	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>The following was flagged by Site 19's automated data filter (tagged with flags CLASSIFIED DATA, O5, SCP-682, SCP-173). As the following contains personal log data, only those with Site Administration clearance and above are cleared to view this document.</strong></p> <p><strong>Personal audio log of Researcher Joshua "Watery" Hayes, June 7th 20██</strong></p> <p><em>Various banging and rustling sounds can be heard in the background. CCTV footage at this time shows Hayes retrieving a bottle of ██ █████ brand vodka from under his bunk. Questioning about this log revealed it to be imported from Hayes's homeland of New Zealand, and upon Hayes requesting that he be allowed to keep the bottle as a keepsake, it was not removed from his procession as per Site regulations.</em></p> <p><em>A scuffing sound is heard, confirmed as Hayes sitting in his work space chair. Hayes then takes a drink from the bottle of vodka, and sighs.</em></p> <p>"You know what's fucked about this world? Because I know."</p> <p>"It's not the monsters that wish nothing but death upon our species, like 682. It's not that which we don't understand, 173. Hell, most of the Euclids. It's not the things that infest humanity, or use and abuse it. And no, it's not humanity itself."</p> <p>"It's the things lurking among us. It's the ticking time bombs, like 231. It's the ones that can't control themselves, like 507, no matter how nice he is, poor bastard. It's the ones that can murder us all with a thought, and not even intend it, like 239."</p> <p><em>At this point, Hayes takes another drink from the bottle of vodka, and sets the bottle down nosily.</em></p> <p>"There's a security guard here. Runs the detail up at the main entrance. He's a great guy. Funny, pretty smart. Basically the kind of guy that nearly everyone can get along with. Today, I asked him if he wanted to have a few drinks after shift. Unwind, relax. He declined politely, saying that he would be abandoning his post. Even after I debated with him whether or not he would be abandoning his post or not, he still declined. So I gave up and went about my day."</p> <p>"At the end of my shift, I was chatting with my superior. I asked her about the guard, and she gave me this funny look, then she said:"</p> <p>"'He's an SCP.'"</p> <p>"Gave me a number, a file and went on her way. I came back here, to my quarters and read the file. Turns out he's damn near 1000 years old. Turns out he can seal out a doorway or gateway completely with some form of forcefield. The Foundation found him at the last place he was guarding: Some old castle in Scotland."</p> <p>"And that got me thinking. How many others are out there. How many people who think they are normal, who are living normal lives, with this one quirk that bothers them every once in a while are out there? How many are harmless? How many are dangerous? How many do we know about?"</p> <p>"And how many of the dangerous ones know what they can do?"</p> <p><em>Hayes chuckles at this point.</em></p> <p>"Some fucked up world we live in."</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="/a-world-we-live-in">A World We Live In</a>" by Watery, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-world-we-live-in">https://scpwiki.com/a-world-we-live-in</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 following was flagged by Site 19's automated data filter (tagged with flags CLASSIFIED DATA, O5, SCP-682, SCP-173). As the following contains personal log data, only those with Site Administration clearance and above are cleared to view this document. Personal audio log of Researcher Joshua "Watery" Hayes, June 7th 20██ //Various banging and rustling sounds can be heard in the background. CCTV footage at this time shows Hayes retrieving a bottle of ██ █████ brand vodka from under his bunk. Questioning about this log revealed it to be imported from Hayes's homeland of New Zealand, and upon Hayes requesting that he be allowed to keep the bottle as a keepsake, it was not removed from his procession as per Site regulations.// //A scuffing sound is heard, confirmed as Hayes sitting in his work space chair. Hayes then takes a drink from the bottle of vodka, and sighs.// "You know what's fucked about this world? Because I know." "It's not the monsters that wish nothing but death upon our species, like 682. It's not that which we don't understand, 173. Hell, most of the Euclids. It's not the things that infest humanity, or use and abuse it. And no, it's not humanity itself." "It's the things lurking among us. It's the ticking time bombs, like 231. It's the ones that can't control themselves, like 507, no matter how nice he is, poor bastard. It's the ones that can murder us all with a thought, and not even intend it, like 239." //At this point, Hayes takes another drink from the bottle of vodka, and sets the bottle down nosily.// "There's a security guard here. Runs the detail up at the main entrance. He's a great guy. Funny, pretty smart. Basically the kind of guy that nearly everyone can get along with. Today, I asked him if he wanted to have a few drinks after shift. Unwind, relax. He declined politely, saying that he would be abandoning his post. Even after I debated with him whether or not he would be abandoning his post or not, he still declined. So I gave up and went about my day." "At the end of my shift, I was chatting with my superior. I asked her about the guard, and she gave me this funny look, then she said:" "'He's an SCP.'" "Gave me a number, a file and went on her way. I came back here, to my quarters and read the file. Turns out he's damn near 1000 years old. Turns out he can seal out a doorway or gateway completely with some form of forcefield. The Foundation found him at the last place he was guarding: Some old castle in Scotland." "And that got me thinking. How many others are out there. How many people who think they are normal, who are living normal lives, with this one quirk that bothers them every once in a while are out there? How many are harmless? How many are dangerous? How many do we know about?" "And how many of the dangerous ones know what they can do?" //Hayes chuckles at this point.// "Some fucked up world we live in." [[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>]]	2012-06-07T14:45:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	A World We Live In - SCP Foundation	47	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13479148	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-world-we-live-in
able-baker-charlie	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>May 2, 1997</strong></p> <p>Min Yu Zhang, servant of the New-Moon Emperor, wiped the sweat from his brow. He was not usually a man to tremble, but nonetheless he was humbled by the great stone tomb, finally freed from its own grave in the earth beneath the bleak wastes where Genghis Khan rode. The blisters on his hands from days at the shovel seemed insignificant in comparison to its smooth black façade. Great black chains wrapped around the cube tightly, ending in the gigantic circular lock on the vault door. Soon those chains would be broken, the door would open, and then…</p> <p>Then the old ways would return and Great Night would begin. These men who uncovered the tomb would die, yes, but their sacrifice was to usher in a new age, an ancient, powerful age. Those who had been dead would return, and the Sleeping God now awoken would once again lead them to victory.</p> <p>The cadre Speaker began the prayers in his high, quavering voice. The other workers dropped their tools, took their positions around the tomb and lay themselves prostrate in the dirt. The Speaker’s voice, unpleasant as it was in everyday speech, grew to magnificence as it echoed around the excavation site. The tomb’s presence did not allow for any of the faithful to be less than properly glorious, but even then, it dwarfed them, surrounded them, towered over them. The prayers were mere words, dribbling from the mouth.</p> <p>The god within listened with dead ears.</p> <p>The Speaker’s voice trailed off. This was not right. Zhang looked up. The speaker stood frozen, his arms outstretched in supplication, his lips parted in mid-syllable, and his eyes locked on the rim of the site. Zhang followed his gaze: there were men standing on the rim. They were not wearing clothing appropriate to the cadre: these were soldiers, government soldiers, guns aimed at the praying cadre.</p> <p>“Well howdy-doody, motherfuckers,” drawled a scrawny, rat-faced man with a cigarette dangling from his lip. English. Zhang did not understand the words, but he could tell the intent: mockery of a defeated enemy. Oh, the fool. Such a fool.</p> <p>A larger man who stood beside the ratty one gave his compatriot a sideways glance of exasperation. He clasped his hands behind his back, cleared his throat, and then spoke in heavily accented Chinese.</p> <p>[Remain face down and place your hands on your heads. You will not be harmed if you surrender peacefully.]</p> <p>Who? How? There had been guards! They had paid off the government!</p> <p>The Speaker did not kneel. With a look of utmost disgust, he raised a thumb to the interlopers. He was answered by a pattering of bullets. Zhang watched him fall to the dirt.</p> <p>“What the fuck, they’re all scrubs. Shoot the rest,” the rat-face man said.</p> <p>More bullets. Min Yu Zhang died lying on his stomach. The gunshots echoed into dust and nothingness. John Dawson shrugged, tapping the ashes off of his cigarette.</p> <p>“I love it when they do the fish in a barrel thing.”</p> <p>Dmitri sighed.</p> <p>“Is not honorable.”</p> <p>“Not a fuckin’ scrap. The way I figure, with you working for the Russkies and me for Uncle Sam back in the day, we’re basically a walking honor deficit.”</p> <p>“Says you, capitalist American swine.”</p> <p>“Perhaps this conversation would be better suited for another time,” A man in an officer’s uniform walked up to them. He was older, with graying hair, a bristly beard, and a small triangular patch on his arm bearing an opened eye in the center, framed by an olive wreath. The man had introduced himself earlier as Agent Knight.</p> <p>John tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his boot.</p> <p>“What the fuck, let’s go check this thing out.”</p> <p>The three descended the dirt ramp to the base of the excavation site. The soldiers remained on the rim, spreading out around its edge. At this point they would just get in the way.</p> <p>“What can you tell us about tomb?” Dmitri asked Knight. "Our information was…not detailed."</p> <p>“The tomb? Harmless. A block of warded stone. It is what is inside the tomb that is not. Interpretations of the Sleeping God vary: the name is Able or Ablel or Abln, in some works he is a honorable warrior, in others a mindless savage, and in a great many he is somewhere in between. He is supposed to be some prehistoric hunter-gatherer war-god, unstoppable in combat, at least by stone-age standards, and supposedly immortal. He grew proud, and so the ancients sealed him away in his tomb, asleep for eternity. Unfortunately, so long as he remains in the tomb, we cannot harm him.”</p> <p>“So we're going to kill a god.” John took out another cigarette from his jacket pocket. “I can dig it.”</p> <p>“That is the end goal, yes. The tomb must be opened and the Sleeping God woken in order to destroy it."</p> <p>"Is great risk," Strelkinov said. "I do not think we have enough men. Or tanks."</p> <p>"All you need do is observe, captain. We will take care of this."</p> <p>Knight reached into his jacket and removed a metal flask.</p> <p>“Whatever you do, do not move until the kill-op has begun.” He clicked the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. "Prepare opening ritual."</p> <p>Knight walked to the door of the tomb and began to draw a thin line of blood red symbols in the dust. The line extended thirty feet or so, and consumed another three flasks before ending in a circle around the three men. Up on the rim, the Coalition soldiers were doing the same, tracing their own circles and symbols into the dirt, as well as one around the entire dig site.</p> <p>Knight waited until they had finished before reaching to his walkie-talkie again.</p> <p>“Stand by: I am opening the tomb.”</p> <p>Reaching back into his jacket, Knight removed a palm-sized figurine, very worn with age. He set it on the ground and pulled a knife from his belt. One clean cut. Blood dripped down from his hand onto the idol. It began to pulse and melt, changing shape until it resembled a stone heart, each vein and fiber hyperreal, beating silently. Knight plunged his knife into it.</p> <p>The air rumbled, sounding like an earthquake.</p> <p>The chains dropped to the ground, thudding with leaden booms.</p> <p>The lock turned slowly, stone grinding on stone.</p> <p>The tomb door rolled away.</p> <p>The dust cleared.</p> <p>Able, the Sleeping God walked out of the tomb, no longer asleep.</p> <p>He stood at least eight feet tall, with skin the color of sun-darkened leather, covered in tattoos of some forgotten and occult meaning. His hair was black and matted, hanging down below his shoulders. He was naked, all save a hide loincloth, and his features had a primitive look about them, a god of another age.</p> <p>The god walked towards them, shoulders slumped, an expression of bored distaste on his features. It was an expression of “I am waiting to kill something, and you are keeping me from that.”</p> <p>“Do not move. We are standing within the summoner’s circle: he is obligated to address us before killing us,” Knight whispered.</p> <p>The god snorted with disdain before speaking in a voice that rumbled up from the pillars of the world. His breath was stale and foul.</p> <p>“Athu basher. Kazikul ta faren ja-marl. Avskani?”</p> <p>It was clear that he wanted a response. Knight reached for his walkie-talkie again.</p> <p>“Initiate Code Cobalt-Triplet-Finnegan.”</p> <p>The Sleeping God tilted his head slightly and shrugged. A shimmer in the air around his hand was followed by a long obsidian blade from nothingness. The Sleeping God raised it, with the same bored expression. This was hardly sport, his face said.</p> <p>“Oh, hey there! What’re you doin’?”</p> <p>The god froze. His sword arm lowered, and he turned around, back towards the tomb.</p> <p>Someone was sitting on top of the cube, a tallish man wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a worn Pink Floyd tee and patched khaki pants. His head was a tin of lutefisk, and he held a ukulele in his hands. Defying all sense of logic, he still had a mouth, stretched just beyond the edges of his metallic face in a Cheshire grin.</p> <p>The man strummed a single chord and began to sing.</p> <p>“What would you think if I sang out a tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me?”</p> <p>The Sleeping God stared dumbfounded, silent rage seeping out of every pore at this display of insolence.</p> <p>In a blink the man was standing in front of the open tomb door. His head was a cauliflower. Another strum.</p> <p>“Lend me your ear and I’ll sing you a song, and I’ll try not to sing out of key.”</p> <p>He stood behind the god, looking over the right shoulder. His head was a toothbrush. Another strum, and then a pause.</p> <p>“Now, I forget the next line, but I think it has something to do with grievous bodily harm.”</p> <p>With the grin growing just a little bit wider and a little bit more joyful, he smashed the ukulele over the Sleeping God’s head.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“I must congratulate you, Agent Knight. You have done an excellent job with Francis’ conditioning. I’m surprised that the Coalition has been so cooperative with the project.”</p> <p>“Agent Ukulele is as much use to us as he is to you, and we know how to dispose of his kind. Once he has served his purpose, we will dispose of him as well.”</p> <p>“If the non-combat persona can be implanted successfully, that may not have to happen.”</p> <p>“Perhaps. I make no promises on the matter, and neither do my superiors.”</p> <p>“Understandable. Now, as we agreed, Francis will remain under Coalition jurisdiction until the non-combat persona is successfully implanted. The recovered entity will as well, as Francis is the only force we have available of resisting and overpowering it. Our staff on the project will remain the same for the second phase of his conditioning, and since there’s nothing else to report, I will allow you to take your men and leave. Francis has already been put back into his coma and is ready for transport.”</p> <p>“Thank you, Dr. Crow.”</p> <p>…<br/> …<br/> …<br/> …</p> <p>“Ah, Sophia. Please, come i…”</p> <p>“What were you <em>thinking?</em>”</p> <p>“Excuse me?”</p> <p>“You allowed the Coalition to deploy Francis in the field before we could confirm that the conditioning even worked! He could have leveled half the continent, if not worse!”</p> <p>“Sophia, I appreciate your concern, but at the moment it is a non-issue. Francis managed to not only overpower the entity, but doing so proved that the conditioning <em>did</em> work: our project was able to create a stable persona for him and control his powers through it.”</p> <p>“A persona that is a sociopathic murderer <em>at best</em>, based off of Soviet conditioning memetics twenty years out of date. He’s unbelievably unstable, Crow. If the conditioning breaks down, what then? The Coalition could have easily snuck in some sort of killswitch or designed him to fail as an excuse to kill him.”</p> <p>“Possibly, but the Coalition can’t afford to lose a weapon like him.”</p> <p>“What if he starts using powers outside of what the persona allows? What if he breaks free of our control? Will you be willing to accept those consequences?”</p> <p>“Yes. Yes I will. Sophia, I know the dangers involved, and I know that the Coalition is begrudging in this project, but they have experience that we don’t in matters like this. We need them at the moment, and so we cooperate.”</p> <p>“It's on your head then.”</p> <p>“I never expected otherwise.”<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="/able-baker-charlie">Able Baker Charlie</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/able-baker-charlie">https://scpwiki.com/able-baker-charlie</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]] [[/>]] May 2, 1997 Min Yu Zhang, servant of the New-Moon Emperor, wiped the sweat from his brow. He was not usually a man to tremble, but nonetheless he was humbled by the great stone tomb, finally freed from its own grave in the earth beneath the bleak wastes where Genghis Khan rode. The blisters on his hands from days at the shovel seemed insignificant in comparison to its smooth black façade. Great black chains wrapped around the cube tightly, ending in the gigantic circular lock on the vault door. Soon those chains would be broken, the door would open, and then… Then the old ways would return and Great Night would begin. These men who uncovered the tomb would die, yes, but their sacrifice was to usher in a new age, an ancient, powerful age. Those who had been dead would return, and the Sleeping God now awoken would once again lead them to victory. The cadre Speaker began the prayers in his high, quavering voice. The other workers dropped their tools, took their positions around the tomb and lay themselves prostrate in the dirt. The Speaker’s voice, unpleasant as it was in everyday speech, grew to magnificence as it echoed around the excavation site. The tomb’s presence did not allow for any of the faithful to be less than properly glorious, but even then, it dwarfed them, surrounded them, towered over them. The prayers were mere words, dribbling from the mouth. The god within listened with dead ears. The Speaker’s voice trailed off. This was not right. Zhang looked up. The speaker stood frozen, his arms outstretched in supplication, his lips parted in mid-syllable, and his eyes locked on the rim of the site. Zhang followed his gaze: there were men standing on the rim. They were not wearing clothing appropriate to the cadre: these were soldiers, government soldiers, guns aimed at the praying cadre. “Well howdy-doody, motherfuckers,” drawled a scrawny, rat-faced man with a cigarette dangling from his lip. English. Zhang did not understand the words, but he could tell the intent: mockery of a defeated enemy. Oh, the fool. Such a fool. A larger man who stood beside the ratty one gave his compatriot a sideways glance of exasperation. He clasped his hands behind his back, cleared his throat, and then spoke in heavily accented Chinese. [Remain face down and place your hands on your heads. You will not be harmed if you surrender peacefully.] Who? How? There had been guards! They had paid off the government! The Speaker did not kneel. With a look of utmost disgust, he raised a thumb to the interlopers. He was answered by a pattering of bullets. Zhang watched him fall to the dirt. “What the fuck, they’re all scrubs. Shoot the rest,” the rat-face man said. More bullets. Min Yu Zhang died lying on his stomach. The gunshots echoed into dust and nothingness. John Dawson shrugged, tapping the ashes off of his cigarette. “I love it when they do the fish in a barrel thing.” Dmitri sighed. “Is not honorable.” “Not a fuckin’ scrap. The way I figure, with you working for the Russkies and me for Uncle Sam back in the day, we’re basically a walking honor deficit.” “Says you, capitalist American swine.” “Perhaps this conversation would be better suited for another time,” A man in an officer’s uniform walked up to them. He was older, with graying hair, a bristly beard, and a small triangular patch on his arm bearing an opened eye in the center, framed by an olive wreath. The man had introduced himself earlier as Agent Knight. John tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his boot. “What the fuck, let’s go check this thing out.” The three descended the dirt ramp to the base of the excavation site. The soldiers remained on the rim, spreading out around its edge. At this point they would just get in the way. “What can you tell us about tomb?” Dmitri asked Knight. "Our information was...not detailed." “The tomb? Harmless. A block of warded stone. It is what is inside the tomb that is not. Interpretations of the Sleeping God vary: the name is Able or Ablel or Abln, in some works he is a honorable warrior, in others a mindless savage, and in a great many he is somewhere in between. He is supposed to be some prehistoric hunter-gatherer war-god, unstoppable in combat, at least by stone-age standards, and supposedly immortal. He grew proud, and so the ancients sealed him away in his tomb, asleep for eternity. Unfortunately, so long as he remains in the tomb, we cannot harm him.” “So we're going to kill a god.” John took out another cigarette from his jacket pocket. “I can dig it.” “That is the end goal, yes. The tomb must be opened and the Sleeping God woken in order to destroy it." "Is great risk," Strelkinov said. "I do not think we have enough men. Or tanks." "All you need do is observe, captain. We will take care of this." Knight reached into his jacket and removed a metal flask. “Whatever you do, do not move until the kill-op has begun.” He clicked the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. "Prepare opening ritual." Knight walked to the door of the tomb and began to draw a thin line of blood red symbols in the dust. The line extended thirty feet or so, and consumed another three flasks before ending in a circle around the three men. Up on the rim, the Coalition soldiers were doing the same, tracing their own circles and symbols into the dirt, as well as one around the entire dig site. Knight waited until they had finished before reaching to his walkie-talkie again. “Stand by: I am opening the tomb.” Reaching back into his jacket, Knight removed a palm-sized figurine, very worn with age. He set it on the ground and pulled a knife from his belt. One clean cut. Blood dripped down from his hand onto the idol. It began to pulse and melt, changing shape until it resembled a stone heart, each vein and fiber hyperreal, beating silently. Knight plunged his knife into it. The air rumbled, sounding like an earthquake. The chains dropped to the ground, thudding with leaden booms. The lock turned slowly, stone grinding on stone. The tomb door rolled away. The dust cleared. Able, the Sleeping God walked out of the tomb, no longer asleep. He stood at least eight feet tall, with skin the color of sun-darkened leather, covered in tattoos of some forgotten and occult meaning. His hair was black and matted, hanging down below his shoulders. He was naked, all save a hide loincloth, and his features had a primitive look about them, a god of another age. The god walked towards them, shoulders slumped, an expression of bored distaste on his features. It was an expression of “I am waiting to kill something, and you are keeping me from that.” “Do not move. We are standing within the summoner’s circle: he is obligated to address us before killing us,” Knight whispered. The god snorted with disdain before speaking in a voice that rumbled up from the pillars of the world. His breath was stale and foul. “Athu basher. Kazikul ta faren ja-marl. Avskani?” It was clear that he wanted a response. Knight reached for his walkie-talkie again. “Initiate Code Cobalt-Triplet-Finnegan.” The Sleeping God tilted his head slightly and shrugged. A shimmer in the air around his hand was followed by a long obsidian blade from nothingness. The Sleeping God raised it, with the same bored expression. This was hardly sport, his face said. “Oh, hey there! What’re you doin’?” The god froze. His sword arm lowered, and he turned around, back towards the tomb. Someone was sitting on top of the cube, a tallish man wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a worn Pink Floyd tee and patched khaki pants. His head was a tin of lutefisk, and he held a ukulele in his hands. Defying all sense of logic, he still had a mouth, stretched just beyond the edges of his metallic face in a Cheshire grin. The man strummed a single chord and began to sing. “What would you think if I sang out a tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me?” The Sleeping God stared dumbfounded, silent rage seeping out of every pore at this display of insolence. In a blink the man was standing in front of the open tomb door. His head was a cauliflower. Another strum. “Lend me your ear and I’ll sing you a song, and I’ll try not to sing out of key.” He stood behind the god, looking over the right shoulder. His head was a toothbrush. Another strum, and then a pause. “Now, I forget the next line, but I think it has something to do with grievous bodily harm.” With the grin growing just a little bit wider and a little bit more joyful, he smashed the ukulele over the Sleeping God’s head. -- “I must congratulate you, Agent Knight. You have done an excellent job with Francis’ conditioning. I’m surprised that the Coalition has been so cooperative with the project.” “Agent Ukulele is as much use to us as he is to you, and we know how to dispose of his kind. Once he has served his purpose, we will dispose of him as well.” “If the non-combat persona can be implanted successfully, that may not have to happen.” “Perhaps. I make no promises on the matter, and neither do my superiors.” “Understandable. Now, as we agreed, Francis will remain under Coalition jurisdiction until the non-combat persona is successfully implanted. The recovered entity will as well, as Francis is the only force we have available of resisting and overpowering it. Our staff on the project will remain the same for the second phase of his conditioning, and since there’s nothing else to report, I will allow you to take your men and leave. Francis has already been put back into his coma and is ready for transport.” “Thank you, Dr. Crow.” … … … … “Ah, Sophia. Please, come i…” “What were you //thinking?//” “Excuse me?” “You allowed the Coalition to deploy Francis in the field before we could confirm that the conditioning even worked! He could have leveled half the continent, if not worse!” “Sophia, I appreciate your concern, but at the moment it is a non-issue. Francis managed to not only overpower the entity, but doing so proved that the conditioning //did// work: our project was able to create a stable persona for him and control his powers through it.” “A persona that is a sociopathic murderer //at best//, based off of Soviet conditioning memetics twenty years out of date. He’s unbelievably unstable, Crow. If the conditioning breaks down, what then? The Coalition could have easily snuck in some sort of killswitch or designed him to fail as an excuse to kill him.” “Possibly, but the Coalition can’t afford to lose a weapon like him.” “What if he starts using powers outside of what the persona allows? What if he breaks free of our control? Will you be willing to accept those consequences?” “Yes. Yes I will. Sophia, I know the dangers involved, and I know that the Coalition is begrudging in this project, but they have experience that we don’t in matters like this. We need them at the moment, and so we cooperate.” “It's on your head then.” “I never expected otherwise.” @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-28T15:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "action", "agent-strelnikov", "agent-yoric", "classical-revival", "doctor-clef", "doctor-light", "global-occult-coalition", "kain-pathos-crow", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Able Baker Charlie - SCP Foundation	99	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	13906890	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/able-baker-charlie
acquisitions1	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <table style="margin:0; padding:0"> <tr> <td style="margin:0; padding:0"> <div id="toc"> <div id="toc-action-bar"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.foldToc(event)">Fold</a><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.unfoldToc(event)" style="display: none">Unfold</a></div> <div class="title">Table of Contents</div> <div id="toc-list"> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc0">Chapter One: "Jellybeans"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc1">Chapter Two: "Antitrust"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc2">Chapter Three: "Tender"</a></div> </div> </div> </td> </tr> </table> <h3 id="toc0"><span>Chapter One: "Jellybeans"</span></h3> <blockquote> <p><strong>The last will and testament of Bernard Gradley</strong></p> <p>So, I'm gone. You're sitting there in dear old Mr Pierce's office, waiting for the big news. The only question in your minds is, how is this all going to work? Old Bernard's company must be worth a few bob. More than a few. I'll tell you, it's forty million. It'll be sold on to the Japanese or the Chinese or whoever the hell else is buying Britain by the time I snuff it and then you can go and get your places in the sun and never have to worry about where the money's coming from again. But are there strings attached? That's what you're asking. Beatrycze, you're wondering whether you're going to have to go cap-in-hand to Edward because I've left everything to him. And Edward's wondering if it's all going to be stuck in some tiresome trust until he turns thirty or forty or whatever.</p> <p>Well, that's not how this is going to happen. You can hate me all you want, because I'm dead, but I've thought a long time about what to do and this is the only course of action I can take and still hold true to the values that made me the man I am, or rather, the man I was. Beatrycze, I'm not going to pretend that you loved me while we were together. At best I was a nuisance standing between you and my money. I don't think it even occurred to you that you would have nothing had I not behaved the way I did—you wanted the great industrialist <em>and</em> the great family man, and I couldn't be both. The gifts I gave you were never good enough—too large, or too small, or last year's fashion. So here's what I'm leaving you—five hundred quid’s worth of crisp M&S vouchers. Have one last splurge on me, dear, and this time you can make sure it's right.</p> <p>And Edward. You've made me proud—and you've also made me disappointed. Everything you've excelled in you've dropped out of—the chess, art, music. Now it's philosophy, which I'm sure will be just as temporary. Guess it just seemed like too much hard work with a life of leisure ahead. I'm sorry that you've ended up thinking that way—I take the blame for that. And I'm sorry if I let you believe that you'd never have to work a day in your life. That's not going to be true. If you want to be rich, you have the intelligence and the talent to achieve it. You could be a philosopher, you could be anything. But you'll have to do it by yourself. You'll have to get your hands dirty, like I did. To my son, Edward, I leave nothing.</p> <p>Gradley Industries, my child, my prize, I leave to Gerald Spointer, who I know will continue his sterling work in the role of Chief Executive Officer…</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward Gradley swore softly as he eased the Vauxhall Astra around yet another one of the serpentine parking bays in Cooper Drake's gargantuan car park. All full, of course. He squinted at his watch. Eleven forty. Five minutes to find a spot, get out, run what seemed like two miles to the front door of the CD head office, check in, and get to his interview. He ran a hand through short dark hair. Calm down.</p> <p>Another painfully tight corner, maneuvering around bollards which seemed to have been designed for a Segway. And there it was, sitting invitingly between a black Cadillac and a lovingly maintained Bentley. A space! Edward gave thanks to a god he didn't believe in and pulled towards it hard. The Astra ramped over a speed bump and promptly stalled. Edward dutifully put his indicator on while he shifted out of gear, which didn't seem to bother the silver Mercedes which cruised effortlessly past, executed a distinctly cavalier three-point turn that almost claimed Edward's wing mirror and reversed into the spot. Its occupant, a neatly folded and pressed sixty-something in an expensive suit with incongruously gelled grey hair got out and raised an eyebrow in the direction of Edward, whose pale skin was turning vermillion.</p> <p>"Some problem there, young man?" He adjusted his tie, bared his teeth and examined the result in the window of his car.</p> <p>"Yes, actually, you prick," Edward said, a few dozen decibels too loud. "Didn't you see I was pulling into that space? I had my indicator on and everything! Plus, you almost hit me!"</p> <p>"Is that so? Well, 'almost' never needs apologies. Besides, how do you know this isn't my space?"</p> <p>Edward fell silent for a second as something small at the back of his mind tried to draw a conclusion from that and didn't like it.</p> <p>"I didn't see a name on it," he said, at significantly reduced volume but still carrying a boom that made the little voice cringe.</p> <p>"You're right! My word," said the older man, winking at him before walking towards the offices. "Must be I just like to screw with people."</p> <p>"Wanker!" shouted Edward after him in a moment of catharsis before realising that the whole exchange had cost him close to a minute.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward finally arrived in the Cooper Drake reception at eleven forty-six and thirty seconds, trembling and breathless. The secretary gave him a sympathetic glance before passing him a series of forms and a viciously sharp name badge, which he just about managed to get pinned to his suit (thirty-five pounds from Matalan) without goring himself.</p> <p>"Edward! How are you doing?" Edward jumped and turned to see a short, stocky young man about his own age grinning up at him.</p> <p>"Erm, hi."</p> <p>"How are things with the—oh, you know, the…" The over-familiar stranger patted Edward on the arm, rolling his eyes in what was apparently meant to be a gesture of solidarity.</p> <p>"Terribly sorry, but this is going to seem awfully rude. Do I know you from somewhere?"</p> <p>"Nope! It's David. David Went." He held out an immaculately manicured hand, wrist graced by a Rolex. "Don't mind my introductions, I always like to see how people react. You've passed the first test, by the way. I always tell Peter not to hire people who try to bullshit by pretending they remember me. Or if they tell me to go away, of course. I'm lead Partner for Stocks and Shares, so I get to sit on all Peter's interviews. That's Peter Davis, by the way. He'll be your line manager. So, let's get you introduced!"</p> <p>This process first required a lengthy trek through the halls of power. Cooper Drake wasn't anywhere near as old or established as Redmayne–Bracknell, Edward's previous firm, but it made a bigger return on almost every investment it made and was widely seen as the uncrowned king of the British investment portfolios. There had certainly been an attempt to create the impression of old money, thought Edward, looking at the rich, slightly worn dark green leather seats in the consultancy area and the lacquered wood finish on the walls, adorned with a dizzying array of digital and analogue clocks displaying the time in New York, Moscow, Beijing…</p> <p>Finally Edward was ushered through into a comparatively small office with a polished oak desk. At its head was a bored-looking ponytail in Raybans, probably no more than thirty himself. He was toying with a half-eaten sushi box while trying hard to appear absorbed in a slim document file.</p> <p>"Peter! Meet Ed—can we call him Ed?" Edward nodded mutely, knuckles white on his slightly battered travel case. "Great. Come on, let's get sat down and we can have a chat."</p> <p>Peter Davis removed his shades and seemed to see the document in front of him for the first time. "So, Edward," he drawled, ignoring David's suggested nomenclature. Edward thought the man sounded like Nigel Mansell after a few dozen pints. "Edward Gradley. Now, I look at that, and I think—any relation? To, you know, erm—"</p> <p>"Bernard Gradley? The industrialist," prompted David, smiling broadly. Peter seemed to have taken that as the culmination of his question, so Edward drew himself up.</p> <p>"He was my father, yes."</p> <p>"Hmm, must mean you're pretty loaded." Peter's critical eye swept Edward up and down with the implication that he had done an exceptional job hiding it. "So, why are you slumming it with us?"</p> <p>Edward groaned internally. Secret origin story in three, two, one…</p> <p>"Unfortunately, he didn't leave me a square nickel of it." Peter seemed visibly surprised—David just continued his Cheshire cat grin.</p> <p>"Not a penny?" Peter crossed his legs and did a passable imitation of 'sympathetically distraught'.</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"Must be some resentment there!" exclaimed David, rather too happily for Edward's tastes.</p> <p>"To be brutally frank, yes. I hate him for it. I don't hate him because I think I was entitled to something I didn't earn. I hate him because he let me believe I was preparing for one way of life, one mode of existence, then gave me another one altogether."</p> <p>"That must be the, er, Philosophy degree talking," said Peter.</p> <p>"Now, as I recall Mr Gradley passed away two years ago. Did that have any impact on your work?" David walked his fingers over the table and slid out two sheets of paper with the Redmayne–Bracknell letterhead clearly visible. Jesus Christ, thought Edward, they've only gone and told RB that I asked for an interview at another firm. I'd better pull this off, otherwise I won't have a job to go back to.</p> <p>"I think you know it did. At the time I was an intern, and not a very good one."</p> <p>"Honest!" exclaimed Peter through a mouthful of rice; he'd given up any pretence of examining Edward's CV and was tucking into his plastic clamshell of norimaki.</p> <p>"I was marking time, waiting to get bored of investment banking like I've gotten bored of a lot of things. Then—well. The will basically said I was a disappointment to him, a dropout. I'd like to say that it was a sober wakeup that I took to heart, and that's why I pulled my finger out. It wasn't. I just wanted to prove him wrong. So I came in at five every morning, got coffee for the traders, did research on the hot stocks for the morning; did everything I could to add value. After six months I told RB I thought I was ready to trade. They recognised the effort I was putting in and gave me my first account."</p> <p>"But now you want to leave them," prompted David. "Do you think you have loyalty issues?" Edward drew a deep breath. One of the <em>tricky</em> questions.</p> <p>"RB took a chance making me a trader; I appreciate that. They invested in me. And in return they've made a profit from me of almost six hundred thousand pounds. That's after factoring in my salary. I believe in money—I wouldn't be in the business if I didn't. I believe in contracts. And the contract I signed with Redmayne–Bracknell says I have to give them four weeks' notice. I'm in investment banking because I want to get rich—"</p> <p>"Don't we all!" interjected Peter with a glazed expression.</p> <p>"And that won't happen if I stay at RB. Cooper Drake has taken over one thousand four hundred clients from the firm since I joined. You're going to flatten it."</p> <p>"And you want to be on the upper side of the boot, so to speak?" David asked. He was looking for something under the desk. "I wonder, will your gratitude to Redmayne–Bracknell get in the way if you have to do business with them?"</p> <p>"No. That's based on my philosophy of business." Edward wondered if he was about to put his foot in it. Please, <em>please</em>, said the little voice, don't start lecturing.</p> <p>David had found what he was looking for—a glass jar full of something colourful. Right now he was trying to get the lid off. Peter waved his hands ineffectually in David's direction as though offering to try and open it before thinking better of it.</p> <p>"Please, just give us a précis. It's really good to be able to get inside the head of someone coming to work with us." David beamed.</p> <p>He didn't use 'potentially'; that's got to be a good sign, right? Edward marshalled his thoughts.</p> <p>"Businesses are collections of individuals, just like countries or religions. The difference is that companies recognise—or should recognise—the fact. The ideal of capitalism is that everyone working for his or her own interests—and purely for his or her own interests—is ultimately beneficial for all. When I do business with Redmayne–Bracknell—or Lyons Patrick, or Kleiner, Puttel & Minsc, or swap stocks with colleagues, I'll be working in my best interests. If I'm working for you, my best interest makes you money."</p> <p>"I like him!" chortled Peter, rocking back in his chair and twirling his Raybans. "David, what do you think? Give him the job?"</p> <p>"Not just yet. We normally say 'we'll let you know in a week', don't we Peter? I will say that I'm impressed. You did well on the phone interview; you did better today. Have a jellybean?"</p> <p>Edward blinked at the non-sequitur and saw David was holding out the jar, the lid still firmly jammed on.</p> <p>"Thanks." Edward took the jar, gripped the lid firmly and with a sharp counterclockwise twist managed to push it past the obstruction; a flattened sweetmeat caught in the screwthread of the lid. Edward delicately reached in and took one orange jellybean. He looked up, suddenly conscious that he might have done the wrong thing. Peter was smirking and looking sideways at David with a knowing glance.</p> <p>"Well done," said David. "Just a little something I like to do. Pinched it from Reagan. Decisiveness, will to profit, ability to hear and remember terms of contract. Bean, <em>singular</em>. Very good. Why orange?"</p> <p>"Well, Belfree's jellybeans only come in two flavours—plain, and orange."</p> <p>"Really?" Peter was mesmerised.</p> <p>"They have two vats; one with just the sugar, corn syrup and starch, and another where they add orange flavouring. They found in the nineteen-fifties that the orange flavour was the most popular and that there were no other strong preferences, so they cut costs. There are eight colours, but orange is thirty percent of each pack. The seventy percent is their profit margin. You eat a red jellybean, or a black jellybean, or a white jellybean, and you think you can taste raspberry or blackcurrent or lemon. You can't; that's your body's learned response to the colour. You offered me <em>a</em> jellybean—I chose the more valuable flavour. Plus, I happen to like oranges."</p> <p>"Fuck convention," announced David, after a second's silence. "I think we can move this along. As far as I'm concerned, you're in."</p> <p>"Oh—yes, right, sure," Peter chimed in, leaning over the table. "Well done."</p> <p>"Thanks. Glad to be on board." Edward got up and shook Peter's hand, then extended his hand to David, who pumped it enthusiastically.</p> <p>"Well," said David, "there's one more hurdle to jump through. Just a formality, really. As head partner I get to introduce you to the floor manager, Raymond MacIntyre. He's the one with the final say in hiring. Come on, I'll take you up to the trading floor."</p> <hr/> <p>'Up' was right. Leaving Peter behind at his desk, Edward and David were wordlessly ushered into an opulent glass-sided elevator that gave its occupants a view of each floor as they passed through. Secluded, plush-walled rooms for meeting clients gave way to hard-linoleum warehouses of regimented accountants sitting at their computers, who in turn gave way to richly appointed executive offices. And finally, with such grandeur that Edward almost applauded, the elevator rose through a thick perspex mezzanine—literally punching through the glass ceiling, he thought, as if it made any difference to the silent, pretty secretary in the thick glasses who stood by the door buttons to let them off—to reveal a vast, open-plan area where men in designer suits barraged back and forth between colossal monitors displaying stock indexes in a hundred different countries and huge round glass tables strewn with paper like the aftermath of some gargantuan infant's temper tantrum.</p> <p>It was a good four times larger than Redmayne–Bracknell's trading floor. At the far end, where David was leading him now with assured, vigorous strides, was a small enclosed area—comparatively small, he realised, as several more steps seemingly failed to bring it any closer—clad in light, honey-brown wood. When they finally reached the door, a gleaming plaque announced this to be the residence of Raymond MacIntyre.</p> <p>"Here we go—good luck! Just kidding, he's a pussycat, really." David smiled reassuringly before rapping the wood with his knuckles and swinging it open.</p> <p>The prick from the carpark, the wanker in the Merc, looked up from scribbling on a notepad and saw them. Recognition flashed immediately in his eyes and thin lips slid back from immaculately whitened teeth.</p> <p>Oh fuck.</p> <p>"So David, this is young Edward. Starting off as a junior associate, I presume. You must be taken to bring him up here on his first interview. Is it love?" There was an edge to his voice that Edward couldn't quite pin down but which couldn't be good.</p> <p>"Well, he's proposed. And now we're here to get daddy's blessing." David winked and stepped aside to give Edward a full, unobstructed view of his own demise.</p> <p>"I've met him already." Raymond MacIntyre started opening a letter with a very long, very sharp knife.</p> <p>"Really?" David seemed utterly oblivious to the razor-atmosphere which Edward felt sure was about to engulf him.</p> <p>"Yes. We ran into each other in the car park. Well, almost." A dangerous glitter again.</p> <p>"'Almost' never needs apologies," said Edward. No job at Cooper Drake, a dismissal notice probably already waiting for him back at Redmayne–Bracknell. His father must be looking at him now and laughing his ass off. He'd be looking up, of course. Even if Edward was at ground level.</p> <p>"No." Turning his attention to David. "This fellow cussed me out for backing into his spot. He didn't back down, even when I hinted as strongly as I felt able my position in the firm. Called me a 'wanker', as I recall." Edward saw David's florid face lightening to apricot out of the corner of his eye. "Now, how much were you intending to <em>pay</em> this young man for the privilege of doing that every day?"</p> <p>"Erm, thirty-five thousand. Signing bonus of, ah, three thousand." David looked like he would rather be somewhere far, far away.</p> <p>Something horrible was moving in Edward's chest, expanding and contracting rhythmically. Some parasitic thing, about to burst through the sparse flesh over his ribcage. It took him a minute to realise it was his heart. The room was filling up with yellow mist. I'm going to pass out, Edward thought. Failure, failure, failure.</p> <p>"Really? Make it forty thousand. And double his signing bonus. He comes in at seven his first day, you hear me? I'll work him until he's dry. You may hold me to that."</p> <p>Edward almost passed out anyway—David discreetly clapped a pally arm around him and steered him to the door. "Well done," he muttered.</p> <hr/> <p>The conversation with his manager at Redmayne–Bracknell went as well as could be expected; there are better ways to answer "why is our primary competitor asking about your work performance?" than "here's my notice." The phrase "ungrateful little bitch" was used; Edward was sure he'd never seen a man with so many letters after his name so closely approximating a primary colour. As it turned out, a philosophical expounding of capitalism proved less persuasive for those no longer served by your own self-interest.</p> <p>On his last Monday at RB he found his name had accidentally been added to every slot on the coffee and danish errand rota. On Wednesday someone tipped the rubbish bin in his drawer. Edward didn't mind. In his last week he signed thirty new contacts and made sure to give them all his card. No company—just a name, private email and mobile number.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward spent his last weekend before starting work at Cooper Drake playing video games and trying for the fifteenth time to crack Kant's <em>Critique of Pure Reason</em>. He tried to get to sleep early, on the assumption that MacIntyre wasn't the sort of man who would be disrespected twice if he came in late.</p> <p>Instead he lay awake, mind churning. He found himself thinking—how much is enough? When have I proved to my father—who, let's not forget, is currently hard at work decomposing—that I've applied myself? Five million? Ten million? Maybe I need to beat him; that would be forty million.</p> <p>Of course, he'd never accept I'd earned it, the way he did, putting together a company from the ground up. City traders, with their soft hands and wacky ties, were as far from Bernard Gradley, the man who'd made his millions selling furniture from the back of a van, as you could get. Perhaps I need to get a wife and kids just so I can leave them everything? Is that it? Do I never get to feel like I've won as long as I'm alive? Madness. It's madness.</p> <p>Man works to cease from working, he reasoned; the purpose of work cannot be more work, as at each stage the objective of work is to reduce the total mass of labour left to do. In some ways the City exemplified this—you put in crazy hours, worked yourself to the bone, took insane risks, and the reward was the accumulation of wealth; early retirement while you could still enjoy the leisured lifestyle. But what of the grey-haired men who'd spent decades in finance, turning their whole lives into one huge accumulator bet as though they could take it with them? Bernard Gradley had gone one stage further—working month after month, year after year, burning his flesh like a candle: he had not enjoyed rest from his work, and he had denied it to his wife and son as well. In some ways Edward could see the sense in it. Gradley Industries had been a <em>project</em>, a great work. In his will he had called it his 'child', his masterpiece. What great work was there in finance?</p> <hr/> <p>"Time to get started!" chirped David as he ushered Edward around the great glass tables on the top floor of Cooper Drake's great City offices. Faces came and went in front of his sleep-starved eyes, people he needed to remember as his lifelines. Concentrate, he warned himself.</p> <p>"This is Elizabeth. Treat her well; she's your source for leads. Her analysts work around the clock to tease out data from international stock markets and convert it into essential narratives for CD brokers."</p> <p>At Redmayne–Bracknell you were more or less given a stack of newspapers and expected to get on with it. Elizabeth Keating was a plain, slightly overweight girl barely older than Edward; she favoured him with a winning smile but his mind was already somewhere else.</p> <p>Edward would be working in Peter's team—a pod of four associate brokers focusing on British and international industry. Each would be working to invest money in stocks and shares around the globe; blue-chip companies would likely already have a recommendation from the firm's analysts—Strong Buy, Buy, Hold, Sell, or Strong Sell, but for the majority of startups, medium-size enterprises or just plain old-fashioned firms that refused to play PR ball with the market, brokers were left with gut feeling and what facts they could dig up themselves.</p> <p>Edward was issued with a gleaming transparent plastic keycard—his research pass, which when swiped into the Cooper Drake systems permitted access to their vast, labyrinthine records of stock movements over the past century. "Don't lose it," warned David—"these things literally cost half your monthly salary. They're laser-engraved; everyone's is unique." At Edward's previous firm there had been a lengthy keycode instead; you were absolutely forbidden to write the thing down, but everyone did it anyway. If you wanted to snoop around someone's search history and get some juicy tips all you needed to do was open their drawer and find the sixteen-digit number scrawled on the Post-it note. Not that Edward would ever admit doing something like that.</p> <p>"So Edward, I think I'm gonna throw you in the deep end," drawled Peter. "I've got some big aerospace trades and I want you to take a look. See what sense you can make of them, you know?"</p> <p>That turned out to be not a lot. Edward went half the morning believing this was some kind of surreal training exercise or prank before he realised what he was seeing were actually Peter's positions. He was selling fast-growing R&D stocks with acute nervelessness, often missing out on hundreds of thousands, while clinging on to big-name shares that showed no signs of ever breaking even. Some delicacy required, he reflected, when your direct manager is probably the least capable person in the building. Peter wasn't even incompetent—he was clueless, making trades half an hour after the herd and hoping for the best. Edward would bet good money that each of Peter's prematurely abandoned tech picks had been the result of some offhand comment by a member of his team, while his touching faith in the stagnating giant firms that formed the core of his position seemed based on formulaic language in press releases no-one—except Peter, apparently—saw as exciting or indicative of rapid change anymore.</p> <p>"Some bold choices," Edward finally concluded after spending the morning sweating over the bizarre pileup of incoherent stock picks that constituted Peter's portfolio.</p> <p>"Really?" Peter sounded aghast.</p> <p>"I mean, I don't think I'll have the nerve for some of these trades for a while. Like the Boeing position; that's huge."</p> <p>"R-right. I mean, don't just copy what I'm doing. You've got to make your own style. To be honest, I think I'm a bit long on Boeing, even." A bit? It's been a Strong Sell for two weeks, thought Edward glumly. Over the course of the afternoon he was able to cajole Peter into abandoning most of his current positions and adopting a far more diverse spread with significant spend in the rapidly expanding British space sector. Peter finished the day half a mill up, and Edward caught him squinting in his direction from behind his shades.</p> <p>"So how are things going?" David asked as the traders, at seven, slowly began filtering home.</p> <p>"Great," said Edward with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "Peter had me take a look at his portfolio; I was able to suggest some changes."</p> <p>"Ah—good." David rubbed the sides of his nose with his thumbs. "Change definitely sounds good where Peter's portfolio's concerned. Glad he's started you on something challenging."</p> <p>Poor Peter, thought Edward. He's a laughing stock at his own firm and he doesn't even know it.</p> <p>"Say, will you do something for me?" asked David. It's going to be something weird, thought Edward, I know it. For some reason you couldn't help taking to David; he was relentlessly affable, though Edward sensed a hard core of steel beneath the chubby exterior. "Put your arms up, like this."</p> <p>David raised both hands above his head, as though he were preparing to clap along to an old Gospel song. Edward did likewise, wincing as his suit pinched his chest.</p> <p>"See this here?"—David ran a finger along the folds that ran from shoulder to shoulder on Edward's cheap suit. "These should not exist. This is your second trading job; you're pulling in the big bucks, well, comparatively speaking. You should get a better suit. I know a guy on Ludgate Hill that does the most amazing tailored suits… old Greek guy, he gets all his fabrics under the counter from the textile manufacturers who supply the big designers; Versace, Newman…"</p> <p>"This conversation obviously has anti-gravity properties, because I can feel my wallet getting lighter," retorted Edward.</p> <p>"You're thinking about it the wrong way. You spend the money to get the money. You show up at a client's offices in a cheap suit and shabby shoes, you think he's going to give you the time of day, let alone all his cash? No, you show up in a tailored suit and you let him see his face in everything else. <em>That's how he knows you work.</em>"</p> <p>"I guess," said Edward. But I <em>like</em> my suit, he thought. I don't think it looks bad, per se. How often during a meeting with a client do you have cause to walk around with your arms above your head? Maybe a deodorant manufacturer… He had absolutely no intention of visiting David's expensive friend.</p> <hr/> <p>"Yes, Sir has definitely gone up a size in the waist since his last visit. Would Sir like me to take out his current suit or place an order for a new one?"</p> <p>Edward watched as David happily paid more than the price of Edward's car for a new pair of trousers and apparently on a whim ordered the next size up, too. The wizened gentleman in charge of Stathopoulos Fine Tailors and Drapers looked positively ecstatic as he took his details and arranged for the garments to be delivered hand-pressed and ready to wear. Always good when each time your client came in they made a bigger order—fabric-wise, anyway—than the time before, Edward mused. David didn't seem to mind his weight and appeared to wear it like a badge of his prosperity.</p> <p>"Come on then, Ed, you're up next."</p> <p>Edward tried his best to look stoic while the old man looped his tape measure around various parts of Edward's anatomy, making little clucking noises as he scribbled them on a yellowed tailor's pad.</p> <p>"Sir is very slim; department store clothes that fit well around the chest will be too tight at the shoulders. You lose ease of movement. If Sir would just try this…" The old man brought out a mock suit frontage with adjustable bands and loosened and tightened them while asking Edward to raise and lower his arms, bend at the waist, lean sideways. When he was satisfied he totted up a few numbers on a pocket calculator.</p> <p>"I can have a new suit in Sir's size ready by Thursday. As Sir is a new customer I shall make a special rate of seven hundred and fifty pounds."</p> <p>Edward's jaw made a dedicated bid for freedom from the rest of his skull. David sauntered over and rested an arm on Edward's shoulder.</p> <p>"He'll be paying by plastic."</p> <p>While Edward was changing back into his off-the-peg suit—had it been this itchy before?—David sat in a leather armchair by the tailor's window and sipped tea brought to him by the tailor's equally elderly wife.</p> <p>"You know, you should be looking at a new car, too. Surprised that old thing out there even works. It's like the suit—it's false economy. You get a car that gets you there fast, every time, and looks good when you arrive."</p> <p>"Not much good if you can't find parking," Edward retorted.</p> <p>"Hmm. You'll get the picture eventually. I'll tell you every trader does need, right off the bat—membership at a gentleman's club."</p> <p>"Just the essentials, eh?" said Edward, thoroughly bemused.</p> <p>"Damn right. Think about it for a second. When the clubs were founded they were originally just for people who were independently wealthy. That was the definition of 'gentleman'. But then came the franchise extensions. These days, who goes to gentleman's clubs? The captains of industry, the politicians. And why are they there? To talk business. I'm sitting there reading the Daily Telegraph, and behind me a Cabinet Secretary is discussing scrapping import restrictions on semiconductors. That's not a hypothetical situation—that happened last week. What do I do when I get back to the office? I sell every share I have in Ferranti at a quarter pence below the market price. They get snapped up by some chip freak at KPM. Bad news for him, because tomorrow when the news comes in that you'll be able to buy in the things from China at half the price, he's going to be left holding scraps while I got out forty k up."</p> <p>"Is that legal?"</p> <p>"Absolutely. It wouldn't even make a difference if instead I'd heard the CEO of Ferranti saying they were about to lose market share. If I'm privy to a conversation in a club at which I'm a member, it's no different to overhearing it on the street."</p> <p>"I see. So where do you go, if you don't mind me asking?"</p> <p>"Well, I started out at The Athenaeum, moved up to the Arts Club in my second year at Cooper Drake. Then I found my current haunt—they keep themselves off all the lists. They prefer to describe themselves as a 'private concern' rather than a club. Go in any time of the day or night; you'll see ex-PMs, foreign diplomats, billionaires…"</p> <p>"Would I have heard of them?"</p> <p>"If you have, they'd be mortified. I'll have to take you along sometime on my guest's pass; it's incredible. They're called Marshall, Carter & Dark."</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc1"><span>Chapter Two: "Antitrust"</span></h3> <p>Over the next weeks, Edward picked up enough to put together his portfolio, centred around aerospace—a core of reliable performers like Staines Aeronautics with tendrils in fuel efficiency and carbon reduction research; any time a government anywhere in the world announced new breaks for cleaner fuels or started taxing emissions they would jump up in value. He built in a cheeky position on a couple of low-cost airlines; it fell outside his remit, but he figured Cooper Drake wouldn't mind too much; big, established companies were going broke all the time and their fleets being snapped up for a fraction of their value by budget carriers. It was trivial to predict takeovers and anticipate share price spikes.</p> <p>At the same time, Edward continue to volunteer to handle Peter's stocks—always carefully phrased:</p> <p>"You know, Peter, I'm a bit stuck for ideas. Mind if I take a peek at your portfolio? I'll tidy some of your picks up if you like—only fair while I'm snooping around."</p> <p>"Peter—you've probably already seen it but Blue Zone is tanking fast. Do you mind if I pair up our positions? I have an American buyer who wants a lot of them inside the hour."</p> <p>Peter was always pathetically grateful and soon Edward was more or less running his portfolio as a subsidiary of his own. Pacing himself carefully, he started putting in even later nights, staying long after Peter had shambled off to the pub. Each day he was able to persuade Peter to take leave of his desk sooner—'I'll finish these up for you,' 'Don't worry about these reports, I'll have them on Raymond's desk.' Members of Peter's team started coming to Edward with their requests for the research team.</p> <p>These afforded him access on a regular basis to the Research desk, where he always lingered for just the right amount of time, flashing a boyishly embarrassed smile at Liz and making the feeblest attempts at small talk he could muster. The homely young woman didn't take long at all to pick up on his apparent attentions.</p> <p>"Mr Gradley, if I didn't know better I'd think you were flirting."</p> <p>"Well…" Edward had always had the ability to blush at will. It had proven incredibly useful in getting out of childhood misdemeanors for which he had felt not the slightest bit of contrition. And women seemed to find it cute. "Maybe we can meet up for coffee sometime?"—from then on Edward got the research team's leads coming in as well.</p> <p>Around this time, Peter announced that he had become engaged to a woman called Roweena, and his already superfluous attendance became increasingly fragmentary. Edward did his best to encourage this behaviour. "No, don't worry about anything, Peter—we're on top of it."</p> <p>Three months after Peter Davis hired Edward, Raymond MacIntyre walked past the industry brokerage team and stopped, sniffing. Edward was sitting at Peter's computer, pumping out a three thousand word investor report.</p> <p>"Peter not in again?" MacIntyre looked at his watch and glanced around vaguely, as though Peter might be on the ceiling or under one of the desks.</p> <p>"You know how it is, Mr MacIntyre—young love. You'll have to forgive him, his mind's not on his work." Edward looked up, face a picture of guilelessness.</p> <p>"Hmmph." That one little noise as MacIntyre moved away told Edward it had all been worth it. He had just seen that the best-paid member of his stock brokerage division was the person who least needed to be there.</p> <p>That Friday Edward was called into a meeting with Raymond MacIntyre and David Went where he was asked about how he felt about taking the 'Junior' part off his Associate title and assuming some managerial responsibilities.</p> <p>"But won't the rest of the team mind working under me when I've been here for such a short amount of time?" Edward fell silent as soon as the words came out of his mouth, suddenly afraid he had assumed too much.</p> <p>"I don't think so. They've already seen you can handle the responsibility and to be honest, I understand they're already coming to you for advice."</p> <p>David looked over and smiled, and although it was superficially no different than usual, Edward was suddenly struck by the idea that there was some dark, gleeful recognition in it; as well as perhaps a hint of a warning: "Don't you dare try that on me".</p> <p>Edward might have been <em>persona non grata</em> to Redmayne–Bracknell's management, but he was still on good terms with their HR Manager, Wil Hamilton. When he casually mentioned that one of the bright young things at Cooper Drake might be about to jump ship he knew that RB would be all too happy to take them on. Peter Davis left Cooper Drake 'eager to take on new responsibilities at one of the country's oldest and most established brokerage firms' and forever in Edward's debt: as far as he was concerned, Edward had done everything possible to prop him up and camouflage his lack of skill, all out of a selfless nobility of the heart. That's not how it works, Peter, thought Edward, as he took his seat at the head of his little team and allowed his gaze to stray further up the great glass hall.</p> <hr/> <p>The knock on the door of Edward's apartment took him quite by surprise; he was by this time firmly ensconced in his pyjamas, wanting nothing more than to catch half an hour's TV before bed after a punishing thirteen-hour day. He answered the door toothbrush in hand, and blinked owlishly at the sight of David in full evening dress, a couple of pretty if rather shapeless young women floating around behind him.</p> <p>"Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten already," griped David, gesturing to the girls. "He's in his bloody nighties!" A peel of laughter.</p> <p>"Forgotten what?"</p> <p>"Really? I was supposed to be taking you to the club—you know, the gentleman's concern."</p> <p>"Oh, right. That was for tonight?"</p> <p>"Christ Almighty. Not one for the night life, are you? Come on, you've got five minutes before I leave without you. I hope you've got something presentable."</p> <p>Edward ended up dressing in the suit David had pressured him into buying from Antonis Stathopoulous. He had to admit, the old man knew what he was doing. The material was light and cool without being slippery and for the first time in his life he could see his waist, normally hidden under a voluminous billow of surplus fabric. He actually thought he looked quite dashing. He tutted disappointedly at the contrast made by his cheap plastic watch. At least the shoes matched, now, a £140 purchase from a middle-of-the-road outfitters—sharp-toed with a slightly raised heel.</p> <p>David's dark blue Ferrari purred happily as he drove them through the late night traffic. Edward had taken to walking around the City after hours, taking in the sights, and thought he knew most streets in the Square Mile by heart. David surprised him by taking a turn on Newgate Street he didn't even think existed; a half-concealed thing behind the projecting wing of St Bartholemews. From there he made turn after turn through strange streets lit by soft yellow streetlights quite different from those on the main streets. One could almost think one had left modern London behind and entered some twilight realm.</p> <p>"They keep all this quiet, don't they?" Edward said as he stared out at a lavishly baroqued pile encrusted with grotesques.</p> <p>"They appreciate their privacy," said David, as he drew up in front of a blind brick edifice protected by wrought iron fencing and fronted by a simple marble arch. If he had been keeping track, Edward thought, this was Twenty-Eight Great Rojet Street, which he had never even heard of before tonight.</p> <p>"Here—hold onto this." David passed Edward a slim black card; gold-edged, bearing the single word 'Guest'. At the top left-hand corner was an ornate cartouche, which, on closer examination, resolved itself into the letters 'MC&D'. The card felt smooth; the corners rounded as though pressed individually rather than cut from a larger section of card. Edward had a horrible feeling this card probably cost more than his monthly rent.</p> <p>David, Edward, and the two ladies whose names he had not asked for got out, breath hanging in the cold air, and made their way to the door. David rapped and a section of the door slid aside, revealing a perspex plate. From the other side a baggy bloodhound's eye roved back and forth before finding David's face.</p> <p>"Mr Went! So good to see you. And Misses Parker and Cholmondeley!" The eye found Edward and searched him, disapprovingly. Edward found himself drawing up defensively before a word had been spoken.</p> <p>"A friend of yours, Mr Went?" The voice managed to imply 'friend' occupied a position slightly higher than something you had trodden in.</p> <p>"That's right," said David, unphased. "Now open up, there's a good fellow."</p> <p>The door opened just wide enough for each of them to slip through—the haggard-faced porter shut it with an air of finality behind them.</p> <p>"The party is taking their seats in the main room, Mr Went, ladies. If you would care to join them, a number of acts will be performed for your amusement before supper at eleven thirty."</p> <p>At least at this time of day, the reception was shadowy and inhospitable, strange shapes pressing in from all sides. That one of them was almost certainly the porter, who had contrived to disappear into the darkness as soon as he had finished speaking, did little to allay Edward's nerves. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he picked out Regency furniture, gleaming candlesticks, grand portraits depicting strange, almost perverse, scenes. The transition to the cloakroom was blinding—they found themselves in a narrow corridor, dazzling white with golden hooks on either side. The attendant was tall, almost unnaturally so—as high above Edward as Edward was above David—and strangely gaunt, with a long, lugubrious face and dark, large-pupilled eyes whose gaze made Edward as uncomfortable as that of the porter, but in a different key; the feeling of handling something sick and squirming. He took charge of David's wallet and the women's purses, placing them into an itemised tray of polished wood which slid back into the wall of the cloakroom. Edward opted to hold onto his.</p> <p>Then the main hall! From outside it seemed impossible that this space should be contained within—a grand ballroom in the rococo style, but so exaggerated in scale that it made Edward feel miniscule. A dozen separate fireplaces burned at distant points in the hall, which comprised the entrance level, a graceful marble mezzanine and a great balcony above. Directly ahead was a colossal theatrical stage, purple velvet curtains with gold trim and the 'MC&D' flourish closed, awaiting a performance. The men and women who stood or sat at the many tables, armchairs and rounds scattered around the edge of the hall immediately struck Edward as familiar—it took a moment to realise that he saw them every day; on the news, or presenting it. He wondered whether David had chosen this night to impress or whether it was attended at this level on a regular basis. Cabinet Ministers rubbed shoulders with TV personalities and knighted businessmen.</p> <p>"David! David, you came. I wanted to see you again." The party was almost immediately waylaid by the petite brunette, dragging a much taller blonde woman by her dress. The former looked to be in her mid-twenties, like Edward—her hair styled in soft ringlets that brought out her Mediterranean complexion. Her lips were curled in soft amusement as she embraced David then looked over in his direction. Edward found himself blushing without having chosen it.</p> <p>"Well? Won't you introduce us to your guest?" the brunette prompted David, who reluctantly disengaged from her.</p> <p>"Of course, sorry, my manners. This is Edward—Edward Gradley. Edward, meet Maria Beaumont, of the Paris Beaumonts."</p> <p>Edward was floored. The Beaumonts were one of the richest families in France—old money, based on colonial trade; Beaumont Shipping remained a dominant force in the French-speaking world.</p> <p>"Gradley? You are not by some chance the son of Bernard Gradley? Our fathers did business, I think." Maria offered her hand to Edward, who found himself at a loss as to what to do with it. To let it go seemed rude—shaking it, terribly gauche. In the end he opted to bring it to his lips and offer a kiss—David turned away immediately, bringing a hand up to his mouth in a feigned yawn.</p> <p>"And this is Lady Alexandra Penelope." David ushered Maria aside. The tall blonde was somewhat older than Edward—perhaps 30—and elegantly beautiful in a ruffled yellow dress. She favoured him with a smile but did not offer her hand; Edward made a mock bow instead.</p> <p>"Edward—so, are you a man of leisure, or making your way in the world like David?" Lady Penelope asked, fixing him with very light blue eyes in which the pupils stood out like pinpricks. Edward sighed. One more time, ladies and gentlemen…</p> <p>Fifteen minutes later, the group had found their place by one of the log fires and were chatting over honeyed sausage entrées and glasses of a sparkling white wine as though they had known each other for years. The conversation had drifted onto business, where Edward had shared his thoughts on labour and leisure, and Maria had begun expounding her own theory.</p> <p>"Surely <em>leisure</em>," she said, "is merely doing any project or task which you enjoy doing, and which you direct. This last seems to me to be most key—it's all very well talking about getting a job you love, but unless you work for yourself, you're doing what someone else tells you to do. This seems incompatible with leisure—there is always that gap between the two. Labour is what earns leisure and it's foolish to talk about making your job your hobby."</p> <p>So speaks a woman who has never worked, thought Edward wryly. "There's some truth to that," he ventured, "but a competent employer will recognise that he is hiring an employee to do something he cannot—or rather, satisfaction is to be gained in attaining such a role where it is recognised; work becomes leisure if a man is allowed to act freely, to use his reason to decide the best course of action and act upon it. If an employer comes to think that all those who work for him are are simply extra hands—people who do the jobs he doesn't have time to do at an inevitably lower level of quality than if he were to do it himself—then he sets himself up to fail. A man who makes himself the final arbiter of everything his employees do, who requires his approval for any task, no matter how minor—who seeks to micromanage them to that extent—<em>must</em> be immaculately logical and fair, otherwise he is abolishing truth and logic in his company. People who work for such an employer will ultimately no longer care about truth, only what he wants to hear—if their own initiative isn't valued, why should they exercise it? A man's creativity can only be exercised by his own free will and for a cause he believes in—I find it incredible that private companies think they are any different from the state in that regard."</p> <p>"Oh, he's <em>darling</em>!" exclaimed Lady Penelope. "Where do you find these firebrands, David?"</p> <p>"They all start out like that," grinned David. "It's the natural state of man."</p> <p>"And long may it continue," proclaimed Maria. "To idealism." She raised her glass and the others drank with her.</p> <p>There was a sleek glossy catalogue on the table and Edward flicked through it idly. From what he could gather it represented a place for members to buy and sell antique goods as well as advertise services. Very little of it made sense to him; it was written in an overwrought, hyperbolic fashion that made each item seem like the Second Coming. Take this one—"A statue which has an orientation that cannot be altered." How was that supposed to work? The statue itself was nothing special; a craggy sculpture of a human arm and hand, fifty centimetres tall. He took a look at the price tag and almost snorted Château d'Yquem out of his nose. If I was paying that much it would face whichever way I wanted, thank you very much.</p> <p>The evening's entertainment started shortly afterwards; various illusionist and acrobatic acts led up to a final spectacular piece where a truly talented magician-aerialist appeared to fall apart in mid-flight; one by one his limbs seemed to detach from his body and continue the act unaccompanied—at times interacting with his body in ways that should have been impossible if they were still attached. By the end he seemed to have been reduced to a quadruple amputee, still arcing above the stage in partner acrobatics with what were purportedly his own limbs. Finally, the performer's disembodied arms and legs maneuvered his torso into position for one final gruesome trick; looping the ribbon around his neck as though preparing him for execution. A second later, both head and body fell to the ground with the other seemingly lifeless limbs. The curtain closed, and the performer did not re-emerge—though Maria, perhaps noticing Edward's pallor, whispered to him that she had seen the act several times previously, including versions of the trick where an assistant put him back together on-stage afterwards. Edward prided himself that he had a logical mind and could usually work out the mechanism between most magic acts. The severed-limb trick, however, defied explanation—he supposed there must have been at least four other acrobats on stage, with the rest of their bodies somehow concealed from view; how the performer had seemingly severed his own head in full view of the audience however went beyond the best of Copperfield. The only clue, to his mind, lay in the fact that each division of the magician's body had occured in an area wrapped in the white ribbon. The man needed his own TV show, Edward thought, he'd kick the shit out of Dynamo.</p> <p>The chefs had emerged from the kitchens shortly before serving to explain the theme of the repast—the public school dinner, gourmet-style and eaten with oversized cutlery to recreate an authentic atmosphere. It was the right venue for it, thought Edward. He could scarcely credit the notion that Marshall, Carter & Dark had even contrived to get the owner of the Fat Duck and the Hell's Kitchen star around the same stove let alone produce something coherent. The result, however, was indescribable; a fusion of subtle undertones and a few big explosions of colour and taste that made him wonder if he could ever go back to his microwave ready meals. No wonder David keeps Mr Stathopoulos in such good business, Edward thought, savouring a shepherd's pie made with Kobe beef and topped with a selection of artisan cheeses. The serving staff—all young, attractive men and women in formal attire—were silent and efficient, if a little glassy-eyed. No wonder, if this is typical of what goes on here—I'd be perpetually shell-shocked if I worked here too. Or perhaps, like him, they'd just had a long day.</p> <p>"So David," he asked his companion, currently gorging himself on waffles made from whole Tasmanian seed potatos and a take on the Turkey Twizzler whereby Bowman Landes free-range turkey meat was cut directly into the shape of the twizzler and breaded using vapor-deposited batter. "If you don't mind me asking, how much does membership at this place set you back?" Edward wasn't sure exactly how much David Went made at Cooper Drake, but he doubted it placed him in the same league, as say, Richard Branson, who he was fairly sure he'd seen disappearing into one of the Members-Only siderooms earlier in the evening.</p> <p>"More than you could afford," was the reply. David must have seen something in Edward's expression as he rapidly amended himself. "I mean, more than I could afford too. I have limited access and some guest privileges; I'm not really a full member as such."</p> <p>"And in return, they get?" Edward prompted.</p> <p>"Payment in kind—look, I really don't want to get into it right now. Come on, you'll upset my stomach."</p> <p>"Sorry." Edward turned his attention back to his shepherd's pie and the cheese-crusted leeks that formed his side dish.</p> <p>If Edward had thought that the meal formed the climax of the evening, he was mistaken. As guests drifted back to their seats around the edge of the room a DJ in a vaguely sinister helmet resembling a neon Mickey Mouse with blank, empty eyes conducted an electronic tidal wave of sound from a podium atop two huge, illuminated glass slabs rising out of the floor. What kind of gentleman's club has guests dancing in full evening dress to house music? Edward wondered, finding himself plucked out of his seat and thrown between a number of young women. The guests danced in graceful loops, spotlights picking out white collars, silver ties and lacy décolletage.</p> <p>As a new song began—upbeat but with a hint of something very dark underneath, like most of the DJ's set thus far—Edward found himself face to face with Maria. He must have looked as out of depth as he felt, for she just beamed at him, took his hand and led him confidently over the floor.</p> <p>"Can you understand any of the lyrics to this?" he shouted.</p> <p>"It makes more sense if you assume the 'Russian unicorn' is heroin."</p> <p>"I generally assume every song is about drugs until proven otherwise."</p> <p>"Oh, now where's that idealism?"</p> <p>They arced over the floor, Maria subtly correcting his occasional stumble. Edward found himself wishing time would—not stop—but loop, right in this moment. Gradually reality reasserted itself and his mind cleared a little.</p> <p>"I should return you to David. I don't want him jealous."</p> <p>"Yes, he does get so protective of his new recruits."</p> <p>"Very funny."</p> <p>She spun away from him elegantly, moving towards David, who had evidently run out of breath and was waiting at their table. Edward waited just a little longer, just standing on the dancefloor, before he followed her.</p> <p>As David made his bows for the evening and led them back out through that shadowy reception area, Edward was almost unsurprised to hear, distinct but unmistakable behind him, that the last song in the set, apparently without any sense of irony, was a remix of 'All The Right Moves', though as the grim-faced porter cautiously let them back through that great front door into the night he noticed that 'we' and 'they' were reversed.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward had expected to wake up the next morning—well, later the next morning—with a splitting headache. Instead he rose after no more than three hours' sleep with a sense of clarity, feeling energised and enriched for the experience. You have to make an outlay to profit, he thought—perhaps that also applies to time?</p> <p>On the way to work, he noticed that the unannounced roadworks that had blighted traffic in the area all month with their shoddy diversions had disappeared overnight. Now if only the damn rain would clear up, he thought. Nothing seemed to have been done to the roundabout at the centre; in fact, it seemed in worse shape than before, with several pieces of the edging removed and left broken at the centre in a pile of dirt and rubble. Edward resolved, as he had so many times before, to write to the borough council and demand to know what firm the works had been hired out to. He supposed, though, that even if he remembered he would give up after trying to find their complaints form online. He was sure the council hired someone specifically to redesign their website on the fly to remove the information you most needed.</p> <p>The next couple of days, buoyed by his promotion and experience at David's club, Edward was walking on air. Every deal he touched seemed to turn into gold. Even his mistakes seemed to come right in such a fashion that they looked like visionary thinking on his part; Edward had shorted stocks in Quadrant Turbines, an elderly firm that seemed to be going nowhere, when the news came through that it was to receive a one point five billion dollar contract from the US Department of Defense. His team had barely finished commiserating him when Liz sprinted in, flushed and out of breath, begging him to hold his position just a little longer. Half an hour later, it was being widely reported that the contract had fallen through and that Quadrant itself had made a surprise announcement that it was to be placed into administration. As it turned out, the bad news was a false flag—circulated by bloggers most likely in the pay of Lockheed Martin—but the effect was to send Quadrant's shares into a death dive. By the end of the day it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy and Quadrant were seeking bankruptcy.</p> <p>In one month Edward had his first review. The review, to the investment banker, was God—a magic force that examined your life and blessed the worthy. Or perhaps it was like the lottery—one where every player expected to win every time, more each year than the year before. Whilst the firm didn't punish its traders for deals that turned out poorly, provided they were based on solid research, the size of your bonus would depend on the profit you'd generated for the organisation. A growing bonus would indicate to others in the organisation that you were going places and worthy of another rung on the ladder to partnership. A stagnant bonus—or no bonus—would indicate a poor performer, someone to pass over or even push out.</p> <p>Edward already had a solid profit margin, but he didn't want to be 'solid'. He wanted the verdict on that gold slip to read 'exceptional'. By age twenty-five his father already owned his own factory. Edward's calculations said that if he wanted to outdo Bernard Gradley he would need to make partner in the next year. In any other profession and in almost any other city this was almost unthinkable—but this was the City of London. And no firm could fail to advance a trader who outstripped all his peers.</p> <p>So it was that Edward went in search of a magic bullet—a deal that would in one month make him the crown prince of Cooper Drake. He took piles of papers from the Research team home with him and scoured them for something truly special. And after a couple of days he believed he had found it. A burgeoning EU antitrust investigation into Cliffes Aeronautic and Ballistics, premised upon alleged collusion between Cliffes and a couple of other aerospace semiconductor manufacturers to control the European import market. Cliffes' CEO, Martin Jacques, would be called to give testimony on September Fifth—that was when Edward would make his play. A firm's share value typically dipped between one point nine and four point eight percent during an investigation; Edward would buy up thirty-five million in put options on Cliffes Aeronautic Ltd. If its share value dropped by only three percent, Edward stood to make over a million pounds in profit. Normally a trader, seeking to make a huge investment on this scale, would consult senior colleagues, sound it out, and hope to spread blame were something to go wrong. Edward couldn't afford to do that—if the Cliffes deal were to have the effect he wanted he needed to be able to take sole credit for the move. Thirty-five million was well above his own daily transaction limit; fortunately, CD's tech team were slow movers and Peter Davis's account remained on the system, live and accessible by anyone in his team. Between the two accounts Edward drained the market dry before news of the investigation hit.</p> <p>Cliffes released a press release filled with officese—"We look forward to co-operating any way we can with the Commission and reassert our belief in the European project and a free, open market," the sort of stuff that made traders throw up a little in their waste paper baskets before hollering 'sell'. By the time the markets closed Edward was already a good hundred thousand up; he hung on, however, sure that as soon as Jacques took the stand Cliffes' losses would snowball.</p> <p>On the Fifth of September Edward sat silent in front of his computer, hammering the refresh button every few minutes as the investigation continued. It soon became apparent something had gone wrong. The hearing—held in a recently refurbished wing of the Château of Val-Duchesse—ended hours early, and it quickly emerged that Martin Jacques had experienced some kind of nervous breakdown, having an aphasic episode under questioning where he had gibbered nonsensically with no awareness that he was speaking anything other than his native French before collapsing. It had further impacted Cliffes' share price, but with no further information on the alleged collision coming to light, investors were wary about giving up their positions on a high-performing firm. Jacques had been a charismatic front man but his good health, or lack of it, impacted little on Cliffes' value. Looking back, Edward thought later, he should have taken the one hundred and fifty thousand profit and run—it would have been a decent trade, even if he would have had a dressing down for his use of Peter's account. Instead, he clung on a full week, barely closing any other trades, as Cliffes' shares teetered, wobbled, and even revived a little, until Jacques finally recovered enough to face the Commission again at the Berlaymont.</p> <p>It was a disaster. Even before Jacques had opened his mouth, the share price spiked sharply, and continued rising until it had wiped out the profit Edward hoped to make. Edward interpreted it as a simple reaction to Cliffes' CEO looking hale and hearty as he waved to reporters outside the Commission, but later he wondered if documents had been leaked to key investors.</p> <p>Then the hammer-blow. Jacques—now cool, calm and collected, to the extent that it seemed immediately obvious that his previous performance had been a sham to buy time while he collected ammunition, brandished papers documenting electronic communications between Cliffes and the Commission weeks before the announcement of the investigation. Cliffes had signed a contract with the Belarusian government to provide chips for a new generation of cruise missiles; the European Commission had warned Jacques off—even spelling out that they would find some fault with Cliffes Aeronautics' import agreements—but found their bluff called.</p> <p>It was horribly obvious that the investigation could not go ahead; it had become a political embarassment for the Commission and the European Union more widely, with Belarus' Lukashenko weighing in smugly on the hypocrisy of EU protectionists. The market saw it as a triumph for Cliffes—not only was Edward now making a loss, but so unwilling were his partners in New York or Beijing to accept his tainted options that he had to watch Cliffes' share price skyrocket for a full eight hours before he was able to unload them all at a sickening low of twenty-eight million. Instead of making the company a million pounds he had cost it seven million. It was an appalling failure, something the average trader would barely be able to make up in a year. But Edward didn't have a year; he had under a month before he had to sit down with his managers and explain what had possessed him to break company rules to make such a horrendous trade.</p> <p>Within hours, he thought, the little bespectacled men on the floor below them would have noticed the loss and reported it to Raymond MacIntyre. He might not even last until the review unless he pulled something now that wiped out every last penny of the deal. He sat for half an hour, clenching and unclenching his fists, face white as a ghost. He was lost.</p> <p>The feeling clogging his throat was the feeling he had whenever he tried to play chess now; there was some shining path, some route that would save him, but the door was locked. He could no longer roam those mental avenues. As a child he had been a prodigy—he had stalemated his father—Bernard Gradley, a man who would never let another sentient being win a game if you tore his fingernails out—the first time he showed him the game, beaten him the second time. His parents had taken him to clubs and tournaments where elderly men stroked their beards and swore in Polish as he skewered their queens and forked their knights and rooks with a pawn.</p> <p>His success had excited his father, who had a bespoke display cabinet produced by one of his top designers; dark wood with rounded corners and a polished glass front, lit by small, triangular spotlights. The cabinet had collected a steady smattering of trophies as Edward's victories grew, and his mother began to speak in hushed tones of a professional career. It all ended when Edward turned thirteen—his ranking collapsed almost overnight with the onset of puberty and his matches became a litany of defeats, reducing him to tears. Even now he could more or less remember what it had felt like to be able to think that way—looking at dozens of possible outcomes six moves ahead, comparing probabilities then sliding one's own life into the universe where success is guaranteed—but he could no longer access it. Whether it had been banished by hormones, the pressure to succeed or, as his father contended, just incipient laziness, his talent was gone. He had sought that vanished golden aura in everything he did, abandoning it as soon it became clear he was not a genius at it—music, arts, philosophy. Now banking was failing him too. He was hyperventilating, tears prickling his eyes. Fuck you, Bernard Gradley.</p> <p>There was nothing else to do. He got up, knees weak, and walked what seemed like a mile to David's table, where he and his high-powered team threw tens of millions of pounds of government debt backwards and forwards like it was confetti. In Edward's head, everyone was watching, intimately aware of his humiliation. He was trembling—shaking like a leaf, worse than with MacIntyre.</p> <p>"David. David," he said, his voice tiny and adrift.</p> <p>"Edward? What is it? You look like hell. Seriously, calm down, you look like you're going to have a coronary."</p> <p>"I've screwed up. I'm sorry, I've screwed up. I need help." David listened as Edward told him what he could, omitting how his desire to beat his father had led to him taking such a senseless risk. David spent a while in thought then spoke.</p> <p>"Okay. How much liquid capital do you have?"</p> <p>"W-what?"</p> <p>"You haven't registered a ticket for the twenty-eight mill, right? It's still in yours and Peter's accounts?"</p> <p>Of course he hadn't. He'd been too upset. The little men at their terminals wouldn't see anything, because as far as they were concerned the money was still in play.</p> <p>"No. It's still there."</p> <p>"Good. Now, I'm going to do you a huge favour. Maybe sometime down the road you let me in on something big, or we pair up our positions and I get the excess, right?"</p> <p>Edward nodded, mutely, still mortified beyond belief at his own weakness and stupidity.</p> <p>"Cholmondeley Holdings is buying up Hong Kong Electric. The announcement is this afternoon, three pm sharp. HKE has subsidiaries on the mainland; Cholmondeley's gone from having no presence in Asia at all to being the pack leader. I was really hoping to save this one for myself, but with the amount you need back there's no way anyone else can get in on this. You'll need to use Peter's account again. Oh, and you absolutely didn't hear this from me, okay? Seriously. I'll fucking bury you if you say otherwise."</p> <p>Edward was still shaking so hard he had to get one of his team to help with the transfer; they would almost certainly tell MacIntyre, but it no longer mattered. Cholmondeley was considered a busted flush in Beijing and Edward bought everything he could find. At three in the afternoon, just as David said, the venerable utility holding company announced its latest venture, taking over a concession-era Hong Kong utility with holdings throughout Guangzhou. Edward watched, hope welling in his heart, as the face value of their shares rose one percent, two, four, eight… By the close of the markets Cholmondeley was worth a quarter again what it had been and Edward held stocks worth worth well over thirty-five million pounds. He had not only made up his lost ground but converted a loss into a profit of close to a quarter of a million pounds. He cashed out immediately, not waiting to see if they rose further. Fortune had deserted him once today. Now he just needed to explain why he had used a previous colleague's account to gamble with far more money than he was trusted to handle. But there was one thing that needed to be done first.</p> <p>Edward felt very small and fragile as he went over to David and shook his hand. David clapped his arm and looked him in the eye, smiling darkly, as though some great secret had passed between them.</p> <p>"You see, Ed? It all worked out in the end. Don't forget that favour."</p> <p>Somehow the nature of what he had done escaped Edward in the rush of adrenaline, the flight-or-fight response that comes with the loss and subsequent gain of seven million pounds. He woke up that night, screaming, scrabbling at the sheets. You bastard! There was no way David could have found about that deal—it had been agreed in total secrecy to protect Hong Kong Electric's shareholders. He lay, soaked in sweat, mind a black whirlpool. Insider trading. Probably the police were already coming for him. He would walk in tomorrow and MacIntyre would be standing with a squad of New Scotland Yard's finest, and he would point to Edward and say "That's him." They would walk him past David, who would sit there with that smile on his face. "I'll fucking bury you." But what did he have on Edward besides knowledge of the failed Cliffes deal? There was nothing illegal there, just another gamble by a City trader that went wrong. I'll tell them everything, swore Edward panickedly, curling up into a fetal ball. But was it illegal if you didn't act on it yourself? As far as he knew David had made no moves on HKE under his own account. Christ, oh Jesus. Maybe David had done it to get rid of him, feared ending up like Peter… Morning saw Edward still plotting, engaged in his long, dark Mutually Assured Destruction of the soul.</p> <p>The roadworks were back, this time right outside his apartment. The workmen seemed to eye him suspiciously as he drove past and wrote things down in little notebooks. It did not escape him that no-one was even remotely near the roundabout.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc2"><span>Chapter Three: "Tender"</span></h3> <p>"You've impressed," said Raymond MacIntyre dryly, fingering through the stack of papers detailing Edward's trading over the past four months. "You've worked hard and added value—both on trades and in terms of new clients. I believe congratulations are in order."</p> <p>"Thank you," said Edward, breathing slowly and carefully. The days after the Cholmondeley deal had been nervewracking, always wondering if something was about to happen. Now, the final moment of truth—the review. Once again he sat in Raymond MacIntyre's office with Will, as lead Partner, sitting in. MacIntyre furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head forward so the light through the expansive glass ceiling lit up his scalp through his gelled hair.</p> <p>"Frankly I thought your stunt with Peter's account was too cute for your own good. We place restrictions on how much associates can throw around for a reason. However, I understand you made several hundred thousand on the deal and we are not in the business of punishing success."</p> <p>"Much appreciated, sir."</p> <p>"Sir, now? Ah, it seems like just yesterday you were calling me a 'wanker'. Just one little query on the Cholmondeley business," Edward's breath caught in his throat again, "it seems an uncharacteristic choice. Your portfolio is overwhelmingly weighted towards aerospace; a utilities company seems a little out of your area of expertise. May I ask what influenced your choice?"</p> <p>"I," Edward began, suddenly aware of David's eyes drilling into the side of his head. "I thought this was an excellent opportunity for me to expand into a new area; I think I'm ready to take on a broader portfolio and hope to continue to diversify my stock picks over the next few months."</p> <p>"Good to hear it," replied MacIntyre—was there a brief sideways glance at David there, a measured appraisal of the situation?</p> <p>"You will receive a bonus of twelve thousand pounds,"—significantly less than Edward had hoped, barely above average in fact, but a miracle given what he thought was inevitable after he screwed the pooch over Cliffes. "You'll be expected to better your performance next year, and the next, and the next; if you continue to perform, you're well on the road to partnership."</p> <p>It was with some surprise that Edward heard himself speaking in an eager, almost aggressive tone. "And if I wanted to make partner this year?"</p> <p>"I'm not sure I follow."</p> <p>"How much would I have to bring in for you to make me a partner straight away, with no consideration of seniority?" Oh Christ, Edward, what are you saying. You've learned nothing, have you?</p> <p>"I think, Raymond, he's asking whether there might be some target he can hit to accelerate the process, as it were," chipped in David.</p> <p>"Hmm—our friend David here brings in three million pounds in profit to the firm every year, not counting clients added. I think, if we were talking theoretically, that any associate able to equal our lead partner would be automatically considered for partnership. I must stress, however, that does not mean that I am looking for you to take risks with the company's money." He looked away and started tapping away on his computer. David nudged Edward, clearly taking it as a sign for them to leave. They had risen from their chairs and were halfway to the door when MacIntyre threw out a final comment.</p> <p>"And I highly suggest not gambling on the outcome of antitrust investigations in future. We had enough of that with Microsoft in '98."</p> <p>When the door closed, David leaned against it heavily, looking at Edward through slitted eyes.</p> <p>"I think we need to talk," Edward said.</p> <p>"Sure."</p> <hr/> <p>There was a fire escape at one side of the trading floor—the actual alarmed fire door was a couple of floors down, transforming it into a deep well. Due to its lack of lighting and enclosed nature it was useless for a surreptitious cigarette, but it was a place you could go and be assured of privacy—the walls were too thick to overhear anything said in the stairwell and the steps were separated so one could see if someone was standing anywhere above you.</p> <p>"So, Edward, is this about the Cholmondeley trade? Come on, out with it. You've been acting like a spooked deer for days."</p> <p>"Yes. I've been out of my mind, waiting for the knock on my door. Even the Hong Kong Electric CEO didn't know about the takeover—the Board of Directors told him about at the same time Cholmondeley told the press. So how did I know about that, David? How did I know to buy up twenty-eight fucking million pounds worth of shares?"</p> <p>"Relax, and stop being a prat. Think about it. Where have you heard the name Cholmondeley before?"</p> <p>Now David said it, Edward recalled the name had seemed familiar, after a moment scanning his memory, he found it—the old porter at David's gentleman's club had said it. One of the blandly pretty girls who had shared David's Ferrari.</p> <p>"Didn't I tell you? Anything you learn at a party, at a club, while having dinner with the CEO's daughter—it's all legal."</p> <p>"David, I know the law. This is a tender offer. If you know the merger's non-public…"</p> <p>"Who said I knew there was a merger at all? Maybe I just heard that Cholmondeley was going to be making some serious outlay on expansion. Exciting stuff. And voila, it's legal again."</p> <p>"But…"</p> <p>"I didn't see a tape recorder when we spoke on Wednesday. Did you?"</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"Good. If anyone asks, you were the one who heard Bernice Cholmondeley blabbing about how much CI was going to make and how her daddy was going to buy her a new pony, or something. Now, if you'll excuse me, 30-year UK government bonds don't sell themselves."</p> <p>He left Edward in the dark stairwell, deep in thought.</p> <hr/> <p>There was no knock on his door. Instead, there was an IRC tab. It had opened in the background while he'd been trading midnight barbs with an advocate of natural theology on a philosophy debate channel. If the concept of God is not omnipotent, Edward was arguing, then it is evil; it is incumbent upon every moral person, if he or she believes God to be less than invincible, to wage war on the founder and author of all evil, pain and death.</p> <p>When he idly flicked to the additional pane, bearing a single private message, he assumed it was a continuation of the debate, or perhaps someone playing a joke; their nick was 'Death'. The content of the message, however, dispelled that thought:</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Death:</strong> we know about Cholmondeley</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward straightened his spine in his chair, irrationally looked around him as though someone might be watching. The message was ambiguous enough that it <em>might</em> not refer to the trade—perhaps a friend of that forgettable woman; Bernice? He typed:</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> ???</p> <p><strong>Death:</strong> don't play dumb. you brought twenty-eight million pounds of shares four days ago based on confidential information.</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> who is this?</p> <p><strong>Death changed their nick to Death_4H</strong></p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> just some concerned citizens. we know who gave you the information.</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> Bernice Cholmondeley</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> not exactly. whether you're protecting your friend or whether he has something on you doesn't matter</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> let me spell this out for you. you heard about the HKE takeover from David Went. he was given the information by Marshall, Carter & Dark</p> </blockquote> <p>God damn it, thought David. What exactly had he gotten himself into here?</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> Bernice Cholmondeley traded the information to MC&D for membership.</p> <p><strong>War_4H has joined the channel</strong></p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> and how do you know this?</p> <p><strong>War_4H</strong>: you'd be surprised at what people write down these days. MC&D's email servers are ironclad. the Cholmondeley's private network—not so much.</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward blinked. That wasn't possible, was it? You couldn't just waltz into a PM thread mid-flow.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> as far as I'm concerned all my transactions are legitimate. if you have any concerns, David Went is lead partner at Cooper Drake. why don't you talk to him if you have some concerns about my transactions?</p> <p><strong>War_4H:</strong> we'd rather play with you. here's how this is going to work; you help us or we make an anonymous tip-off to the FSA, and they decide whether the Cholmondeley deal was above board or not.</p> <p><strong>War_4H:</strong> whether you give us Went or not doesn't matter; we already have emails indicating that MC&D intended to give him the info in exchange for various favours.</p> </blockquote> <p>Shit. Shit.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> what, exactly, do you think I'm going to help you to do?</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> we'll be in touch.</p> <p><strong>War_4H</strong> has left the channel.</p> <p><strong>Death_4H</strong> has left the channel.</p> </blockquote> <p>And just like that, they were gone. Edward sat in front of his computer, staring at the impossible conversation. He wondered whether this was David Went himself, or someone close to him, testing Edward to see if he would reveal his own involvement to a third party. But then, why would he contradict his own story and implicate himself in a trade for illegal information? Cautiously, Edward highlighted the whole conversation and saved it in a Word document, then encrypted it, just in case.</p> <p>It was evident, he reflected, that Went was protected somehow by his affiliation with Marshall, Carter & Dark. Otherwise they would have gone after him rather than trying to scare Edward, a marginal player in what increasingly sounded like an illicit black market in insider information. At the same time, it was no longer clear that he could trust David Went, who had involved him in this mess. That left him with just one option.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward sat in the café, sipping a blisteringly hot black coffee and watching the rain washing down the windows like a giant carafe of lukewarm water was being slowly tipped over the world. It had to stop sometime, didn't it? He had begun to pity the poor workmen, who he had cautiously decided were probably not watching him. Today he'd seen one of them apparently in the grip of a nervous breakdown, ranting and raving like a lunatic and trying to scrabble towards the traffic island in the middle of the interaction while the others held him back. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty, he thought, sagging visibly. He had taken half the day off and increasingly suspected it was going to be fruitless.</p> <p>Actually contacting MC&D had proven a chore in itself—their website was nothing more than a password-protected portal with sealed whois information, and their contact details weren't listed anywhere. One night after work he had gone walking on Newgate Street to see if he could find their London chapterhouse by memory, but quickly found himself lost in the strange maze of roads beyond the hospital; his phone and Google Maps couldn't even agree what street he was on. And of course, Great Rojet Street appeared absolutely nowhere. He had almost given up when he had remembered his guest card, left in the back pocket of his coat. It was folded and looked rather the worse for wear, but on close inspection it had what he was looking for—a phone number, made out almost invisibly in matt black lettering on the glossy black card, on the lower left corner of its reverse side.</p> <p>When he had phoned it, there had been silence for almost twenty seconds—punctuated by the occasional pop of static—before a distant, faint ringing had begun. A short time later a cracked, singsong voice had answered, identifying itself as the Marshall, Carter & Dark switchboard. Edward had impressed himself by demanding a meeting with the head of their London club, refusing to be put off or transferred away. Once he had given the voice his name and sent it to get approval from a manager, it had been replaced by a smooth, lower-register male voice that made no mention of Cholmondeley, David, or even the club itself, but quickly arranged a meeting for eleven o'clock the following morning at an upscale eatery. Edward was sure he hadn't imagined the looks the staff gave when he mentioned he was waiting for a business associate; he guessed this was a locale used by MC&D for sensitive meetings where they didn't trust them enough to admit them to the clubhouse.</p> <p>Just as Edward was about to call it a day and leave, the door chimed and a man walked in. He wasn't carrying an umbrella but was visibly bone dry, not a hair out of place. Impressive, thought Edward, though I can think of about five ways he could have pulled that one off. However he had made it from his vehicle—almost certainly the black Rolls Royce with gold trim parked outside—there was no doubt that the stunt had been intended for his benefit and that this was his contact. The man was tall—about Edward's height—and handsome in a high-maintenance, polished way. He could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with blue eyes and a wave of fine blond hair. He sat, drawing back his lips to reveal perfect white dentition. 'Smile' was probably the wrong word for it.</p> <p>"Mr Gradley. So good to meet you." They shook hands; the man had somehow contrived to signal for a tall latte, which was placed down quickly and efficiently by a wide-eyed young waitress who immediately backed away and all but ran into the back of the café, followed by the older brunette.</p> <p>"And you are?"</p> <p>"Just call me Jeremy. Now, I understand you have an interest in our little establishment."</p> <p>"Yes. I've seen what you've done for David—David Went—and I'd like the same deal."</p> <p>"I see. And do you understand the terms?" Jeremy listed his cup and sipped expectantly.</p> <p>"I think so. I receive conditional membership—entitling me to, ah, help and support from your association, and in return I pass on information and make financial opportunities available to Marshall, Carter & Dark."</p> <p>Jeremy chuckled, shook his head and emptied a packet of Splenda into his latte.</p> <p>"It's a bit more formal than that, I'm afraid. Mr Went's membership comes with his place in our Acquisitions team. You see, we at MC&D offer our members the most expensive and exclusive experiences and articles anywhere in the world. You've seen our catalogue?" Edward nodded. "Well, for those who would ordinarily be unable to afford our membership we offer a limited package that permits access to our private events and the benefit of, well, <em>bespoke consultation</em> with MC&D experts on matters which could further their career. Oh, and complete immunity should they act on, or help others act on, the advice they have received. In return, they help us acquire special objects and people of interest to our established members. If they continue to get results, then they can expect a corresponding increase in the level of advice they receive until—who knows? They may be able to purchase full membership. And then they'll be the ones requesting rare and beautiful things from across the world."</p> <p>Edward thought this all sounded very familiar.</p> <p>"I see. And if I wanted to join this Acquisitions group?"</p> <p>"Then you would need to undergo a formal <em>orientation</em>. If the opportunities I have discussed are of interest, please call through to our switchboard and have one of our cars bring you to our chapterhouse this evening. Orientations begin at ten sharp."</p> <p>And with that the meeting seemed to be over. Jeremy left still holding his drink, elegantly dipping into the door of the Rolls-Royce held open for him by a stocky man with short salt-and-pepper hair who didn't seem to enjoy the same protection from the elements. Edward swirled his coffee and smiled at the staff as they ventured back out.</p> <p>"Bit of a dragon, is he?" he asked cheerily. No-one responded.</p> <hr/> <p>The orientation was a surreal experience. One of the black Rolls stopped outside Edward's apartment, the contrast with his Astra finally persuading him that he would have to visit a dealership soon and spend some of his bonus. The driver, a skinny, young man with bright red hair and a long, lipless sneer, drove him in silence through the soft-lit streets that had somehow avoided Google Street View's vans, finally stopping outside the sightless facade of the clubhouse. Once inside a heavy, silken cloth was tied over his eyes and led through several rooms until he reached a cold, echoing space where he felt the presence of many other people waiting, probably similarly blinded. Then he heard a voice—it sounded somewhat like Jeremy, though the acoustics meant he couldn't be certain. This is what it said:</p> <p>"Welcome to Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations.</p> <p>"A short summary of our organisation is in order. We are a gentleman's concern, providing our members with the most exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and retrieving items for us so we may better provide said experiences. Those of you here today, sitting blindfolded in the audience, are to be our finders, our <em>retrievers</em>.</p> <p>"Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with objects or information that we are interested in—we expect full loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance will be punished.</p> <p>"As you will work on a case by case basis, I will be very broad. Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon your personal areas of expertise. You are not allowed to turn down an Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to the resources of our organisation, depending on the case. Abuse of these resources will be punished.</p> <p>"You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due haste, whilst keeping up any required appearances. Under no circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, Carter & Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter & Dark with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter & Dark will be punished.</p> <p>"This concludes your orientation. Please face to your right and take short, measured steps. You will be guided to a room where you will be allowed to remove your blindfold. Some of you will receive your first Acquisition case; upon completion you will receive limited membership and a reward to be arranged with your contact. Thank you for your time."</p> <hr/> <p>As Edward walked carefully towards the door he was struck by the fact that the other footsteps were only echoes of his own; in fact, the more he allowed himself to reflect on it the more certain he was that he was, apart from MC&D's employees, alone in the chapterhouse, and that the whole initiation ceremony with its cultic trappings had been arranged specifically for his benefit.</p> <p>After walking a good hundred paces he heard a door close behind him and hands lowered him into a rich leather chair. The blindfold was removed—as he had expected, Jeremy sat across from him on the other side of a dark wooden desk lit by an elegant angle lamp, surrounded by densely packed shelves of aged-looking books.</p> <p>"Edward! Glad to see you made it. Welcome aboard." He was toying with a gold-banded fountain pen.</p> <p>"So, I imagine you'll be presenting me with a task right away." To prove my loyalty, he thought. He strongly suspected no-one walked out of the chapterhouse without a favour to complete.</p> <p>"That's correct. There's a document we want you to acquire; nothing illegal, just a little straightforward persuasion. Some charm, Mr Gradley. Ten thousand pounds will be wired to your personal account to make the purchase—you will be expected to return any money left over. The current owner of the document does not know its real value and the amount we have provided should be more than adequate to persuade her to make the sale."</p> <p>"Would I know the owner?"</p> <p>"You were selected for this acquisition exactly because you have made her acquaintance; she is an infrequent guest of the Lady Penelope. The daughter of Christophe Beaumont—Maria Beaumont."</p> <p>Edward fell silent for a second. He was effectively being asked to scam the woman. Not only that, but his instincts had told him of the existence of a relationship between her and David Went; she had not confirmed his suspicions but it was enough to make him wary of the errand. After a few moments he made up his mind.</p> <p>"This document—what am I looking for? I imagine Miss Beaumont will have lots of valuable papers in her possession."</p> <p>"A very astute question. You are looking for a manuscript authored by Gervase of Langford, a fourteenth century writer thought for a long time to be apocryphal. He is supposed to be a contemporary of Chaucer—a long-lost pioneer of English literature. Excerpts from the manuscript in question, <em>A Viage to the Contree of the Cimmerians</em>, were touted around in the late Victorian era as prophetic literature, but scholars widely considered the book a 'ghost', a phantom invented by later authors or perhaps an embellishment of a more well-known document. Shakespeare's "Cardenio" is another so-called ghost. Except of course, the <em>Viage</em> has been found; traced, at considerable expense, by our Documents team." He slid a slim briefing document over the table—noticeably absent, Edward noticed, was any trace of the MC&D cartouche.</p> <p>"In the possession of the Beaumont estate."</p> <p>"Yes; the original manuscript is recorded as having been sold for four guineas to a French businessman called Guiger in the sixteenth century. There the trail ended, until we discovered a reference to a 'Voyage au Pays des Cimmériens' having been acquired by the library of Jean-Paul Beaumont in 1897."</p> <p>"What would it look like?"</p> <p>"Obviously we can't say for sure—we believe, however, that it will be a codex."</p> <p>"A codex?"</p> <p>"Much like the tomes surrounding me—a book. Most likely bound in metal, given the documentation. We believe it was transported from France in the 1980s with the rest of Christophe Beaumont's collection. It should be in the library of the Beaumont residence, which should not be hard for you to locate."</p> <p>"And if it isn't?"</p> <p>"Then our working relationship will be a brief one. Now, there are several non-disclosure agreements to sign, prohibiting you from discussing the involvement of Marshall, Carter & Dark during the transaction or thereafter…"</p> <hr/> <p>The Beaumont residence, located in Belgravia, was a six-storey terraced property; white stucco with fluted columns supporting an expansive porch supporting a balcony filled with a tasteful assortment of topiary. Edward all but hurdled the distance from his car to the doorway but still somehow managed to get drenched from head to toe. He rung the bell and stood shivering in his probably ruined suit until Maria opened it, summery in a floral blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat.</p> <p>"Oh look at you; you're soaked to the skin. Come in, come in." Edward wasn't even sure if she recognised him from the clubhouse.</p> <p>She laid down newspaper for Edward to tread on and took his coat, which she spread over the radiator.</p> <p>"You should come through to the solarium. I'm just doing some gardening."</p> <p>After removing his shoes Edward followed her through the elegant interior, furnished in the Louis XVI style and lit with high, diffuse lights that offset the cream walls. She led him up a short flight of stairs and into a wide circular courtyard surrounding a neatly maintained flower bed. The light here was a warm orange and they seemed to have suddenly entered evening in late summer. Edward looked up and saw the rain beating against a tinted glass dome. Maria knelt down on a small cushion and began bedding a number of small pink flowering plants from a tray.</p> <p>"You have a lovely home," he said.</p> <p>"Thank you, but it's not mine. It belongs to my father—but he spends most of his time in France, on business."</p> <p>"Oh." He watched her gardening for a few minutes.</p> <p>"I thought you might have been coming by to give me flowers," she said. "I don't like that. David always brings me flowers and I watch them die. Being uprooted like that; it's too cruel." Edward wondered if she was thinking of her own childhood, brought to Britain at the age of seven if the research he'd done last night on the family was correct.</p> <p>"Actually," he said, "I was hoping to ask you a favour. There was a certain book I was looking for and can't seem to find anywhere. Someone told me that the Beaumont library might have a copy."</p> <p>"Oh dear. You can certainly come and look, but I don't think I can be of help to you. Come with me."</p> <p>Again Edward found himself trailing behind Maria as she navigated flights of stairs and led him through various impossibly lavish drawing-rooms.</p> <p>Finally she came to a stairwell that led sharply upwards to a trapdoor.</p> <p>"When my father came from France he had the whole collection put in crates and shipped over; but he never had the time to recatalog it." She opened the trapdoor and they rose into a high-vaulted loft space, the floor littered with dozens upon dozens of great boxes, every surface covered in a thick layer of dust and fibreglass fluff. Edward looked on in despair.</p> <p>"So you see, if the book you were looking for is part of my family's library it is somewhere in there." She shook her head. "I'm so sorry."</p> <p>Edward looked at her—the light from the trapdoor lit up her arms and legs and made her seem something ethereal, less than solid. He had already decided what he was going to say.</p> <p>"I'll help you. I'll get it all organised, put them up on shelves."</p> <p>Maria's expression was hard to read in the shadow of the attic. "Won't your bosses mind?"</p> <p>"I'll do it out of office hours. That is, if you're happy?"</p> <p>"Yes, yes! But you mustn't do it for free. I'll phone my father and ask him to pay you for it. There's a room on the second floor he always meant to be the library—there are some mementos on the shelves I will need to clear."</p> <hr/> <p>And that was how the weeks played out—Edward would play the stock market during the day and spend the evenings and weekends at the Beaumont residence, hauling boxes down from the attic and cataloging their contents. First-edition Proust, an autographed copy of Les Misérables, the complete works of François-Thomas-Marie de Baculard d'Arnaud. Several times Edward found himself sitting and reading through volumes of Comte and Montesquieu in their original French, before chiding himself for wasting time. No date had been set by Jeremy for the acquisition of the <em>Viage</em>, but he imagined this delay could not have been appreciated.</p> <p>The little library soon filled up and Maria annexed the parlour next door, bringing in new shelving during the day. Edward opened box after box of tomes packed in yellowed styrofoam, but there was no metal-bound medieval manuscript. Maria would walk in from time to time, bringing him sweet tea in little china cups and wafer-thin biscuits.</p> <p>"Edward, you will not be able to come around tomorrow evening," she told him once.</p> <p>"Oh. Why?"</p> <p>"Well, David is coming over, and you were right. He can be a little jealous. You have been so good in doing this—I do not want him to get the wrong idea." She held his cheek with her hand for a moment and suddenly flushed before turning away.</p> <hr/> <p>One rainy Saturday—there was no sun anymore, it seemed, at least outside office hours—a bone-tired Edward levered off the top of the latest crate, a damp, miserable thing he had found lurking near the edge of the attic. The books at the top were ruined; little more than dried pulp between the covers. Seventeenth century Molière, now mush. Below the ruined books there seemed to be only emptiness; an expanse of styrofoam peanuts all the way to the bottom of the box. Or was it the bottom? The cool, unyielding surface he had encountered didn't seem far enough down. Scrabbling around he found one corner, then another, and lifted the object out of the packing crate.</p> <p>It was more a box than a binding—a plain, almost crude iron cuboid with a hefty haft. On it the word 'Gervais'—presumably the French spelling—had been not engraved but <em>scratched</em> into the metal. He held his breath as he undid the clasp. Had it been reduced to mulch like the others? The pages were yellowed, brittle, cracked at the edges; but intact. The title page took his breath away—still-vivid reds and greens spiralling together in an ornate 'A' that began the title: 'A Viage to the Contree of the Cimmerians'. He closed the box, and took a deep breath. Now the hard part.</p> <hr/> <p>"To buy? Oh, no, I'm sorry, Edward. That book is part of my family estate—they all are. I could not sell them, not for any amount of money."</p> <p>"Perhaps your father…"</p> <p>"My father entrusted the house and everything to me—do you see? I cannot sell you the book."</p> <p>"But … they were in packing crates for years. Your father probably doesn't even know it's in here, surely there's no harm in letting it go?" he said, a little roughly. Then, softening his tone, "It would mean a lot to me."</p> <p>"Edward! Please, listen to me. You are a dear man and I hope a dear friend. I do not like to say no to you. Please do not let some old silly book come between us."</p> <p>Edward collapsed into a chair and gazed into the middle distance. Maria, unwilling to let Edward see her cry, turned away. Edward left shortly afterwards, books and packing material still strewn around the floor like the wreckage from some terrible explosion.</p> <hr/> <p>Maria called several times over the next few days, each time on his home phone during office hours, hanging up when it went to answerphone. He couldn't bring himself to call her back.</p> <p>Unable to decide what to do next in the Beaumont acquisition, Edward simply let it rest for the moment, the ten thousand pounds resting accusingly in his personal current account. He would have been content to leave it there forever before something happened to make him act. This time it didn't come from apocalyptically-named IRC personalities, shady gentleman's clubs or even David Went. It began with an innocuous phonecall from Wil Hamilton, his one-time best friend back at Redmayne–Bracknell.</p> <p>"We should meet up for a drink sometime," suggested Edward, reflecting that since joining Cooper Drake he had all but given up friends. His occasional outings with David Went were the closest he came to sharing time with friends these days, especially since he had stopped going to Maria's house.</p> <p>"Sure. So how are things as a master of the universe?"</p> <p>"Tiring."</p> <p>"You don't say. Keeping your eyes on the prize, right?"</p> <p>"When I can. How is HR treating you?"</p> <p>"It's my busy season too. So many companies are closing we're getting deluged with applications. You know how it goes—all the handwritten letters, in the bin. All the 'To whom it may concerns'—in the bin. Pile A is the first-class degrees from Oxbridge, pile B is the first-class degrees from other unis. The rest go in the bin. All the off-white paper; in the bin. All the ones on company letterhead; in the bin. Interview the first ten from the top of each pile and chuck the ones who start the interview with 'um'. If you're left with one candidate from pile A and another from B, chuck the B-lister."</p> <p>"Heh," Edward thought: you're missing out a trick there, mate. I know for a fact you look at the surnames and chuck the ones that don't sound like they attended Eton in the 1950s.</p> <p>"Here's something you could probably use—you know Western Instruments?"</p> <p>Edward vaguely remembered it as a dinosaur of a New England firm that made graphic calculators and replied in the affirmative.</p> <p>"Well, they're jumping ship in their dozens. I'd say about one in every five applications we're getting over in Accounts are from them."</p> <p>"Why?"</p> <p>"Well, nothing's been announced yet, but it's common knowledge at the firm. They're only getting jumped by the Slasher."</p> <p>Bashir "Slasher" Khan (he wouldn't have got into Redmayne–Bracknell under Wil Hamilton's watch, sad to say) was an aggressive young tycoon who had made millions buying up dying British and American companies, ruthlessly cutting them to the bare bones and selling them on to multinationals. He was the master of the hostile takeover, appealing directly to shareholders and bypassing management altogether. After firing half the workforce and paring back output to its most profitable components a company 'slashed' by Bashir Khan could be worth as much as fifteen percent more.</p> <p>"Really? I'll look into it. Thanks for the tip."</p> <p>They concluded their discussion with some light ribbing and a promise to get together some time, maybe pulling in friends who had left for different firms.</p> <p>Then Edward started researching Western Instruments and Bashir Khan. It all seemed to check out—Khan hadn't made an acquisition for months and was surely looking to expand again. Western Instruments was a sad, bloated carcass of what it used to be, still insisting that people needed single-purpose computing equipment at the price of a smart phone. A trickle of orders from the schools were the only thing keeping them in business.</p> <p>This time Edward ran the deal past everyone—Liz, David, even popping in to let Raymond know. Everything came together—Liz reported confidently that voluntary redundancies in Western Instruments were sky-high. David confirmed something big was in the works from Slasher Khan. Edward was authorised to buy up eighteen million in shares in Western Instruments.</p> <p>"What, that old thing?" asked his American contact in disbelief. "They're dead, son—you might as well invest in abacuses." But Edward pressed ahead, confident that as soon as the Slasher made his move he would be holding gold dust.</p> <p>A week passed. Two weeks. Then the news—Edward's heart leapt as he saw the headline 'Slasher strikes again!'. It might have been a grisly murder—which in some ways it was—except it was in the Finance section.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Bashir 'The Slasher' Khan</strong> has struck again, announcing a hostile takeover of Global Merchandise Limited, the international PR firm, which had been languishing for years following the collapse of the dot-com bubble…</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward couldn't believe it. Surely there had to be some mistake, something misreported. He scanned the news for any mention of Western Instruments. And there it was.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Western Instruments</strong> today announced losses of twenty million in its second quarter in a major blow to the ailing scientific calculator manufacturer.</p> </blockquote> <p>He had been set up. Instead of gold dust he'd been left with fool's gold. In under an hour the face value of his stocks dipped by eight percent. While desperately trying to find a buyer, any buyer, he dialled Wil's number.</p> <p>"Hi there Edward." He sounded horribly, nauseatingly chipper.</p> <p>"Hello Wil. Is there something you want to tell me now?" He couldn't prevent the note of panic from entering his voice.</p> <p>"You know, Edward, some companies have institutional memory. Not Cooper Drake, of course, but <em>proper</em> companies. Companies with history and character. You fucked us over, Edward. Did you think we'd just forget?" Edward was speechless as Wil continued. "RB gave you your break, forgave you all those months you farted around twiddling your thumbs like the spoilt brat you are."</p> <p>"I thought we were friends," Edward said. I wonder if Peter finally realised, he thought—put Wil up to this. There's a justice in it, I guess.</p> <p>"I thought we were," said Wil. "That was before you screwed with Redmayne–Bracknell."</p> <p>Edward's mouth went tight. "Then screw you, you piece of shit. You're a bloody racist, as well, you know that? You run your fucking HR department like the Klu Klux Klan. Go to hell." He put the phone down. One more bridge well and truly burned, he thought.</p> <p>In some ways this was worse than what had happened over Cliffes—though the trade had been above board, signed and sealed by Cooper Drake's management, it had been based on lies, lies predicated on a personal vendetta against him. Lies he had believed and presented as fact. Even MacIntyre wouldn't fire me for this, he thought mutely. He'll just move me quietly to a back room and make sure every other investment bank firm in the world knows I can't handle the trading floor. And now, only now, did the sick lump form in his stomach, as he saw his only option to make good.</p> <hr/> <p>The first time he had gone to the Beaumont residence he had forgotten his umbrella. This time it was with him, but he left it on his passenger seat. He walked through the rain to the porch and rung the bell. Just like the first time. Put things back to how they were. Another visit to Mr Stathopoulos would be in order, of course.</p> <p>Maria came to the door in a thick, fluffy dressing gown, hair tightly wrapped in a towel. She looked at him and a suggestion of tears began to form again in her eyes.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," he said.</p> <p>"You poor man! You poor man!" she said, grabbing him and bringing him inside, where she rested his head on her shoulder and allowed the water from his suit to soak into her robe. He didn't allow her to take his bag but placed it on the newspaper she brought out.</p> <p>"Maria," he said, "I came—that is to say I stopped by—I felt bad for leaving the library in such a state—and even if you didn't want—I wanted to finish it—and I was so out of line—and—" Edward was unable to tell if his own breathless incoherence was an attempt to win sympathy or not. She took him by the hand and led him back to the library. To his amazement the books and styrofoam remained where he had left them; scattered on the floor.</p> <p>"Nothing has changed, you know? I was just waiting for you to come back. I was worried."</p> <p>He leaned closer to her, kissed her hair. She took his still damp collar with both hands and guided his face to hers, kissed his mouth, hard. You bastard, he wanted to shout at himself, you fucking bastard. He was crying now, and she took a tissue and wiped his eyes.</p> <p>"Please," she said, her smile illuminated in that little plaster room, "don't cry. I'll bring tea and biscuits."</p> <p>After she left, he watched his body move over to the bookshelf where the Gervase codex sat, taller and wider than the books around it and 'Gervais' scratched on its spine. He watched himself take the iron box off the shelf and swap it for the shoddy replica he had pieced together from the remains of an old washing-machine, smoothly transferring the manuscript to his bag. And that was all there was to it.</p> <p>He swept up the packing chips and picked up where he left off. A few minutes later Maria brought warm, sweet tea, and he drank it like a man dying of thirst.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« Act I - "Jellybeans" \| <a href="/acquisitions-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/acquisitions2">Act II - "You are invited"</a> »</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> <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="/acquisitions1">Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act I</a>" by SRegan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/acquisitions1">https://scpwiki.com/acquisitions1</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]] [[/>]] [[toc]] +++ Chapter One: "Jellybeans" > > The last will and testament of Bernard Gradley > > So, I'm gone. You're sitting there in dear old Mr Pierce's office, waiting for the big news. The only question in your minds is, how is this all going to work? Old Bernard's company must be worth a few bob. More than a few. I'll tell you, it's forty million. It'll be sold on to the Japanese or the Chinese or whoever the hell else is buying Britain by the time I snuff it and then you can go and get your places in the sun and never have to worry about where the money's coming from again. But are there strings attached? That's what you're asking. Beatrycze, you're wondering whether you're going to have to go cap-in-hand to Edward because I've left everything to him. And Edward's wondering if it's all going to be stuck in some tiresome trust until he turns thirty or forty or whatever. > > Well, that's not how this is going to happen. You can hate me all you want, because I'm dead, but I've thought a long time about what to do and this is the only course of action I can take and still hold true to the values that made me the man I am, or rather, the man I was. Beatrycze, I'm not going to pretend that you loved me while we were together. At best I was a nuisance standing between you and my money. I don't think it even occurred to you that you would have nothing had I not behaved the way I did—you wanted the great industrialist //and// the great family man, and I couldn't be both. The gifts I gave you were never good enough—too large, or too small, or last year's fashion. So here's what I'm leaving you—five hundred quid’s worth of crisp M&S vouchers. Have one last splurge on me, dear, and this time you can make sure it's right. > > And Edward. You've made me proud—and you've also made me disappointed. Everything you've excelled in you've dropped out of—the chess, art, music. Now it's philosophy, which I'm sure will be just as temporary. Guess it just seemed like too much hard work with a life of leisure ahead. I'm sorry that you've ended up thinking that way—I take the blame for that. And I'm sorry if I let you believe that you'd never have to work a day in your life. That's not going to be true. If you want to be rich, you have the intelligence and the talent to achieve it. You could be a philosopher, you could be anything. But you'll have to do it by yourself. You'll have to get your hands dirty, like I did. To my son, Edward, I leave nothing. > > Gradley Industries, my child, my prize, I leave to Gerald Spointer, who I know will continue his sterling work in the role of Chief Executive Officer... Edward Gradley swore softly as he eased the Vauxhall Astra around yet another one of the serpentine parking bays in Cooper Drake's gargantuan car park. All full, of course. He squinted at his watch. Eleven forty. Five minutes to find a spot, get out, run what seemed like two miles to the front door of the CD head office, check in, and get to his interview. He ran a hand through short dark hair. Calm down. Another painfully tight corner, maneuvering around bollards which seemed to have been designed for a Segway. And there it was, sitting invitingly between a black Cadillac and a lovingly maintained Bentley. A space! Edward gave thanks to a god he didn't believe in and pulled towards it hard. The Astra ramped over a speed bump and promptly stalled. Edward dutifully put his indicator on while he shifted out of gear, which didn't seem to bother the silver Mercedes which cruised effortlessly past, executed a distinctly cavalier three-point turn that almost claimed Edward's wing mirror and reversed into the spot. Its occupant, a neatly folded and pressed sixty-something in an expensive suit with incongruously gelled grey hair got out and raised an eyebrow in the direction of Edward, whose pale skin was turning vermillion. "Some problem there, young man?" He adjusted his tie, bared his teeth and examined the result in the window of his car. "Yes, actually, you prick," Edward said, a few dozen decibels too loud. "Didn't you see I was pulling into that space? I had my indicator on and everything! Plus, you almost hit me!" "Is that so? Well, 'almost' never needs apologies. Besides, how do you know this isn't my space?" Edward fell silent for a second as something small at the back of his mind tried to draw a conclusion from that and didn't like it. "I didn't see a name on it," he said, at significantly reduced volume but still carrying a boom that made the little voice cringe. "You're right! My word," said the older man, winking at him before walking towards the offices. "Must be I just like to screw with people." "Wanker!" shouted Edward after him in a moment of catharsis before realising that the whole exchange had cost him close to a minute. ---- Edward finally arrived in the Cooper Drake reception at eleven forty-six and thirty seconds, trembling and breathless. The secretary gave him a sympathetic glance before passing him a series of forms and a viciously sharp name badge, which he just about managed to get pinned to his suit (thirty-five pounds from Matalan) without goring himself. "Edward! How are you doing?" Edward jumped and turned to see a short, stocky young man about his own age grinning up at him. "Erm, hi." "How are things with the—oh, you know, the..." The over-familiar stranger patted Edward on the arm, rolling his eyes in what was apparently meant to be a gesture of solidarity. "Terribly sorry, but this is going to seem awfully rude. Do I know you from somewhere?" "Nope! It's David. David Went." He held out an immaculately manicured hand, wrist graced by a Rolex. "Don't mind my introductions, I always like to see how people react. You've passed the first test, by the way. I always tell Peter not to hire people who try to bullshit by pretending they remember me. Or if they tell me to go away, of course. I'm lead Partner for Stocks and Shares, so I get to sit on all Peter's interviews. That's Peter Davis, by the way. He'll be your line manager. So, let's get you introduced!" This process first required a lengthy trek through the halls of power. Cooper Drake wasn't anywhere near as old or established as Redmayne–Bracknell, Edward's previous firm, but it made a bigger return on almost every investment it made and was widely seen as the uncrowned king of the British investment portfolios. There had certainly been an attempt to create the impression of old money, thought Edward, looking at the rich, slightly worn dark green leather seats in the consultancy area and the lacquered wood finish on the walls, adorned with a dizzying array of digital and analogue clocks displaying the time in New York, Moscow, Beijing... Finally Edward was ushered through into a comparatively small office with a polished oak desk. At its head was a bored-looking ponytail in Raybans, probably no more than thirty himself. He was toying with a half-eaten sushi box while trying hard to appear absorbed in a slim document file. "Peter! Meet Ed—can we call him Ed?" Edward nodded mutely, knuckles white on his slightly battered travel case. "Great. Come on, let's get sat down and we can have a chat." Peter Davis removed his shades and seemed to see the document in front of him for the first time. "So, Edward," he drawled, ignoring David's suggested nomenclature. Edward thought the man sounded like Nigel Mansell after a few dozen pints. "Edward Gradley. Now, I look at that, and I think—any relation? To, you know, erm—" "Bernard Gradley? The industrialist," prompted David, smiling broadly. Peter seemed to have taken that as the culmination of his question, so Edward drew himself up. "He was my father, yes." "Hmm, must mean you're pretty loaded." Peter's critical eye swept Edward up and down with the implication that he had done an exceptional job hiding it. "So, why are you slumming it with us?" Edward groaned internally. Secret origin story in three, two, one... "Unfortunately, he didn't leave me a square nickel of it." Peter seemed visibly surprised—David just continued his Cheshire cat grin. "Not a penny?" Peter crossed his legs and did a passable imitation of 'sympathetically distraught'. "No." "Must be some resentment there!" exclaimed David, rather too happily for Edward's tastes. "To be brutally frank, yes. I hate him for it. I don't hate him because I think I was entitled to something I didn't earn. I hate him because he let me believe I was preparing for one way of life, one mode of existence, then gave me another one altogether." "That must be the, er, Philosophy degree talking," said Peter. "Now, as I recall Mr Gradley passed away two years ago. Did that have any impact on your work?" David walked his fingers over the table and slid out two sheets of paper with the Redmayne–Bracknell letterhead clearly visible. Jesus Christ, thought Edward, they've only gone and told RB that I asked for an interview at another firm. I'd better pull this off, otherwise I won't have a job to go back to. "I think you know it did. At the time I was an intern, and not a very good one." "Honest!" exclaimed Peter through a mouthful of rice; he'd given up any pretence of examining Edward's CV and was tucking into his plastic clamshell of norimaki. "I was marking time, waiting to get bored of investment banking like I've gotten bored of a lot of things. Then—well. The will basically said I was a disappointment to him, a dropout. I'd like to say that it was a sober wakeup that I took to heart, and that's why I pulled my finger out. It wasn't. I just wanted to prove him wrong. So I came in at five every morning, got coffee for the traders, did research on the hot stocks for the morning; did everything I could to add value. After six months I told RB I thought I was ready to trade. They recognised the effort I was putting in and gave me my first account." "But now you want to leave them," prompted David. "Do you think you have loyalty issues?" Edward drew a deep breath. One of the //tricky// questions. "RB took a chance making me a trader; I appreciate that. They invested in me. And in return they've made a profit from me of almost six hundred thousand pounds. That's after factoring in my salary. I believe in money—I wouldn't be in the business if I didn't. I believe in contracts. And the contract I signed with Redmayne–Bracknell says I have to give them four weeks' notice. I'm in investment banking because I want to get rich—" "Don't we all!" interjected Peter with a glazed expression. "And that won't happen if I stay at RB. Cooper Drake has taken over one thousand four hundred clients from the firm since I joined. You're going to flatten it." "And you want to be on the upper side of the boot, so to speak?" David asked. He was looking for something under the desk. "I wonder, will your gratitude to Redmayne–Bracknell get in the way if you have to do business with them?" "No. That's based on my philosophy of business." Edward wondered if he was about to put his foot in it. Please, //please//, said the little voice, don't start lecturing. David had found what he was looking for—a glass jar full of something colourful. Right now he was trying to get the lid off. Peter waved his hands ineffectually in David's direction as though offering to try and open it before thinking better of it. "Please, just give us a précis. It's really good to be able to get inside the head of someone coming to work with us." David beamed. He didn't use 'potentially'; that's got to be a good sign, right? Edward marshalled his thoughts. "Businesses are collections of individuals, just like countries or religions. The difference is that companies recognise—or should recognise—the fact. The ideal of capitalism is that everyone working for his or her own interests—and purely for his or her own interests—is ultimately beneficial for all. When I do business with Redmayne–Bracknell—or Lyons Patrick, or Kleiner, Puttel & Minsc, or swap stocks with colleagues, I'll be working in my best interests. If I'm working for you, my best interest makes you money." "I like him!" chortled Peter, rocking back in his chair and twirling his Raybans. "David, what do you think? Give him the job?" "Not just yet. We normally say 'we'll let you know in a week', don't we Peter? I will say that I'm impressed. You did well on the phone interview; you did better today. Have a jellybean?" Edward blinked at the non-sequitur and saw David was holding out the jar, the lid still firmly jammed on. "Thanks." Edward took the jar, gripped the lid firmly and with a sharp counterclockwise twist managed to push it past the obstruction; a flattened sweetmeat caught in the screwthread of the lid. Edward delicately reached in and took one orange jellybean. He looked up, suddenly conscious that he might have done the wrong thing. Peter was smirking and looking sideways at David with a knowing glance. "Well done," said David. "Just a little something I like to do. Pinched it from Reagan. Decisiveness, will to profit, ability to hear and remember terms of contract. Bean, //singular//. Very good. Why orange?" "Well, Belfree's jellybeans only come in two flavours—plain, and orange." "Really?" Peter was mesmerised. "They have two vats; one with just the sugar, corn syrup and starch, and another where they add orange flavouring. They found in the nineteen-fifties that the orange flavour was the most popular and that there were no other strong preferences, so they cut costs. There are eight colours, but orange is thirty percent of each pack. The seventy percent is their profit margin. You eat a red jellybean, or a black jellybean, or a white jellybean, and you think you can taste raspberry or blackcurrent or lemon. You can't; that's your body's learned response to the colour. You offered me //a// jellybean—I chose the more valuable flavour. Plus, I happen to like oranges." "Fuck convention," announced David, after a second's silence. "I think we can move this along. As far as I'm concerned, you're in." "Oh—yes, right, sure," Peter chimed in, leaning over the table. "Well done." "Thanks. Glad to be on board." Edward got up and shook Peter's hand, then extended his hand to David, who pumped it enthusiastically. "Well," said David, "there's one more hurdle to jump through. Just a formality, really. As head partner I get to introduce you to the floor manager, Raymond MacIntyre. He's the one with the final say in hiring. Come on, I'll take you up to the trading floor." ---- 'Up' was right. Leaving Peter behind at his desk, Edward and David were wordlessly ushered into an opulent glass-sided elevator that gave its occupants a view of each floor as they passed through. Secluded, plush-walled rooms for meeting clients gave way to hard-linoleum warehouses of regimented accountants sitting at their computers, who in turn gave way to richly appointed executive offices. And finally, with such grandeur that Edward almost applauded, the elevator rose through a thick perspex mezzanine—literally punching through the glass ceiling, he thought, as if it made any difference to the silent, pretty secretary in the thick glasses who stood by the door buttons to let them off—to reveal a vast, open-plan area where men in designer suits barraged back and forth between colossal monitors displaying stock indexes in a hundred different countries and huge round glass tables strewn with paper like the aftermath of some gargantuan infant's temper tantrum. It was a good four times larger than Redmayne–Bracknell's trading floor. At the far end, where David was leading him now with assured, vigorous strides, was a small enclosed area—comparatively small, he realised, as several more steps seemingly failed to bring it any closer—clad in light, honey-brown wood. When they finally reached the door, a gleaming plaque announced this to be the residence of Raymond MacIntyre. "Here we go—good luck! Just kidding, he's a pussycat, really." David smiled reassuringly before rapping the wood with his knuckles and swinging it open. The prick from the carpark, the wanker in the Merc, looked up from scribbling on a notepad and saw them. Recognition flashed immediately in his eyes and thin lips slid back from immaculately whitened teeth. Oh fuck. "So David, this is young Edward. Starting off as a junior associate, I presume. You must be taken to bring him up here on his first interview. Is it love?" There was an edge to his voice that Edward couldn't quite pin down but which couldn't be good. "Well, he's proposed. And now we're here to get daddy's blessing." David winked and stepped aside to give Edward a full, unobstructed view of his own demise. "I've met him already." Raymond MacIntyre started opening a letter with a very long, very sharp knife. "Really?" David seemed utterly oblivious to the razor-atmosphere which Edward felt sure was about to engulf him. "Yes. We ran into each other in the car park. Well, almost." A dangerous glitter again. "'Almost' never needs apologies," said Edward. No job at Cooper Drake, a dismissal notice probably already waiting for him back at Redmayne–Bracknell. His father must be looking at him now and laughing his ass off. He'd be looking up, of course. Even if Edward was at ground level. "No." Turning his attention to David. "This fellow cussed me out for backing into his spot. He didn't back down, even when I hinted as strongly as I felt able my position in the firm. Called me a 'wanker', as I recall." Edward saw David's florid face lightening to apricot out of the corner of his eye. "Now, how much were you intending to //pay// this young man for the privilege of doing that every day?" "Erm, thirty-five thousand. Signing bonus of, ah, three thousand." David looked like he would rather be somewhere far, far away. Something horrible was moving in Edward's chest, expanding and contracting rhythmically. Some parasitic thing, about to burst through the sparse flesh over his ribcage. It took him a minute to realise it was his heart. The room was filling up with yellow mist. I'm going to pass out, Edward thought. Failure, failure, failure. "Really? Make it forty thousand. And double his signing bonus. He comes in at seven his first day, you hear me? I'll work him until he's dry. You may hold me to that." Edward almost passed out anyway—David discreetly clapped a pally arm around him and steered him to the door. "Well done," he muttered. ---- The conversation with his manager at Redmayne–Bracknell went as well as could be expected; there are better ways to answer "why is our primary competitor asking about your work performance?" than "here's my notice." The phrase "ungrateful little bitch" was used; Edward was sure he'd never seen a man with so many letters after his name so closely approximating a primary colour. As it turned out, a philosophical expounding of capitalism proved less persuasive for those no longer served by your own self-interest. On his last Monday at RB he found his name had accidentally been added to every slot on the coffee and danish errand rota. On Wednesday someone tipped the rubbish bin in his drawer. Edward didn't mind. In his last week he signed thirty new contacts and made sure to give them all his card. No company—just a name, private email and mobile number. ---- Edward spent his last weekend before starting work at Cooper Drake playing video games and trying for the fifteenth time to crack Kant's //Critique of Pure Reason//. He tried to get to sleep early, on the assumption that MacIntyre wasn't the sort of man who would be disrespected twice if he came in late. Instead he lay awake, mind churning. He found himself thinking—how much is enough? When have I proved to my father—who, let's not forget, is currently hard at work decomposing—that I've applied myself? Five million? Ten million? Maybe I need to beat him; that would be forty million. Of course, he'd never accept I'd earned it, the way he did, putting together a company from the ground up. City traders, with their soft hands and wacky ties, were as far from Bernard Gradley, the man who'd made his millions selling furniture from the back of a van, as you could get. Perhaps I need to get a wife and kids just so I can leave them everything? Is that it? Do I never get to feel like I've won as long as I'm alive? Madness. It's madness. Man works to cease from working, he reasoned; the purpose of work cannot be more work, as at each stage the objective of work is to reduce the total mass of labour left to do. In some ways the City exemplified this—you put in crazy hours, worked yourself to the bone, took insane risks, and the reward was the accumulation of wealth; early retirement while you could still enjoy the leisured lifestyle. But what of the grey-haired men who'd spent decades in finance, turning their whole lives into one huge accumulator bet as though they could take it with them? Bernard Gradley had gone one stage further—working month after month, year after year, burning his flesh like a candle: he had not enjoyed rest from his work, and he had denied it to his wife and son as well. In some ways Edward could see the sense in it. Gradley Industries had been a //project//, a great work. In his will he had called it his 'child', his masterpiece. What great work was there in finance? ---- "Time to get started!" chirped David as he ushered Edward around the great glass tables on the top floor of Cooper Drake's great City offices. Faces came and went in front of his sleep-starved eyes, people he needed to remember as his lifelines. Concentrate, he warned himself. "This is Elizabeth. Treat her well; she's your source for leads. Her analysts work around the clock to tease out data from international stock markets and convert it into essential narratives for CD brokers." At Redmayne–Bracknell you were more or less given a stack of newspapers and expected to get on with it. Elizabeth Keating was a plain, slightly overweight girl barely older than Edward; she favoured him with a winning smile but his mind was already somewhere else. Edward would be working in Peter's team—a pod of four associate brokers focusing on British and international industry. Each would be working to invest money in stocks and shares around the globe; blue-chip companies would likely already have a recommendation from the firm's analysts—Strong Buy, Buy, Hold, Sell, or Strong Sell, but for the majority of startups, medium-size enterprises or just plain old-fashioned firms that refused to play PR ball with the market, brokers were left with gut feeling and what facts they could dig up themselves. Edward was issued with a gleaming transparent plastic keycard—his research pass, which when swiped into the Cooper Drake systems permitted access to their vast, labyrinthine records of stock movements over the past century. "Don't lose it," warned David—"these things literally cost half your monthly salary. They're laser-engraved; everyone's is unique." At Edward's previous firm there had been a lengthy keycode instead; you were absolutely forbidden to write the thing down, but everyone did it anyway. If you wanted to snoop around someone's search history and get some juicy tips all you needed to do was open their drawer and find the sixteen-digit number scrawled on the Post-it note. Not that Edward would ever admit doing something like that. "So Edward, I think I'm gonna throw you in the deep end," drawled Peter. "I've got some big aerospace trades and I want you to take a look. See what sense you can make of them, you know?" That turned out to be not a lot. Edward went half the morning believing this was some kind of surreal training exercise or prank before he realised what he was seeing were actually Peter's positions. He was selling fast-growing R&D stocks with acute nervelessness, often missing out on hundreds of thousands, while clinging on to big-name shares that showed no signs of ever breaking even. Some delicacy required, he reflected, when your direct manager is probably the least capable person in the building. Peter wasn't even incompetent—he was clueless, making trades half an hour after the herd and hoping for the best. Edward would bet good money that each of Peter's prematurely abandoned tech picks had been the result of some offhand comment by a member of his team, while his touching faith in the stagnating giant firms that formed the core of his position seemed based on formulaic language in press releases no-one—except Peter, apparently—saw as exciting or indicative of rapid change anymore. "Some bold choices," Edward finally concluded after spending the morning sweating over the bizarre pileup of incoherent stock picks that constituted Peter's portfolio. "Really?" Peter sounded aghast. "I mean, I don't think I'll have the nerve for some of these trades for a while. Like the Boeing position; that's huge." "R-right. I mean, don't just copy what I'm doing. You've got to make your own style. To be honest, I think I'm a bit long on Boeing, even." A bit? It's been a Strong Sell for two weeks, thought Edward glumly. Over the course of the afternoon he was able to cajole Peter into abandoning most of his current positions and adopting a far more diverse spread with significant spend in the rapidly expanding British space sector. Peter finished the day half a mill up, and Edward caught him squinting in his direction from behind his shades. "So how are things going?" David asked as the traders, at seven, slowly began filtering home. "Great," said Edward with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "Peter had me take a look at his portfolio; I was able to suggest some changes." "Ah—good." David rubbed the sides of his nose with his thumbs. "Change definitely sounds good where Peter's portfolio's concerned. Glad he's started you on something challenging." Poor Peter, thought Edward. He's a laughing stock at his own firm and he doesn't even know it. "Say, will you do something for me?" asked David. It's going to be something weird, thought Edward, I know it. For some reason you couldn't help taking to David; he was relentlessly affable, though Edward sensed a hard core of steel beneath the chubby exterior. "Put your arms up, like this." David raised both hands above his head, as though he were preparing to clap along to an old Gospel song. Edward did likewise, wincing as his suit pinched his chest. "See this here?"—David ran a finger along the folds that ran from shoulder to shoulder on Edward's cheap suit. "These should not exist. This is your second trading job; you're pulling in the big bucks, well, comparatively speaking. You should get a better suit. I know a guy on Ludgate Hill that does the most amazing tailored suits... old Greek guy, he gets all his fabrics under the counter from the textile manufacturers who supply the big designers; Versace, Newman..." "This conversation obviously has anti-gravity properties, because I can feel my wallet getting lighter," retorted Edward. "You're thinking about it the wrong way. You spend the money to get the money. You show up at a client's offices in a cheap suit and shabby shoes, you think he's going to give you the time of day, let alone all his cash? No, you show up in a tailored suit and you let him see his face in everything else. //That's how he knows you work.//" "I guess," said Edward. But I //like// my suit, he thought. I don't think it looks bad, per se. How often during a meeting with a client do you have cause to walk around with your arms above your head? Maybe a deodorant manufacturer... He had absolutely no intention of visiting David's expensive friend. ---- "Yes, Sir has definitely gone up a size in the waist since his last visit. Would Sir like me to take out his current suit or place an order for a new one?" Edward watched as David happily paid more than the price of Edward's car for a new pair of trousers and apparently on a whim ordered the next size up, too. The wizened gentleman in charge of Stathopoulos Fine Tailors and Drapers looked positively ecstatic as he took his details and arranged for the garments to be delivered hand-pressed and ready to wear. Always good when each time your client came in they made a bigger order—fabric-wise, anyway—than the time before, Edward mused. David didn't seem to mind his weight and appeared to wear it like a badge of his prosperity. "Come on then, Ed, you're up next." Edward tried his best to look stoic while the old man looped his tape measure around various parts of Edward's anatomy, making little clucking noises as he scribbled them on a yellowed tailor's pad. "Sir is very slim; department store clothes that fit well around the chest will be too tight at the shoulders. You lose ease of movement. If Sir would just try this..." The old man brought out a mock suit frontage with adjustable bands and loosened and tightened them while asking Edward to raise and lower his arms, bend at the waist, lean sideways. When he was satisfied he totted up a few numbers on a pocket calculator. "I can have a new suit in Sir's size ready by Thursday. As Sir is a new customer I shall make a special rate of seven hundred and fifty pounds." Edward's jaw made a dedicated bid for freedom from the rest of his skull. David sauntered over and rested an arm on Edward's shoulder. "He'll be paying by plastic." While Edward was changing back into his off-the-peg suit—had it been this itchy before?—David sat in a leather armchair by the tailor's window and sipped tea brought to him by the tailor's equally elderly wife. "You know, you should be looking at a new car, too. Surprised that old thing out there even works. It's like the suit—it's false economy. You get a car that gets you there fast, every time, and looks good when you arrive." "Not much good if you can't find parking," Edward retorted. "Hmm. You'll get the picture eventually. I'll tell you every trader does need, right off the bat—membership at a gentleman's club." "Just the essentials, eh?" said Edward, thoroughly bemused. "Damn right. Think about it for a second. When the clubs were founded they were originally just for people who were independently wealthy. That was the definition of 'gentleman'. But then came the franchise extensions. These days, who goes to gentleman's clubs? The captains of industry, the politicians. And why are they there? To talk business. I'm sitting there reading the Daily Telegraph, and behind me a Cabinet Secretary is discussing scrapping import restrictions on semiconductors. That's not a hypothetical situation—that happened last week. What do I do when I get back to the office? I sell every share I have in Ferranti at a quarter pence below the market price. They get snapped up by some chip freak at KPM. Bad news for him, because tomorrow when the news comes in that you'll be able to buy in the things from China at half the price, he's going to be left holding scraps while I got out forty k up." "Is that legal?" "Absolutely. It wouldn't even make a difference if instead I'd heard the CEO of Ferranti saying they were about to lose market share. If I'm privy to a conversation in a club at which I'm a member, it's no different to overhearing it on the street." "I see. So where do you go, if you don't mind me asking?" "Well, I started out at The Athenaeum, moved up to the Arts Club in my second year at Cooper Drake. Then I found my current haunt—they keep themselves off all the lists. They prefer to describe themselves as a 'private concern' rather than a club. Go in any time of the day or night; you'll see ex-PMs, foreign diplomats, billionaires..." "Would I have heard of them?" "If you have, they'd be mortified. I'll have to take you along sometime on my guest's pass; it's incredible. They're called Marshall, Carter & Dark." ---- +++ Chapter Two: "Antitrust" Over the next weeks, Edward picked up enough to put together his portfolio, centred around aerospace—a core of reliable performers like Staines Aeronautics with tendrils in fuel efficiency and carbon reduction research; any time a government anywhere in the world announced new breaks for cleaner fuels or started taxing emissions they would jump up in value. He built in a cheeky position on a couple of low-cost airlines; it fell outside his remit, but he figured Cooper Drake wouldn't mind too much; big, established companies were going broke all the time and their fleets being snapped up for a fraction of their value by budget carriers. It was trivial to predict takeovers and anticipate share price spikes. At the same time, Edward continue to volunteer to handle Peter's stocks—always carefully phrased: "You know, Peter, I'm a bit stuck for ideas. Mind if I take a peek at your portfolio? I'll tidy some of your picks up if you like—only fair while I'm snooping around." "Peter—you've probably already seen it but Blue Zone is tanking fast. Do you mind if I pair up our positions? I have an American buyer who wants a lot of them inside the hour." Peter was always pathetically grateful and soon Edward was more or less running his portfolio as a subsidiary of his own. Pacing himself carefully, he started putting in even later nights, staying long after Peter had shambled off to the pub. Each day he was able to persuade Peter to take leave of his desk sooner—'I'll finish these up for you,' 'Don't worry about these reports, I'll have them on Raymond's desk.' Members of Peter's team started coming to Edward with their requests for the research team. These afforded him access on a regular basis to the Research desk, where he always lingered for just the right amount of time, flashing a boyishly embarrassed smile at Liz and making the feeblest attempts at small talk he could muster. The homely young woman didn't take long at all to pick up on his apparent attentions. "Mr Gradley, if I didn't know better I'd think you were flirting." "Well..." Edward had always had the ability to blush at will. It had proven incredibly useful in getting out of childhood misdemeanors for which he had felt not the slightest bit of contrition. And women seemed to find it cute. "Maybe we can meet up for coffee sometime?"—from then on Edward got the research team's leads coming in as well. Around this time, Peter announced that he had become engaged to a woman called Roweena, and his already superfluous attendance became increasingly fragmentary. Edward did his best to encourage this behaviour. "No, don't worry about anything, Peter—we're on top of it." Three months after Peter Davis hired Edward, Raymond MacIntyre walked past the industry brokerage team and stopped, sniffing. Edward was sitting at Peter's computer, pumping out a three thousand word investor report. "Peter not in again?" MacIntyre looked at his watch and glanced around vaguely, as though Peter might be on the ceiling or under one of the desks. "You know how it is, Mr MacIntyre—young love. You'll have to forgive him, his mind's not on his work." Edward looked up, face a picture of guilelessness. "Hmmph." That one little noise as MacIntyre moved away told Edward it had all been worth it. He had just seen that the best-paid member of his stock brokerage division was the person who least needed to be there. That Friday Edward was called into a meeting with Raymond MacIntyre and David Went where he was asked about how he felt about taking the 'Junior' part off his Associate title and assuming some managerial responsibilities. "But won't the rest of the team mind working under me when I've been here for such a short amount of time?" Edward fell silent as soon as the words came out of his mouth, suddenly afraid he had assumed too much. "I don't think so. They've already seen you can handle the responsibility and to be honest, I understand they're already coming to you for advice." David looked over and smiled, and although it was superficially no different than usual, Edward was suddenly struck by the idea that there was some dark, gleeful recognition in it; as well as perhaps a hint of a warning: "Don't you dare try that on me". Edward might have been //persona non grata// to Redmayne–Bracknell's management, but he was still on good terms with their HR Manager, Wil Hamilton. When he casually mentioned that one of the bright young things at Cooper Drake might be about to jump ship he knew that RB would be all too happy to take them on. Peter Davis left Cooper Drake 'eager to take on new responsibilities at one of the country's oldest and most established brokerage firms' and forever in Edward's debt: as far as he was concerned, Edward had done everything possible to prop him up and camouflage his lack of skill, all out of a selfless nobility of the heart. That's not how it works, Peter, thought Edward, as he took his seat at the head of his little team and allowed his gaze to stray further up the great glass hall. ---- The knock on the door of Edward's apartment took him quite by surprise; he was by this time firmly ensconced in his pyjamas, wanting nothing more than to catch half an hour's TV before bed after a punishing thirteen-hour day. He answered the door toothbrush in hand, and blinked owlishly at the sight of David in full evening dress, a couple of pretty if rather shapeless young women floating around behind him. "Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten already," griped David, gesturing to the girls. "He's in his bloody nighties!" A peel of laughter. "Forgotten what?" "Really? I was supposed to be taking you to the club—you know, the gentleman's concern." "Oh, right. That was for tonight?" "Christ Almighty. Not one for the night life, are you? Come on, you've got five minutes before I leave without you. I hope you've got something presentable." Edward ended up dressing in the suit David had pressured him into buying from Antonis Stathopoulous. He had to admit, the old man knew what he was doing. The material was light and cool without being slippery and for the first time in his life he could see his waist, normally hidden under a voluminous billow of surplus fabric. He actually thought he looked quite dashing. He tutted disappointedly at the contrast made by his cheap plastic watch. At least the shoes matched, now, a £140 purchase from a middle-of-the-road outfitters—sharp-toed with a slightly raised heel. David's dark blue Ferrari purred happily as he drove them through the late night traffic. Edward had taken to walking around the City after hours, taking in the sights, and thought he knew most streets in the Square Mile by heart. David surprised him by taking a turn on Newgate Street he didn't even think existed; a half-concealed thing behind the projecting wing of St Bartholemews. From there he made turn after turn through strange streets lit by soft yellow streetlights quite different from those on the main streets. One could almost think one had left modern London behind and entered some twilight realm. "They keep all this quiet, don't they?" Edward said as he stared out at a lavishly baroqued pile encrusted with grotesques. "They appreciate their privacy," said David, as he drew up in front of a blind brick edifice protected by wrought iron fencing and fronted by a simple marble arch. If he had been keeping track, Edward thought, this was Twenty-Eight Great Rojet Street, which he had never even heard of before tonight. "Here—hold onto this." David passed Edward a slim black card; gold-edged, bearing the single word 'Guest'. At the top left-hand corner was an ornate cartouche, which, on closer examination, resolved itself into the letters 'MC&D'. The card felt smooth; the corners rounded as though pressed individually rather than cut from a larger section of card. Edward had a horrible feeling this card probably cost more than his monthly rent. David, Edward, and the two ladies whose names he had not asked for got out, breath hanging in the cold air, and made their way to the door. David rapped and a section of the door slid aside, revealing a perspex plate. From the other side a baggy bloodhound's eye roved back and forth before finding David's face. "Mr Went! So good to see you. And Misses Parker and Cholmondeley!" The eye found Edward and searched him, disapprovingly. Edward found himself drawing up defensively before a word had been spoken. "A friend of yours, Mr Went?" The voice managed to imply 'friend' occupied a position slightly higher than something you had trodden in. "That's right," said David, unphased. "Now open up, there's a good fellow." The door opened just wide enough for each of them to slip through—the haggard-faced porter shut it with an air of finality behind them. "The party is taking their seats in the main room, Mr Went, ladies. If you would care to join them, a number of acts will be performed for your amusement before supper at eleven thirty." At least at this time of day, the reception was shadowy and inhospitable, strange shapes pressing in from all sides. That one of them was almost certainly the porter, who had contrived to disappear into the darkness as soon as he had finished speaking, did little to allay Edward's nerves. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he picked out Regency furniture, gleaming candlesticks, grand portraits depicting strange, almost perverse, scenes. The transition to the cloakroom was blinding—they found themselves in a narrow corridor, dazzling white with golden hooks on either side. The attendant was tall, almost unnaturally so—as high above Edward as Edward was above David—and strangely gaunt, with a long, lugubrious face and dark, large-pupilled eyes whose gaze made Edward as uncomfortable as that of the porter, but in a different key; the feeling of handling something sick and squirming. He took charge of David's wallet and the women's purses, placing them into an itemised tray of polished wood which slid back into the wall of the cloakroom. Edward opted to hold onto his. Then the main hall! From outside it seemed impossible that this space should be contained within—a grand ballroom in the rococo style, but so exaggerated in scale that it made Edward feel miniscule. A dozen separate fireplaces burned at distant points in the hall, which comprised the entrance level, a graceful marble mezzanine and a great balcony above. Directly ahead was a colossal theatrical stage, purple velvet curtains with gold trim and the 'MC&D' flourish closed, awaiting a performance. The men and women who stood or sat at the many tables, armchairs and rounds scattered around the edge of the hall immediately struck Edward as familiar—it took a moment to realise that he saw them every day; on the news, or presenting it. He wondered whether David had chosen this night to impress or whether it was attended at this level on a regular basis. Cabinet Ministers rubbed shoulders with TV personalities and knighted businessmen. "David! David, you came. I wanted to see you again." The party was almost immediately waylaid by the petite brunette, dragging a much taller blonde woman by her dress. The former looked to be in her mid-twenties, like Edward—her hair styled in soft ringlets that brought out her Mediterranean complexion. Her lips were curled in soft amusement as she embraced David then looked over in his direction. Edward found himself blushing without having chosen it. "Well? Won't you introduce us to your guest?" the brunette prompted David, who reluctantly disengaged from her. "Of course, sorry, my manners. This is Edward—Edward Gradley. Edward, meet Maria Beaumont, of the Paris Beaumonts." Edward was floored. The Beaumonts were one of the richest families in France—old money, based on colonial trade; Beaumont Shipping remained a dominant force in the French-speaking world. "Gradley? You are not by some chance the son of Bernard Gradley? Our fathers did business, I think." Maria offered her hand to Edward, who found himself at a loss as to what to do with it. To let it go seemed rude—shaking it, terribly gauche. In the end he opted to bring it to his lips and offer a kiss—David turned away immediately, bringing a hand up to his mouth in a feigned yawn. "And this is Lady Alexandra Penelope." David ushered Maria aside. The tall blonde was somewhat older than Edward—perhaps 30—and elegantly beautiful in a ruffled yellow dress. She favoured him with a smile but did not offer her hand; Edward made a mock bow instead. "Edward—so, are you a man of leisure, or making your way in the world like David?" Lady Penelope asked, fixing him with very light blue eyes in which the pupils stood out like pinpricks. Edward sighed. One more time, ladies and gentlemen... Fifteen minutes later, the group had found their place by one of the log fires and were chatting over honeyed sausage entrées and glasses of a sparkling white wine as though they had known each other for years. The conversation had drifted onto business, where Edward had shared his thoughts on labour and leisure, and Maria had begun expounding her own theory. "Surely //leisure//," she said, "is merely doing any project or task which you enjoy doing, and which you direct. This last seems to me to be most key—it's all very well talking about getting a job you love, but unless you work for yourself, you're doing what someone else tells you to do. This seems incompatible with leisure—there is always that gap between the two. Labour is what earns leisure and it's foolish to talk about making your job your hobby." So speaks a woman who has never worked, thought Edward wryly. "There's some truth to that," he ventured, "but a competent employer will recognise that he is hiring an employee to do something he cannot—or rather, satisfaction is to be gained in attaining such a role where it is recognised; work becomes leisure if a man is allowed to act freely, to use his reason to decide the best course of action and act upon it. If an employer comes to think that all those who work for him are are simply extra hands—people who do the jobs he doesn't have time to do at an inevitably lower level of quality than if he were to do it himself—then he sets himself up to fail. A man who makes himself the final arbiter of everything his employees do, who requires his approval for any task, no matter how minor—who seeks to micromanage them to that extent—//must// be immaculately logical and fair, otherwise he is abolishing truth and logic in his company. People who work for such an employer will ultimately no longer care about truth, only what he wants to hear—if their own initiative isn't valued, why should they exercise it? A man's creativity can only be exercised by his own free will and for a cause he believes in—I find it incredible that private companies think they are any different from the state in that regard." "Oh, he's //darling//!" exclaimed Lady Penelope. "Where do you find these firebrands, David?" "They all start out like that," grinned David. "It's the natural state of man." "And long may it continue," proclaimed Maria. "To idealism." She raised her glass and the others drank with her. There was a sleek glossy catalogue on the table and Edward flicked through it idly. From what he could gather it represented a place for members to buy and sell antique goods as well as advertise services. Very little of it made sense to him; it was written in an overwrought, hyperbolic fashion that made each item seem like the Second Coming. Take this one—"A statue which has an orientation that cannot be altered." How was that supposed to work? The statue itself was nothing special; a craggy sculpture of a human arm and hand, fifty centimetres tall. He took a look at the price tag and almost snorted Château d'Yquem out of his nose. If I was paying that much it would face whichever way I wanted, thank you very much. The evening's entertainment started shortly afterwards; various illusionist and acrobatic acts led up to a final spectacular piece where a truly talented magician-aerialist appeared to fall apart in mid-flight; one by one his limbs seemed to detach from his body and continue the act unaccompanied—at times interacting with his body in ways that should have been impossible if they were still attached. By the end he seemed to have been reduced to a quadruple amputee, still arcing above the stage in partner acrobatics with what were purportedly his own limbs. Finally, the performer's disembodied arms and legs maneuvered his torso into position for one final gruesome trick; looping the ribbon around his neck as though preparing him for execution. A second later, both head and body fell to the ground with the other seemingly lifeless limbs. The curtain closed, and the performer did not re-emerge—though Maria, perhaps noticing Edward's pallor, whispered to him that she had seen the act several times previously, including versions of the trick where an assistant put him back together on-stage afterwards. Edward prided himself that he had a logical mind and could usually work out the mechanism between most magic acts. The severed-limb trick, however, defied explanation—he supposed there must have been at least four other acrobats on stage, with the rest of their bodies somehow concealed from view; how the performer had seemingly severed his own head in full view of the audience however went beyond the best of Copperfield. The only clue, to his mind, lay in the fact that each division of the magician's body had occured in an area wrapped in the white ribbon. The man needed his own TV show, Edward thought, he'd kick the shit out of Dynamo. The chefs had emerged from the kitchens shortly before serving to explain the theme of the repast—the public school dinner, gourmet-style and eaten with oversized cutlery to recreate an authentic atmosphere. It was the right venue for it, thought Edward. He could scarcely credit the notion that Marshall, Carter & Dark had even contrived to get the owner of the Fat Duck and the Hell's Kitchen star around the same stove let alone produce something coherent. The result, however, was indescribable; a fusion of subtle undertones and a few big explosions of colour and taste that made him wonder if he could ever go back to his microwave ready meals. No wonder David keeps Mr Stathopoulos in such good business, Edward thought, savouring a shepherd's pie made with Kobe beef and topped with a selection of artisan cheeses. The serving staff—all young, attractive men and women in formal attire—were silent and efficient, if a little glassy-eyed. No wonder, if this is typical of what goes on here—I'd be perpetually shell-shocked if I worked here too. Or perhaps, like him, they'd just had a long day. "So David," he asked his companion, currently gorging himself on waffles made from whole Tasmanian seed potatos and a take on the Turkey Twizzler whereby Bowman Landes free-range turkey meat was cut directly into the shape of the twizzler and breaded using vapor-deposited batter. "If you don't mind me asking, how much does membership at this place set you back?" Edward wasn't sure exactly how much David Went made at Cooper Drake, but he doubted it placed him in the same league, as say, Richard Branson, who he was fairly sure he'd seen disappearing into one of the Members-Only siderooms earlier in the evening. "More than you could afford," was the reply. David must have seen something in Edward's expression as he rapidly amended himself. "I mean, more than I could afford too. I have limited access and some guest privileges; I'm not really a full member as such." "And in return, they get?" Edward prompted. "Payment in kind—look, I really don't want to get into it right now. Come on, you'll upset my stomach." "Sorry." Edward turned his attention back to his shepherd's pie and the cheese-crusted leeks that formed his side dish. If Edward had thought that the meal formed the climax of the evening, he was mistaken. As guests drifted back to their seats around the edge of the room a DJ in a vaguely sinister helmet resembling a neon Mickey Mouse with blank, empty eyes conducted an electronic tidal wave of sound from a podium atop two huge, illuminated glass slabs rising out of the floor. What kind of gentleman's club has guests dancing in full evening dress to house music? Edward wondered, finding himself plucked out of his seat and thrown between a number of young women. The guests danced in graceful loops, spotlights picking out white collars, silver ties and lacy décolletage. As a new song began—upbeat but with a hint of something very dark underneath, like most of the DJ's set thus far—Edward found himself face to face with Maria. He must have looked as out of depth as he felt, for she just beamed at him, took his hand and led him confidently over the floor. "Can you understand any of the lyrics to this?" he shouted. "It makes more sense if you assume the 'Russian unicorn' is heroin." "I generally assume every song is about drugs until proven otherwise." "Oh, now where's that idealism?" They arced over the floor, Maria subtly correcting his occasional stumble. Edward found himself wishing time would—not stop—but loop, right in this moment. Gradually reality reasserted itself and his mind cleared a little. "I should return you to David. I don't want him jealous." "Yes, he does get so protective of his new recruits." "Very funny." She spun away from him elegantly, moving towards David, who had evidently run out of breath and was waiting at their table. Edward waited just a little longer, just standing on the dancefloor, before he followed her. As David made his bows for the evening and led them back out through that shadowy reception area, Edward was almost unsurprised to hear, distinct but unmistakable behind him, that the last song in the set, apparently without any sense of irony, was a remix of 'All The Right Moves', though as the grim-faced porter cautiously let them back through that great front door into the night he noticed that 'we' and 'they' were reversed. ---- Edward had expected to wake up the next morning—well, later the next morning—with a splitting headache. Instead he rose after no more than three hours' sleep with a sense of clarity, feeling energised and enriched for the experience. You have to make an outlay to profit, he thought—perhaps that also applies to time? On the way to work, he noticed that the unannounced roadworks that had blighted traffic in the area all month with their shoddy diversions had disappeared overnight. Now if only the damn rain would clear up, he thought. Nothing seemed to have been done to the roundabout at the centre; in fact, it seemed in worse shape than before, with several pieces of the edging removed and left broken at the centre in a pile of dirt and rubble. Edward resolved, as he had so many times before, to write to the borough council and demand to know what firm the works had been hired out to. He supposed, though, that even if he remembered he would give up after trying to find their complaints form online. He was sure the council hired someone specifically to redesign their website on the fly to remove the information you most needed. The next couple of days, buoyed by his promotion and experience at David's club, Edward was walking on air. Every deal he touched seemed to turn into gold. Even his mistakes seemed to come right in such a fashion that they looked like visionary thinking on his part; Edward had shorted stocks in Quadrant Turbines, an elderly firm that seemed to be going nowhere, when the news came through that it was to receive a one point five billion dollar contract from the US Department of Defense. His team had barely finished commiserating him when Liz sprinted in, flushed and out of breath, begging him to hold his position just a little longer. Half an hour later, it was being widely reported that the contract had fallen through and that Quadrant itself had made a surprise announcement that it was to be placed into administration. As it turned out, the bad news was a false flag—circulated by bloggers most likely in the pay of Lockheed Martin—but the effect was to send Quadrant's shares into a death dive. By the end of the day it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy and Quadrant were seeking bankruptcy. In one month Edward had his first review. The review, to the investment banker, was God—a magic force that examined your life and blessed the worthy. Or perhaps it was like the lottery—one where every player expected to win every time, more each year than the year before. Whilst the firm didn't punish its traders for deals that turned out poorly, provided they were based on solid research, the size of your bonus would depend on the profit you'd generated for the organisation. A growing bonus would indicate to others in the organisation that you were going places and worthy of another rung on the ladder to partnership. A stagnant bonus—or no bonus—would indicate a poor performer, someone to pass over or even push out. Edward already had a solid profit margin, but he didn't want to be 'solid'. He wanted the verdict on that gold slip to read 'exceptional'. By age twenty-five his father already owned his own factory. Edward's calculations said that if he wanted to outdo Bernard Gradley he would need to make partner in the next year. In any other profession and in almost any other city this was almost unthinkable—but this was the City of London. And no firm could fail to advance a trader who outstripped all his peers. So it was that Edward went in search of a magic bullet—a deal that would in one month make him the crown prince of Cooper Drake. He took piles of papers from the Research team home with him and scoured them for something truly special. And after a couple of days he believed he had found it. A burgeoning EU antitrust investigation into Cliffes Aeronautic and Ballistics, premised upon alleged collusion between Cliffes and a couple of other aerospace semiconductor manufacturers to control the European import market. Cliffes' CEO, Martin Jacques, would be called to give testimony on September Fifth—that was when Edward would make his play. A firm's share value typically dipped between one point nine and four point eight percent during an investigation; Edward would buy up thirty-five million in put options on Cliffes Aeronautic Ltd. If its share value dropped by only three percent, Edward stood to make over a million pounds in profit. Normally a trader, seeking to make a huge investment on this scale, would consult senior colleagues, sound it out, and hope to spread blame were something to go wrong. Edward couldn't afford to do that—if the Cliffes deal were to have the effect he wanted he needed to be able to take sole credit for the move. Thirty-five million was well above his own daily transaction limit; fortunately, CD's tech team were slow movers and Peter Davis's account remained on the system, live and accessible by anyone in his team. Between the two accounts Edward drained the market dry before news of the investigation hit. Cliffes released a press release filled with officese—"We look forward to co-operating any way we can with the Commission and reassert our belief in the European project and a free, open market," the sort of stuff that made traders throw up a little in their waste paper baskets before hollering 'sell'. By the time the markets closed Edward was already a good hundred thousand up; he hung on, however, sure that as soon as Jacques took the stand Cliffes' losses would snowball. On the Fifth of September Edward sat silent in front of his computer, hammering the refresh button every few minutes as the investigation continued. It soon became apparent something had gone wrong. The hearing—held in a recently refurbished wing of the Château of Val-Duchesse—ended hours early, and it quickly emerged that Martin Jacques had experienced some kind of nervous breakdown, having an aphasic episode under questioning where he had gibbered nonsensically with no awareness that he was speaking anything other than his native French before collapsing. It had further impacted Cliffes' share price, but with no further information on the alleged collision coming to light, investors were wary about giving up their positions on a high-performing firm. Jacques had been a charismatic front man but his good health, or lack of it, impacted little on Cliffes' value. Looking back, Edward thought later, he should have taken the one hundred and fifty thousand profit and run—it would have been a decent trade, even if he would have had a dressing down for his use of Peter's account. Instead, he clung on a full week, barely closing any other trades, as Cliffes' shares teetered, wobbled, and even revived a little, until Jacques finally recovered enough to face the Commission again at the Berlaymont. It was a disaster. Even before Jacques had opened his mouth, the share price spiked sharply, and continued rising until it had wiped out the profit Edward hoped to make. Edward interpreted it as a simple reaction to Cliffes' CEO looking hale and hearty as he waved to reporters outside the Commission, but later he wondered if documents had been leaked to key investors. Then the hammer-blow. Jacques—now cool, calm and collected, to the extent that it seemed immediately obvious that his previous performance had been a sham to buy time while he collected ammunition, brandished papers documenting electronic communications between Cliffes and the Commission weeks before the announcement of the investigation. Cliffes had signed a contract with the Belarusian government to provide chips for a new generation of cruise missiles; the European Commission had warned Jacques off—even spelling out that they would find some fault with Cliffes Aeronautics' import agreements—but found their bluff called. It was horribly obvious that the investigation could not go ahead; it had become a political embarassment for the Commission and the European Union more widely, with Belarus' Lukashenko weighing in smugly on the hypocrisy of EU protectionists. The market saw it as a triumph for Cliffes—not only was Edward now making a loss, but so unwilling were his partners in New York or Beijing to accept his tainted options that he had to watch Cliffes' share price skyrocket for a full eight hours before he was able to unload them all at a sickening low of twenty-eight million. Instead of making the company a million pounds he had cost it seven million. It was an appalling failure, something the average trader would barely be able to make up in a year. But Edward didn't have a year; he had under a month before he had to sit down with his managers and explain what had possessed him to break company rules to make such a horrendous trade. Within hours, he thought, the little bespectacled men on the floor below them would have noticed the loss and reported it to Raymond MacIntyre. He might not even last until the review unless he pulled something now that wiped out every last penny of the deal. He sat for half an hour, clenching and unclenching his fists, face white as a ghost. He was lost. The feeling clogging his throat was the feeling he had whenever he tried to play chess now; there was some shining path, some route that would save him, but the door was locked. He could no longer roam those mental avenues. As a child he had been a prodigy—he had stalemated his father—Bernard Gradley, a man who would never let another sentient being win a game if you tore his fingernails out—the first time he showed him the game, beaten him the second time. His parents had taken him to clubs and tournaments where elderly men stroked their beards and swore in Polish as he skewered their queens and forked their knights and rooks with a pawn. His success had excited his father, who had a bespoke display cabinet produced by one of his top designers; dark wood with rounded corners and a polished glass front, lit by small, triangular spotlights. The cabinet had collected a steady smattering of trophies as Edward's victories grew, and his mother began to speak in hushed tones of a professional career. It all ended when Edward turned thirteen—his ranking collapsed almost overnight with the onset of puberty and his matches became a litany of defeats, reducing him to tears. Even now he could more or less remember what it had felt like to be able to think that way—looking at dozens of possible outcomes six moves ahead, comparing probabilities then sliding one's own life into the universe where success is guaranteed—but he could no longer access it. Whether it had been banished by hormones, the pressure to succeed or, as his father contended, just incipient laziness, his talent was gone. He had sought that vanished golden aura in everything he did, abandoning it as soon it became clear he was not a genius at it—music, arts, philosophy. Now banking was failing him too. He was hyperventilating, tears prickling his eyes. Fuck you, Bernard Gradley. There was nothing else to do. He got up, knees weak, and walked what seemed like a mile to David's table, where he and his high-powered team threw tens of millions of pounds of government debt backwards and forwards like it was confetti. In Edward's head, everyone was watching, intimately aware of his humiliation. He was trembling—shaking like a leaf, worse than with MacIntyre. "David. David," he said, his voice tiny and adrift. "Edward? What is it? You look like hell. Seriously, calm down, you look like you're going to have a coronary." "I've screwed up. I'm sorry, I've screwed up. I need help." David listened as Edward told him what he could, omitting how his desire to beat his father had led to him taking such a senseless risk. David spent a while in thought then spoke. "Okay. How much liquid capital do you have?" "W-what?" "You haven't registered a ticket for the twenty-eight mill, right? It's still in yours and Peter's accounts?" Of course he hadn't. He'd been too upset. The little men at their terminals wouldn't see anything, because as far as they were concerned the money was still in play. "No. It's still there." "Good. Now, I'm going to do you a huge favour. Maybe sometime down the road you let me in on something big, or we pair up our positions and I get the excess, right?" Edward nodded, mutely, still mortified beyond belief at his own weakness and stupidity. "Cholmondeley Holdings is buying up Hong Kong Electric. The announcement is this afternoon, three pm sharp. HKE has subsidiaries on the mainland; Cholmondeley's gone from having no presence in Asia at all to being the pack leader. I was really hoping to save this one for myself, but with the amount you need back there's no way anyone else can get in on this. You'll need to use Peter's account again. Oh, and you absolutely didn't hear this from me, okay? Seriously. I'll fucking bury you if you say otherwise." Edward was still shaking so hard he had to get one of his team to help with the transfer; they would almost certainly tell MacIntyre, but it no longer mattered. Cholmondeley was considered a busted flush in Beijing and Edward bought everything he could find. At three in the afternoon, just as David said, the venerable utility holding company announced its latest venture, taking over a concession-era Hong Kong utility with holdings throughout Guangzhou. Edward watched, hope welling in his heart, as the face value of their shares rose one percent, two, four, eight... By the close of the markets Cholmondeley was worth a quarter again what it had been and Edward held stocks worth worth well over thirty-five million pounds. He had not only made up his lost ground but converted a loss into a profit of close to a quarter of a million pounds. He cashed out immediately, not waiting to see if they rose further. Fortune had deserted him once today. Now he just needed to explain why he had used a previous colleague's account to gamble with far more money than he was trusted to handle. But there was one thing that needed to be done first. Edward felt very small and fragile as he went over to David and shook his hand. David clapped his arm and looked him in the eye, smiling darkly, as though some great secret had passed between them. "You see, Ed? It all worked out in the end. Don't forget that favour." Somehow the nature of what he had done escaped Edward in the rush of adrenaline, the flight-or-fight response that comes with the loss and subsequent gain of seven million pounds. He woke up that night, screaming, scrabbling at the sheets. You bastard! There was no way David could have found about that deal—it had been agreed in total secrecy to protect Hong Kong Electric's shareholders. He lay, soaked in sweat, mind a black whirlpool. Insider trading. Probably the police were already coming for him. He would walk in tomorrow and MacIntyre would be standing with a squad of New Scotland Yard's finest, and he would point to Edward and say "That's him." They would walk him past David, who would sit there with that smile on his face. "I'll fucking bury you." But what did he have on Edward besides knowledge of the failed Cliffes deal? There was nothing illegal there, just another gamble by a City trader that went wrong. I'll tell them everything, swore Edward panickedly, curling up into a fetal ball. But was it illegal if you didn't act on it yourself? As far as he knew David had made no moves on HKE under his own account. Christ, oh Jesus. Maybe David had done it to get rid of him, feared ending up like Peter... Morning saw Edward still plotting, engaged in his long, dark Mutually Assured Destruction of the soul. The roadworks were back, this time right outside his apartment. The workmen seemed to eye him suspiciously as he drove past and wrote things down in little notebooks. It did not escape him that no-one was even remotely near the roundabout. ---- +++ Chapter Three: "Tender" "You've impressed," said Raymond MacIntyre dryly, fingering through the stack of papers detailing Edward's trading over the past four months. "You've worked hard and added value—both on trades and in terms of new clients. I believe congratulations are in order." "Thank you," said Edward, breathing slowly and carefully. The days after the Cholmondeley deal had been nervewracking, always wondering if something was about to happen. Now, the final moment of truth—the review. Once again he sat in Raymond MacIntyre's office with Will, as lead Partner, sitting in. MacIntyre furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head forward so the light through the expansive glass ceiling lit up his scalp through his gelled hair. "Frankly I thought your stunt with Peter's account was too cute for your own good. We place restrictions on how much associates can throw around for a reason. However, I understand you made several hundred thousand on the deal and we are not in the business of punishing success." "Much appreciated, sir." "Sir, now? Ah, it seems like just yesterday you were calling me a 'wanker'. Just one little query on the Cholmondeley business," Edward's breath caught in his throat again, "it seems an uncharacteristic choice. Your portfolio is overwhelmingly weighted towards aerospace; a utilities company seems a little out of your area of expertise. May I ask what influenced your choice?" "I," Edward began, suddenly aware of David's eyes drilling into the side of his head. "I thought this was an excellent opportunity for me to expand into a new area; I think I'm ready to take on a broader portfolio and hope to continue to diversify my stock picks over the next few months." "Good to hear it," replied MacIntyre—was there a brief sideways glance at David there, a measured appraisal of the situation? "You will receive a bonus of twelve thousand pounds,"—significantly less than Edward had hoped, barely above average in fact, but a miracle given what he thought was inevitable after he screwed the pooch over Cliffes. "You'll be expected to better your performance next year, and the next, and the next; if you continue to perform, you're well on the road to partnership." It was with some surprise that Edward heard himself speaking in an eager, almost aggressive tone. "And if I wanted to make partner this year?" "I'm not sure I follow." "How much would I have to bring in for you to make me a partner straight away, with no consideration of seniority?" Oh Christ, Edward, what are you saying. You've learned nothing, have you? "I think, Raymond, he's asking whether there might be some target he can hit to accelerate the process, as it were," chipped in David. "Hmm—our friend David here brings in three million pounds in profit to the firm every year, not counting clients added. I think, if we were talking theoretically, that any associate able to equal our lead partner would be automatically considered for partnership. I must stress, however, that does not mean that I am looking for you to take risks with the company's money." He looked away and started tapping away on his computer. David nudged Edward, clearly taking it as a sign for them to leave. They had risen from their chairs and were halfway to the door when MacIntyre threw out a final comment. "And I highly suggest not gambling on the outcome of antitrust investigations in future. We had enough of that with Microsoft in '98." When the door closed, David leaned against it heavily, looking at Edward through slitted eyes. "I think we need to talk," Edward said. "Sure." ---- There was a fire escape at one side of the trading floor—the actual alarmed fire door was a couple of floors down, transforming it into a deep well. Due to its lack of lighting and enclosed nature it was useless for a surreptitious cigarette, but it was a place you could go and be assured of privacy—the walls were too thick to overhear anything said in the stairwell and the steps were separated so one could see if someone was standing anywhere above you. "So, Edward, is this about the Cholmondeley trade? Come on, out with it. You've been acting like a spooked deer for days." "Yes. I've been out of my mind, waiting for the knock on my door. Even the Hong Kong Electric CEO didn't know about the takeover—the Board of Directors told him about at the same time Cholmondeley told the press. So how did I know about that, David? How did I know to buy up twenty-eight fucking million pounds worth of shares?" "Relax, and stop being a prat. Think about it. Where have you heard the name Cholmondeley before?" Now David said it, Edward recalled the name had seemed familiar, after a moment scanning his memory, he found it—the old porter at David's gentleman's club had said it. One of the blandly pretty girls who had shared David's Ferrari. "Didn't I tell you? Anything you learn at a party, at a club, while having dinner with the CEO's daughter—it's all legal." "David, I know the law. This is a tender offer. If you know the merger's non-public..." "Who said I knew there was a merger at all? Maybe I just heard that Cholmondeley was going to be making some serious outlay on expansion. Exciting stuff. And voila, it's legal again." "But..." "I didn't see a tape recorder when we spoke on Wednesday. Did you?" "No." "Good. If anyone asks, you were the one who heard Bernice Cholmondeley blabbing about how much CI was going to make and how her daddy was going to buy her a new pony, or something. Now, if you'll excuse me, 30-year UK government bonds don't sell themselves." He left Edward in the dark stairwell, deep in thought. ---- There was no knock on his door. Instead, there was an IRC tab. It had opened in the background while he'd been trading midnight barbs with an advocate of natural theology on a philosophy debate channel. If the concept of God is not omnipotent, Edward was arguing, then it is evil; it is incumbent upon every moral person, if he or she believes God to be less than invincible, to wage war on the founder and author of all evil, pain and death. When he idly flicked to the additional pane, bearing a single private message, he assumed it was a continuation of the debate, or perhaps someone playing a joke; their nick was 'Death'. The content of the message, however, dispelled that thought: > Death: we know about Cholmondeley Edward straightened his spine in his chair, irrationally looked around him as though someone might be watching. The message was ambiguous enough that it //might// not refer to the trade—perhaps a friend of that forgettable woman; Bernice? He typed: > EGradley: ??? > > Death: don't play dumb. you brought twenty-eight million pounds of shares four days ago based on confidential information. > > EGradley: who is this? > > Death changed their nick to Death_4H > > Death_4H: just some concerned citizens. we know who gave you the information. > > EGradley: Bernice Cholmondeley > > Death_4H: not exactly. whether you're protecting your friend or whether he has something on you doesn't matter > > Death_4H: let me spell this out for you. you heard about the HKE takeover from David Went. he was given the information by Marshall, Carter & Dark God damn it, thought David. What exactly had he gotten himself into here? > Death_4H: Bernice Cholmondeley traded the information to MC&D for membership. > > War_4H has joined the channel > > EGradley: and how do you know this? > > War_4H: you'd be surprised at what people write down these days. MC&D's email servers are ironclad. the Cholmondeley's private network—not so much. Edward blinked. That wasn't possible, was it? You couldn't just waltz into a PM thread mid-flow. > EGradley: as far as I'm concerned all my transactions are legitimate. if you have any concerns, David Went is lead partner at Cooper Drake. why don't you talk to him if you have some concerns about my transactions? > > War_4H: we'd rather play with you. here's how this is going to work; you help us or we make an anonymous tip-off to the FSA, and they decide whether the Cholmondeley deal was above board or not. > > War_4H: whether you give us Went or not doesn't matter; we already have emails indicating that MC&D intended to give him the info in exchange for various favours. Shit. Shit. > EGradley: what, exactly, do you think I'm going to help you to do? > > Death_4H: we'll be in touch. > > War_4H has left the channel. > > Death_4H has left the channel. And just like that, they were gone. Edward sat in front of his computer, staring at the impossible conversation. He wondered whether this was David Went himself, or someone close to him, testing Edward to see if he would reveal his own involvement to a third party. But then, why would he contradict his own story and implicate himself in a trade for illegal information? Cautiously, Edward highlighted the whole conversation and saved it in a Word document, then encrypted it, just in case. It was evident, he reflected, that Went was protected somehow by his affiliation with Marshall, Carter & Dark. Otherwise they would have gone after him rather than trying to scare Edward, a marginal player in what increasingly sounded like an illicit black market in insider information. At the same time, it was no longer clear that he could trust David Went, who had involved him in this mess. That left him with just one option. ---- Edward sat in the café, sipping a blisteringly hot black coffee and watching the rain washing down the windows like a giant carafe of lukewarm water was being slowly tipped over the world. It had to stop sometime, didn't it? He had begun to pity the poor workmen, who he had cautiously decided were probably not watching him. Today he'd seen one of them apparently in the grip of a nervous breakdown, ranting and raving like a lunatic and trying to scrabble towards the traffic island in the middle of the interaction while the others held him back. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty, he thought, sagging visibly. He had taken half the day off and increasingly suspected it was going to be fruitless. Actually contacting MC&D had proven a chore in itself—their website was nothing more than a password-protected portal with sealed whois information, and their contact details weren't listed anywhere. One night after work he had gone walking on Newgate Street to see if he could find their London chapterhouse by memory, but quickly found himself lost in the strange maze of roads beyond the hospital; his phone and Google Maps couldn't even agree what street he was on. And of course, Great Rojet Street appeared absolutely nowhere. He had almost given up when he had remembered his guest card, left in the back pocket of his coat. It was folded and looked rather the worse for wear, but on close inspection it had what he was looking for—a phone number, made out almost invisibly in matt black lettering on the glossy black card, on the lower left corner of its reverse side. When he had phoned it, there had been silence for almost twenty seconds—punctuated by the occasional pop of static—before a distant, faint ringing had begun. A short time later a cracked, singsong voice had answered, identifying itself as the Marshall, Carter & Dark switchboard. Edward had impressed himself by demanding a meeting with the head of their London club, refusing to be put off or transferred away. Once he had given the voice his name and sent it to get approval from a manager, it had been replaced by a smooth, lower-register male voice that made no mention of Cholmondeley, David, or even the club itself, but quickly arranged a meeting for eleven o'clock the following morning at an upscale eatery. Edward was sure he hadn't imagined the looks the staff gave when he mentioned he was waiting for a business associate; he guessed this was a locale used by MC&D for sensitive meetings where they didn't trust them enough to admit them to the clubhouse. Just as Edward was about to call it a day and leave, the door chimed and a man walked in. He wasn't carrying an umbrella but was visibly bone dry, not a hair out of place. Impressive, thought Edward, though I can think of about five ways he could have pulled that one off. However he had made it from his vehicle—almost certainly the black Rolls Royce with gold trim parked outside—there was no doubt that the stunt had been intended for his benefit and that this was his contact. The man was tall—about Edward's height—and handsome in a high-maintenance, polished way. He could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with blue eyes and a wave of fine blond hair. He sat, drawing back his lips to reveal perfect white dentition. 'Smile' was probably the wrong word for it. "Mr Gradley. So good to meet you." They shook hands; the man had somehow contrived to signal for a tall latte, which was placed down quickly and efficiently by a wide-eyed young waitress who immediately backed away and all but ran into the back of the café, followed by the older brunette. "And you are?" "Just call me Jeremy. Now, I understand you have an interest in our little establishment." "Yes. I've seen what you've done for David—David Went—and I'd like the same deal." "I see. And do you understand the terms?" Jeremy listed his cup and sipped expectantly. "I think so. I receive conditional membership—entitling me to, ah, help and support from your association, and in return I pass on information and make financial opportunities available to Marshall, Carter & Dark." Jeremy chuckled, shook his head and emptied a packet of Splenda into his latte. "It's a bit more formal than that, I'm afraid. Mr Went's membership comes with his place in our Acquisitions team. You see, we at MC&D offer our members the most expensive and exclusive experiences and articles anywhere in the world. You've seen our catalogue?" Edward nodded. "Well, for those who would ordinarily be unable to afford our membership we offer a limited package that permits access to our private events and the benefit of, well, //bespoke consultation// with MC&D experts on matters which could further their career. Oh, and complete immunity should they act on, or help others act on, the advice they have received. In return, they help us acquire special objects and people of interest to our established members. If they continue to get results, then they can expect a corresponding increase in the level of advice they receive until—who knows? They may be able to purchase full membership. And then they'll be the ones requesting rare and beautiful things from across the world." Edward thought this all sounded very familiar. "I see. And if I wanted to join this Acquisitions group?" "Then you would need to undergo a formal //orientation//. If the opportunities I have discussed are of interest, please call through to our switchboard and have one of our cars bring you to our chapterhouse this evening. Orientations begin at ten sharp." And with that the meeting seemed to be over. Jeremy left still holding his drink, elegantly dipping into the door of the Rolls-Royce held open for him by a stocky man with short salt-and-pepper hair who didn't seem to enjoy the same protection from the elements. Edward swirled his coffee and smiled at the staff as they ventured back out. "Bit of a dragon, is he?" he asked cheerily. No-one responded. ---- The orientation was a surreal experience. One of the black Rolls stopped outside Edward's apartment, the contrast with his Astra finally persuading him that he would have to visit a dealership soon and spend some of his bonus. The driver, a skinny, young man with bright red hair and a long, lipless sneer, drove him in silence through the soft-lit streets that had somehow avoided Google Street View's vans, finally stopping outside the sightless facade of the clubhouse. Once inside a heavy, silken cloth was tied over his eyes and led through several rooms until he reached a cold, echoing space where he felt the presence of many other people waiting, probably similarly blinded. Then he heard a voice—it sounded somewhat like Jeremy, though the acoustics meant he couldn't be certain. This is what it said: "Welcome to Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations. "A short summary of our organisation is in order. We are a gentleman's concern, providing our members with the most exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and retrieving items for us so we may better provide said experiences. Those of you here today, sitting blindfolded in the audience, are to be our finders, our //retrievers//. "Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with objects or information that we are interested in—we expect full loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance will be punished. "As you will work on a case by case basis, I will be very broad. Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon your personal areas of expertise. You are not allowed to turn down an Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to the resources of our organisation, depending on the case. Abuse of these resources will be punished. "You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due haste, whilst keeping up any required appearances. Under no circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, Carter & Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter & Dark with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter & Dark will be punished. "This concludes your orientation. Please face to your right and take short, measured steps. You will be guided to a room where you will be allowed to remove your blindfold. Some of you will receive your first Acquisition case; upon completion you will receive limited membership and a reward to be arranged with your contact. Thank you for your time." ---- As Edward walked carefully towards the door he was struck by the fact that the other footsteps were only echoes of his own; in fact, the more he allowed himself to reflect on it the more certain he was that he was, apart from MC&D's employees, alone in the chapterhouse, and that the whole initiation ceremony with its cultic trappings had been arranged specifically for his benefit. After walking a good hundred paces he heard a door close behind him and hands lowered him into a rich leather chair. The blindfold was removed—as he had expected, Jeremy sat across from him on the other side of a dark wooden desk lit by an elegant angle lamp, surrounded by densely packed shelves of aged-looking books. "Edward! Glad to see you made it. Welcome aboard." He was toying with a gold-banded fountain pen. "So, I imagine you'll be presenting me with a task right away." To prove my loyalty, he thought. He strongly suspected no-one walked out of the chapterhouse without a favour to complete. "That's correct. There's a document we want you to acquire; nothing illegal, just a little straightforward persuasion. Some charm, Mr Gradley. Ten thousand pounds will be wired to your personal account to make the purchase—you will be expected to return any money left over. The current owner of the document does not know its real value and the amount we have provided should be more than adequate to persuade her to make the sale." "Would I know the owner?" "You were selected for this acquisition exactly because you have made her acquaintance; she is an infrequent guest of the Lady Penelope. The daughter of Christophe Beaumont—Maria Beaumont." Edward fell silent for a second. He was effectively being asked to scam the woman. Not only that, but his instincts had told him of the existence of a relationship between her and David Went; she had not confirmed his suspicions but it was enough to make him wary of the errand. After a few moments he made up his mind. "This document—what am I looking for? I imagine Miss Beaumont will have lots of valuable papers in her possession." "A very astute question. You are looking for a manuscript authored by Gervase of Langford, a fourteenth century writer thought for a long time to be apocryphal. He is supposed to be a contemporary of Chaucer—a long-lost pioneer of English literature. Excerpts from the manuscript in question, //A Viage to the Contree of the Cimmerians//, were touted around in the late Victorian era as prophetic literature, but scholars widely considered the book a 'ghost', a phantom invented by later authors or perhaps an embellishment of a more well-known document. Shakespeare's "Cardenio" is another so-called ghost. Except of course, the //Viage// has been found; traced, at considerable expense, by our Documents team." He slid a slim briefing document over the table—noticeably absent, Edward noticed, was any trace of the MC&D cartouche. "In the possession of the Beaumont estate." "Yes; the original manuscript is recorded as having been sold for four guineas to a French businessman called Guiger in the sixteenth century. There the trail ended, until we discovered a reference to a 'Voyage au Pays des Cimmériens' having been acquired by the library of Jean-Paul Beaumont in 1897." "What would it look like?" "Obviously we can't say for sure—we believe, however, that it will be a codex." "A codex?" "Much like the tomes surrounding me—a book. Most likely bound in metal, given the documentation. We believe it was transported from France in the 1980s with the rest of Christophe Beaumont's collection. It should be in the library of the Beaumont residence, which should not be hard for you to locate." "And if it isn't?" "Then our working relationship will be a brief one. Now, there are several non-disclosure agreements to sign, prohibiting you from discussing the involvement of Marshall, Carter & Dark during the transaction or thereafter..." ---- The Beaumont residence, located in Belgravia, was a six-storey terraced property; white stucco with fluted columns supporting an expansive porch supporting a balcony filled with a tasteful assortment of topiary. Edward all but hurdled the distance from his car to the doorway but still somehow managed to get drenched from head to toe. He rung the bell and stood shivering in his probably ruined suit until Maria opened it, summery in a floral blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat. "Oh look at you; you're soaked to the skin. Come in, come in." Edward wasn't even sure if she recognised him from the clubhouse. She laid down newspaper for Edward to tread on and took his coat, which she spread over the radiator. "You should come through to the solarium. I'm just doing some gardening." After removing his shoes Edward followed her through the elegant interior, furnished in the Louis XVI style and lit with high, diffuse lights that offset the cream walls. She led him up a short flight of stairs and into a wide circular courtyard surrounding a neatly maintained flower bed. The light here was a warm orange and they seemed to have suddenly entered evening in late summer. Edward looked up and saw the rain beating against a tinted glass dome. Maria knelt down on a small cushion and began bedding a number of small pink flowering plants from a tray. "You have a lovely home," he said. "Thank you, but it's not mine. It belongs to my father—but he spends most of his time in France, on business." "Oh." He watched her gardening for a few minutes. "I thought you might have been coming by to give me flowers," she said. "I don't like that. David always brings me flowers and I watch them die. Being uprooted like that; it's too cruel." Edward wondered if she was thinking of her own childhood, brought to Britain at the age of seven if the research he'd done last night on the family was correct. "Actually," he said, "I was hoping to ask you a favour. There was a certain book I was looking for and can't seem to find anywhere. Someone told me that the Beaumont library might have a copy." "Oh dear. You can certainly come and look, but I don't think I can be of help to you. Come with me." Again Edward found himself trailing behind Maria as she navigated flights of stairs and led him through various impossibly lavish drawing-rooms. Finally she came to a stairwell that led sharply upwards to a trapdoor. "When my father came from France he had the whole collection put in crates and shipped over; but he never had the time to recatalog it." She opened the trapdoor and they rose into a high-vaulted loft space, the floor littered with dozens upon dozens of great boxes, every surface covered in a thick layer of dust and fibreglass fluff. Edward looked on in despair. "So you see, if the book you were looking for is part of my family's library it is somewhere in there." She shook her head. "I'm so sorry." Edward looked at her—the light from the trapdoor lit up her arms and legs and made her seem something ethereal, less than solid. He had already decided what he was going to say. "I'll help you. I'll get it all organised, put them up on shelves." Maria's expression was hard to read in the shadow of the attic. "Won't your bosses mind?" "I'll do it out of office hours. That is, if you're happy?" "Yes, yes! But you mustn't do it for free. I'll phone my father and ask him to pay you for it. There's a room on the second floor he always meant to be the library—there are some mementos on the shelves I will need to clear." ---- And that was how the weeks played out—Edward would play the stock market during the day and spend the evenings and weekends at the Beaumont residence, hauling boxes down from the attic and cataloging their contents. First-edition Proust, an autographed copy of Les Misérables, the complete works of François-Thomas-Marie de Baculard d'Arnaud. Several times Edward found himself sitting and reading through volumes of Comte and Montesquieu in their original French, before chiding himself for wasting time. No date had been set by Jeremy for the acquisition of the //Viage//, but he imagined this delay could not have been appreciated. The little library soon filled up and Maria annexed the parlour next door, bringing in new shelving during the day. Edward opened box after box of tomes packed in yellowed styrofoam, but there was no metal-bound medieval manuscript. Maria would walk in from time to time, bringing him sweet tea in little china cups and wafer-thin biscuits. "Edward, you will not be able to come around tomorrow evening," she told him once. "Oh. Why?" "Well, David is coming over, and you were right. He can be a little jealous. You have been so good in doing this—I do not want him to get the wrong idea." She held his cheek with her hand for a moment and suddenly flushed before turning away. ---- One rainy Saturday—there was no sun anymore, it seemed, at least outside office hours—a bone-tired Edward levered off the top of the latest crate, a damp, miserable thing he had found lurking near the edge of the attic. The books at the top were ruined; little more than dried pulp between the covers. Seventeenth century Molière, now mush. Below the ruined books there seemed to be only emptiness; an expanse of styrofoam peanuts all the way to the bottom of the box. Or was it the bottom? The cool, unyielding surface he had encountered didn't seem far enough down. Scrabbling around he found one corner, then another, and lifted the object out of the packing crate. It was more a box than a binding—a plain, almost crude iron cuboid with a hefty haft. On it the word 'Gervais'—presumably the French spelling—had been not engraved but //scratched// into the metal. He held his breath as he undid the clasp. Had it been reduced to mulch like the others? The pages were yellowed, brittle, cracked at the edges; but intact. The title page took his breath away—still-vivid reds and greens spiralling together in an ornate 'A' that began the title: 'A Viage to the Contree of the Cimmerians'. He closed the box, and took a deep breath. Now the hard part. ---- "To buy? Oh, no, I'm sorry, Edward. That book is part of my family estate—they all are. I could not sell them, not for any amount of money." "Perhaps your father..." "My father entrusted the house and everything to me—do you see? I cannot sell you the book." "But ... they were in packing crates for years. Your father probably doesn't even know it's in here, surely there's no harm in letting it go?" he said, a little roughly. Then, softening his tone, "It would mean a lot to me." "Edward! Please, listen to me. You are a dear man and I hope a dear friend. I do not like to say no to you. Please do not let some old silly book come between us." Edward collapsed into a chair and gazed into the middle distance. Maria, unwilling to let Edward see her cry, turned away. Edward left shortly afterwards, books and packing material still strewn around the floor like the wreckage from some terrible explosion. ---- Maria called several times over the next few days, each time on his home phone during office hours, hanging up when it went to answerphone. He couldn't bring himself to call her back. Unable to decide what to do next in the Beaumont acquisition, Edward simply let it rest for the moment, the ten thousand pounds resting accusingly in his personal current account. He would have been content to leave it there forever before something happened to make him act. This time it didn't come from apocalyptically-named IRC personalities, shady gentleman's clubs or even David Went. It began with an innocuous phonecall from Wil Hamilton, his one-time best friend back at Redmayne–Bracknell. "We should meet up for a drink sometime," suggested Edward, reflecting that since joining Cooper Drake he had all but given up friends. His occasional outings with David Went were the closest he came to sharing time with friends these days, especially since he had stopped going to Maria's house. "Sure. So how are things as a master of the universe?" "Tiring." "You don't say. Keeping your eyes on the prize, right?" "When I can. How is HR treating you?" "It's my busy season too. So many companies are closing we're getting deluged with applications. You know how it goes—all the handwritten letters, in the bin. All the 'To whom it may concerns'—in the bin. Pile A is the first-class degrees from Oxbridge, pile B is the first-class degrees from other unis. The rest go in the bin. All the off-white paper; in the bin. All the ones on company letterhead; in the bin. Interview the first ten from the top of each pile and chuck the ones who start the interview with 'um'. If you're left with one candidate from pile A and another from B, chuck the B-lister." "Heh," Edward thought: you're missing out a trick there, mate. I know for a fact you look at the surnames and chuck the ones that don't sound like they attended Eton in the 1950s. "Here's something you could probably use—you know Western Instruments?" Edward vaguely remembered it as a dinosaur of a New England firm that made graphic calculators and replied in the affirmative. "Well, they're jumping ship in their dozens. I'd say about one in every five applications we're getting over in Accounts are from them." "Why?" "Well, nothing's been announced yet, but it's common knowledge at the firm. They're only getting jumped by the Slasher." Bashir "Slasher" Khan (he wouldn't have got into Redmayne–Bracknell under Wil Hamilton's watch, sad to say) was an aggressive young tycoon who had made millions buying up dying British and American companies, ruthlessly cutting them to the bare bones and selling them on to multinationals. He was the master of the hostile takeover, appealing directly to shareholders and bypassing management altogether. After firing half the workforce and paring back output to its most profitable components a company 'slashed' by Bashir Khan could be worth as much as fifteen percent more. "Really? I'll look into it. Thanks for the tip." They concluded their discussion with some light ribbing and a promise to get together some time, maybe pulling in friends who had left for different firms. Then Edward started researching Western Instruments and Bashir Khan. It all seemed to check out—Khan hadn't made an acquisition for months and was surely looking to expand again. Western Instruments was a sad, bloated carcass of what it used to be, still insisting that people needed single-purpose computing equipment at the price of a smart phone. A trickle of orders from the schools were the only thing keeping them in business. This time Edward ran the deal past everyone—Liz, David, even popping in to let Raymond know. Everything came together—Liz reported confidently that voluntary redundancies in Western Instruments were sky-high. David confirmed something big was in the works from Slasher Khan. Edward was authorised to buy up eighteen million in shares in Western Instruments. "What, that old thing?" asked his American contact in disbelief. "They're dead, son—you might as well invest in abacuses." But Edward pressed ahead, confident that as soon as the Slasher made his move he would be holding gold dust. A week passed. Two weeks. Then the news—Edward's heart leapt as he saw the headline 'Slasher strikes again!'. It might have been a grisly murder—which in some ways it was—except it was in the Finance section. > Bashir 'The Slasher' Khan has struck again, announcing a hostile takeover of Global Merchandise Limited, the international PR firm, which had been languishing for years following the collapse of the dot-com bubble... Edward couldn't believe it. Surely there had to be some mistake, something misreported. He scanned the news for any mention of Western Instruments. And there it was. > Western Instruments today announced losses of twenty million in its second quarter in a major blow to the ailing scientific calculator manufacturer. He had been set up. Instead of gold dust he'd been left with fool's gold. In under an hour the face value of his stocks dipped by eight percent. While desperately trying to find a buyer, any buyer, he dialled Wil's number. "Hi there Edward." He sounded horribly, nauseatingly chipper. "Hello Wil. Is there something you want to tell me now?" He couldn't prevent the note of panic from entering his voice. "You know, Edward, some companies have institutional memory. Not Cooper Drake, of course, but //proper// companies. Companies with history and character. You fucked us over, Edward. Did you think we'd just forget?" Edward was speechless as Wil continued. "RB gave you your break, forgave you all those months you farted around twiddling your thumbs like the spoilt brat you are." "I thought we were friends," Edward said. I wonder if Peter finally realised, he thought—put Wil up to this. There's a justice in it, I guess. "I thought we were," said Wil. "That was before you screwed with Redmayne–Bracknell." Edward's mouth went tight. "Then screw you, you piece of shit. You're a bloody racist, as well, you know that? You run your fucking HR department like the Klu Klux Klan. Go to hell." He put the phone down. One more bridge well and truly burned, he thought. In some ways this was worse than what had happened over Cliffes—though the trade had been above board, signed and sealed by Cooper Drake's management, it had been based on lies, lies predicated on a personal vendetta against him. Lies he had believed and presented as fact. Even MacIntyre wouldn't fire me for this, he thought mutely. He'll just move me quietly to a back room and make sure every other investment bank firm in the world knows I can't handle the trading floor. And now, only now, did the sick lump form in his stomach, as he saw his only option to make good. ---- The first time he had gone to the Beaumont residence he had forgotten his umbrella. This time it was with him, but he left it on his passenger seat. He walked through the rain to the porch and rung the bell. Just like the first time. Put things back to how they were. Another visit to Mr Stathopoulos would be in order, of course. Maria came to the door in a thick, fluffy dressing gown, hair tightly wrapped in a towel. She looked at him and a suggestion of tears began to form again in her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "You poor man! You poor man!" she said, grabbing him and bringing him inside, where she rested his head on her shoulder and allowed the water from his suit to soak into her robe. He didn't allow her to take his bag but placed it on the newspaper she brought out. "Maria," he said, "I came—that is to say I stopped by—I felt bad for leaving the library in such a state—and even if you didn't want—I wanted to finish it—and I was so out of line—and—" Edward was unable to tell if his own breathless incoherence was an attempt to win sympathy or not. She took him by the hand and led him back to the library. To his amazement the books and styrofoam remained where he had left them; scattered on the floor. "Nothing has changed, you know? I was just waiting for you to come back. I was worried." He leaned closer to her, kissed her hair. She took his still damp collar with both hands and guided his face to hers, kissed his mouth, hard. You bastard, he wanted to shout at himself, you fucking bastard. He was crying now, and she took a tissue and wiped his eyes. "Please," she said, her smile illuminated in that little plaster room, "don't cry. I'll bring tea and biscuits." After she left, he watched his body move over to the bookshelf where the Gervase codex sat, taller and wider than the books around it and 'Gervais' scratched on its spine. He watched himself take the iron box off the shelf and swap it for the shoddy replica he had pieced together from the remains of an old washing-machine, smoothly transferring the manuscript to his bag. And that was all there was to it. He swept up the packing chips and picked up where he left off. A few minutes later Maria brought warm, sweet tea, and he drank it like a man dying of thirst. ---- [[=]] << Act I - "Jellybeans" \| [[[acquisitions-hub\|HUB]]] \| [[[acquisitions2\|Act II - "You are invited"]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-09-01T19:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "corporate", "crime-fiction", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act I - SCP Foundation	147	[ "acquisitions1#toc0", "acquisitions1#toc1", "acquisitions1#toc2", "acquisitions-hub", "acquisitions2", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "acquisitions-hub" ]	[]	14189212	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/acquisitions1
acquisitions2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <table style="margin:0; padding:0"> <tr> <td style="margin:0; padding:0"> <div id="toc"> <div id="toc-action-bar"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.foldToc(event)">Fold</a><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.unfoldToc(event)" style="display: none">Unfold</a></div> <div class="title">Table of Contents</div> <div id="toc-list"> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc0">Chapter Four: "You Are Invited"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc1">Chapter Five: "There's Five"</a></div> </div> </div> </td> </tr> </table> <h3 id="toc0"><span>Chapter Four: "You Are Invited"</span></h3> <p>"I must say," Jeremy said happily, "I was beginning to think you had taken our money and run. I mean, investment bankers." He chortled as he caressed the codex with long fingers, feeling the texture of the illustrated letters. "But I shouldn't have doubted. This is quite incredible."</p> <p>They sat in a long tearoom at the clubhouse—this time Edward had been allowed the privilege of walking through without a blindfold. Thus far he had seen at least two of the Dragon's Den judges, a pop star and a member of the royal family. There was a tray of jam scones with clotted cream on the table—Edward had not dared take one. Jeremy, on the other hand, showed no such compunction; Edward winced at every crumb that fell onto the fourteenth century document.</p> <p>"And what's this?" Jeremy's voice changed to one of genuine surprise as Edward held out a traveller's cheque for ten thousand pounds. He held it up, chuckling.</p> <p>"You certainly give good value for money. I am impressed. How did you … no, don't tell me. However you did it, I have to admire your ruthlessness. I think it's time you got to know us a little more closely." Leaning back languorously he pulled on a white silk cord which engaged an intercom.</p> <p>"Please tell Mister Carter that we're ready for him."</p> <p>A few moments later the doors opened and an attractive young nurse entered, preceded by a shrivelled figure in a wheelchair. If he had to guess, Edward would have put Mr Carter's age at a hundred and ten or more—alarmingly frail, folds of liver-spotted skin rippling inwards towards a collapsed, toothless mouth. The ears and downturned nose seemed overlarge on him, in the way they often appeared on the extremely elderly. Edward had read somewhere that cartilage continued to grow throughout one's life. A thin ruff of white hair surrounded the lower back of his head, with the occasional straggling hair clinging to his pate. The eyebrows in contrast were thick and bushy, and the eyes underneath still alive and twinkling with a sharp, predatory brightness that belied his outward decrepitude. His hands fluttered from his lap and shook as the young nurse poured him a drink.</p> <p>"So! Mr Marshall. What <em>do</em> we have here? That—bright young man you were talking about?" When he spoke it was in short, anoxic gasps. Nasal tubes connected Mr Carter to a bulky apparatus mounted on the back of his chair, discreetly covered by a deep blue throw with silver threadwork; some sort of iron lung, Edward supposed. He found it vaguely disquieting to look at—it wheezed with him, rising and falling in a disturbingly organic way, as though there were some horrific tumour or Siamese twin under the cloth, growing out of the back of the aged man.</p> <p>"Mr Gradley," prompted Jeremy, smoothing his tie. Or rather, Edward realised, Mr Jeremy Marshall. He found it incongruous that the two could have undertaken any enterprise together given their difference in ages. Mr Carter might well be old enough to have founded a prestigious gentleman's club, but Marshall? Most likely, the named partnership had been transferred dynastically; Jeremy's father had clearly had no compunctions in giving his son the keys to the kingdom.</p> <p>"Gradley! A good—<em>Yorkshire</em> name," wheezed Carter affably. "But the build doesn't match. Actually -" he struggled for the spectacles hanging around his neck with the hand and the nurse retrieved them for him—"yes, the face is all wrong. I consider myself an expert in—anthropometrics. I can see that you're—baltoid, gracile, brachy—excuse me—cephaly—I'm going to guess Baltic or perhaps—West Slavic." He scanned Edward's face for a reaction. "Am I close?"</p> <p>"My mother was Polish," said Edward, feeling a sudden twang of revulsion towards him.</p> <p>"I knew it! Still sharp, eh, Mr Marshall?" The blond nodded, almost affectionately. "Ah, yes, Bernard Gradley. I remember him well. Thought he was much too good for us in the end, as I recall, and after all the help we gave him. Mail order bride, was it?" He chuckled for a second before collapsing in a coughing fit. Edward sat silently, reasoning that contradicting the ghastly old man was unlikely to yield results. Another thing you never told me, father, he thought.</p> <p>"Mr Gradley has completed his first Acquisition for us. The Codex, if you recall." Jeremy Marshall reached into his drawer and withdrew something wrapped in a rich velvet cloth.</p> <p>"Ah—at last! I've been waiting to get my hands on it for some time. Try not to lose <em>that</em> one to You Know Who; at least until you've perused every last delightful inch. It seems like only yesterday they sent the poor fellow back…"</p> <p>"Indeed. Perhaps the status of our mutual friend might be reconsidered after being so thoroughly beaten to the prize by Mr Gradley here—even after we fulfilled his perverse little Cinderella fantasies."</p> <p>"Ye-e-es, the problem being that at midnight he turns into a pumpkin!" Carter chuckled.</p> <p>Marshall, seeing Edward's bewildered expression, interjected to return the conversation to something approximating sanity.</p> <p>"Accordingly I felt it time for us to present Mr Gradley with provisional membership—and to discuss his reward, if he feels this an appropriate time. Would you care to do the honours, Mr Carter?"</p> <p>Carter put his wine down and took the cloth in hands which suddenly seemed a lot surer than they had a few minutes ago. He leaned in, eyes lit by an unholy light, putting it in Edward's hands.</p> <p>"This is knowledge. This is power. Take a look."</p> <p>Unwrapping the soft fabric his fingers encountered a cold, transparent sheet about six inches by three. Perspex? No, glass, he realised, turning it over in his hands. In one corner, the MC&D cartouche, in another, a contact number. In the centre, in almost unreadably tiny gold lettering, the words 'Edward Gradley, Acquisitions'. The reverse side showed what at first glance appeared to be a circuit diagram but which on closer examination was a tiny map of the City of London engraved into the glass, with several clubhouses marked.</p> <p>"Take good care of it, my boy," wheezed Carter. "Keep it safe. You only get the one!"</p> <p>"Thank you," said Edward, coolly. "Now, as to my reward…"</p> <hr/> <p>Edward knew that Marshall, Carter & Dark had held up their end of the bargain when he walked onto the trading floor the next morning. Went, MacIntyre and a couple of the other early risers had made it in ahead of him and had populated his table with little pots of bombay mix and bottles of champagne.</p> <p>"I think congratulations are in order," MacIntyre hailed him.</p> <p>"Oh?" said Edward.</p> <p>"We were getting a bit worried about your Western Instruments speculation. But you came through in the end, even if it wasn't quite the way we thought. Cheers!" David popped a cork and filled glasses for the early brigade. Edward casually walked over to one of the touchscreens and saw the headlines.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Western Instruments to be acquired by 'Mad Hacker' Reginald Price</strong></p> <p>In a shock announcement, troubled scientific calculator manufacturer Western Instruments has become the subject of a hostile takeover by American cost-cutter Reg Price. Nicknamed 'The Mad Hacker' due to his efforts to restore profitability to failing firms by making steep efficiency savings, Mr Price will be looking to reverse the fortunes of the ailing giant…</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward trotted back to the table with the others and accepted a glass of champagne. He raised his glass and smiled at Liz, who didn't smile back, instead looking away with a troubled expression. Now what have I done, he wondered.</p> <p>That morning Western Instruments' shares rose by thirteen percent; Edward cashed out at midday, making a profit of £540,000. Edward couldn't comprehend the magnitude of what MC&D must have on Reginald Price to be able to compel him to launch a hostile buyout worth hundreds of millions in the space of a few hours, but right now he wasn't complaining. And, he thought, feeling the heft of the folder Jeremy Marshall had presented him, this was only the beginning.</p> <hr/> <p>"Edward, thank you. Come in."</p> <p>Edward closed the door of Raymond MacIntyre's office. MacIntyre, David, Liz and a couple of other partners sat around a table. Edward felt a frisson of anticipation but also apprehension. Their faces were neutral.</p> <p>He sat down at the table, taking in the documentation in front of each member. He had received a simple message by email, asking him to attend a meeting that afternoon, and to leave the rest of the day free. Edward had felt confident that it had been good news—recognition of every perfect, unbelievable deal he had made since his meeting with Jeremy Marshall. But as the morning had gone on, little things had made him feel more and more uneasy—the way Liz couldn't meet his eyes, the way David kept pacing back and forth between the desks, on several occasions walking halfway to Edward's team before changing his mind and walking back. The junior associates under him had picked up on the atmosphere and begun ribbing him about a coming inquisition.</p> <p>"He's done it now! You've made 'em so much cash they want to know how you're smuggling that much coke into the country!"</p> <p>Now he sat on the opposite end of the table to Raymond MacIntyre and he still couldn't determine whether he was about to be promoted or roasted over a slow fire.</p> <p>"Edward," said Raymond MacIntyre slowly, "I don't think there's any doubt that your trades have been—sensational. From Cholmondeley Holdings through to Abacus Productions, you've made the company three point one million pounds in profit over the last six months. I'm a man of my word, and I haven't forgotten what I said when you asked how much you would have to pull in before we bent the rules for you and gave you a fast-track partnership." Edward began to pull himself up in his chair, eyes bright. "But Cooper Drake is an ethical firm, and before we can think about admitting a new partner, we need to clear up a few things. Ensure everything has been -" MacIntyre loosened his cotton collar slightly, visibly perspiring, "on the level."</p> <p>Edward immediately modulated his body language—concerned, understanding.</p> <p>"Take this trade, for example, on the Sixth of November. A ten million pound short sale transaction against ACTLE. It was taken out twelve hours before the Argentinian government announced the nationalisation of Wincanton Oil, a wholly owned subsidiary of ACTLE. I have spoken to the heads of both ACTLE and Wincanton, and this was news to them until the Minister of Industry made her announcement. Now, there's nothing wrong with scooping a firm on a political sea change that could affect them. If that's what you did, congratulations."</p> <p>"I -" Edward began to speak, unsure of what he was going to say, but Raymond rode straight over him.</p> <p>"Then there's this business over Carmichael & Sons. This is especially concerning to me because of the involvement of Gerald Spointer, a man whom I believe you may know. Someone—and it has not been established with certainty that it was Mr Spointer's company that originated these rumours, so to avoid prejudicing the partners I shall not mention the name of this company—leaked false information to the press about alleged corner-cutting and use of cheap materials in C&S's latest furniture range. Now, you sold and persuaded other members of your team to sell a total of twenty-five million pounds worth of shares in Carmichael & Sons, half an hour before the leak went to press. Just prior to this meeting Carmichael & Sons' share price has recovered somewhat but it is still significantly reduced, most likely as a result of your trades. The Director of that organisation is understandably upset that large sales were made based on false information and I still have to get back to him to justify why—or even how—that decision was made. There are two ways I can get back to him; firstly, that the trade was made by our latest partner based on immaculate planning and assessment of C&S's long-term prospects and the connection to the dirty tricks campaign was coincidental. Or, I could tell him that the shares were sold at the insistence of a trader with a personal family connection to his competitor, and that the trader has since been disciplined for ethics violations." Edward felt a thin film of perspiration forming. He hadn't even made the connection between the rumours about Carmichael & Sons and Gradley Industries. He wondered if Marshall had found pleasure in linking him back to his father's firm.</p> <p>"You see Edward, what concerns me most about all these wonderful trades is that for the last few weeks there has been almost no activity at all on your research pass. When a trade which could be construed as potentially based on insider information goes through, we like to look at our traders' research logs and see plenty of data that shows they've been looking up that organisation's past trends, scouring industry gossip, etc. I called this meeting because we haven't found anything like that. To get your side of the picture. If you can justify your trades, Edward, then a partnership is open to you. Right now. If not, we need to think about what we do next."</p> <p>Edward's mouth was dry, ashy. He scanned the faces at the table. Of course there was no activity; every single trade had come straight out of Jeremy Marshall's big bent playbook. Why the hell hadn't he thought to cover his tracks? Had he thought Cooper Drake was stupid?! He had one tenuous lifeline.</p> <p>"Liz," he croaked. He didn't want to say anything more.</p> <p>Liz was studiously gazing down at the table, face bright red. "Sorry Edward, 'fraid I can't play along on this one. We've been rating Carmichael & Sons a strong buy for months. And we had no clue on Wincanton." Her voice had a bitter edge to it. "You seem to have some insight we don't. Sorry for lagging so far behind you." She seemed to shrink under Edward's vaporising gaze.</p> <p>Raymond was sighing now, putting aside his paper and reaching for a set of other forms. Gardening leave, Edward thought mutely. They'd pull apart every email he'd ever made, ransack his phone records. When they found out that Western Instruments had apparently been a hot tip from Edward's old firm, he'd be finished. The whole world buzzed around him, and it was a second before he realised that David had weighed in.</p> <p>"No, Edward's getting mixed up. There won't be anything on his research log because he lost his access card in a taxi. He couldn't afford to report it at the time so I've been lending him mine. Sorry, it's a breach of protocol, I know."</p> <p>Edward was left speechless, as much because it seemed like a suicidal gesture as anything. What would that do? They'd just look up David's records and find the same absence of evidence.</p> <p>MacIntyre turned; something weary in his voice. "I see. As you say, that's a breach of our policy, David, I'm surprised at you." David nodded, almost smiling now. "So you're saying that if we looked at <em>your</em> log we'd find excellent, bookmarked documentation showing that young Mr Gradley here has exhaustively researched Argentinian domestic economic policy and the furniture wars in the north of England?"</p> <p>David nodded. "Amongst quite a lot of other stuff. You see, I have to confess that Edward wasn't the only person I was loaning my card to. These things are just so flimsy—and they slide right out of your pocket when you're sitting down. Half my team have been using it, and Michelle, and Paul." He glared meaningfully at two of the other partners, who immediately started nodding their heads. "That's a hell of a lot of data to sort through, Raymond. Besides, as lead partner, to go through my research logs would mean a formal investigation into both Edward and myself. Are we sure that's justifiable?"</p> <p>Edward sat, gobsmacked by David Went's audacity. He had effectively dared MacIntyre to sack his two most valuable traders, and he could see from Raymond's increasingly washed-out face that he was in no mind to call David's bluff.</p> <p>"As you say, David, I don't think that's warranted. I'm happy to have received justification for these trades, and will now move to call a formal meeting of the board to admit Mr Gradley as a partner. Edward and anyone else who has"—he coughed—"<em>lost</em> their research passes is to purchase a new one immediately, and I expect to see all future trades documented on the right accounts to avoid embarassing situations like this in future."</p> <p>MacIntyre walked over to Edward, whispering something in David's ear along the way, and shook his hand.</p> <p>"You almost self-destructed there," he said quietly. "I think you owe Mr Went a big favour."</p> <p>"'Almost' never needs apologies," said Edward evenly.</p> <p>"Damn right. Well done, Mr Gradley," MacIntyre said in a louder voice, clapping him on the back before opening the door.</p> <p>Everyone filed out, Edward's team making distant football-celebratory noises when they saw his relief-flushed face.</p> <p>"David -" Edward said, grabbing the shorter man's shoulder, "Thank you. Why did you do that?"</p> <p>David looked at him with a deadpan expression.</p> <p>"Because we're friends, I thought. Besides, I'm 2-0 on you now, by my reckoning. I'm gunning for the hat-trick."</p> <p>He didn't see Elizabeth again until he broke for coffee—she was the only other person in the trading floor kitchenette, sitting under a dark cloud at the table with a cup of cocoa.</p> <p>"Liz?"</p> <p>She looked up at him, eyes and nose red. "Guess you want to know why I didn't back you up earlier. Well done on the partnership, by the way."</p> <p>"I kind of do want to know, yes."</p> <p>Her gaze carried absolute venom.</p> <p>"We never went for that coffee, did we?"</p> <p>He saw in that moment that she felt used, had realised the part he had made her play in the departure of Peter Davis. Perhaps she had even figured out where the Western Instruments tip had come from; even now she had refrained from doing the worst she could to him. He turned and walked away.</p> <hr/> <p>Death found Edward browsing for ideas for a new car. As partner his salary would start at two hundred thousand a year, not including bonuses. Right now he was trying to decide between the Porsche Panamera and a Toyota FT-86 Coupe. This time they didn't wait for him to log onto IRC; they did that for him, opening a new foreground tab that jerked him wide awake.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> I see you've been busy</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward had almost forgotten about these jokers. They were the ones who got him into all this by trying to threaten him over the Cholmondeley takeover of Hong Kong Electric. Thoughts of saloons vs sports hatchbacks set firmly aside, he began typing.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> yes. working for a living tends to imply that. what do you do?</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> very funny. we said we would be in touch.</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> still with that? let me guess, you want information on Marshall, Carter & Dark</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> i don't feel like playing</p> <p><strong>Famine_4H has joined the channel</strong><br/> <strong>Pestilence_4H has joined the channel</strong></p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> I know you've been trying to squirm further into their confidence because you think it will protect you</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> I'm pretty sure it does, as a matter of fact.</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> you have no idea who you're in bed with</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> really? here's a thought: I'll tell you whatever you want if you go away</p> <p><strong>Pestilence_4H:</strong> tell us what you think you know</p> <p><strong>War_4H has joined the channel</strong></p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> MC&D the gentleman's club incorporates an art brokerage which is a front for insider dealing.</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> you can earn membership by acquiring pieces for resale, which is rewarded with information</p> <p><strong>Pestilence_4H:</strong> which you've used</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> definitely did not say that</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> try telling us something we don't know</p> <p><strong>Pestilence_4H:</strong> wasn't a question</p> <p><strong>Famine_4H:</strong> like the man says</p> <p><strong>Famine_4H:</strong> no idea</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> what the hell are you going on about?</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> we need to meet in person</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> not going to happen.</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> it will. we're going to expose MC&D and you're going to help.</p> <p><strong>EGradley:</strong> why is that, exactly?</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> because, your recent illegalities aside you're not actually evil, as far as we know</p> <p><strong>Death_4H:</strong> when you're ready, you'll figure out how to contact us.</p> <p><strong>Death_4H has left the channel.</strong><br/> <strong>War_4H has left the channel.</strong><br/> <strong>Famine_4H has left the channel.</strong><br/> <strong>Pestilence_4H has left the channel.</strong></p> </blockquote> <p>Well, that seemed to be it. Edward noted that they hadn't tried to blackmail him this time, which as far as he was concerned indicated they'd waited too long to play their hand. He couldn't decide whether they actually knew more about MC&D's activities or whether he'd just handed them Jeremy Marshall on a plate; either way, he thought, they were more likely to go after someone else now.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward was returning to his apartment after picking up the new car—he'd opted for the Porsche—when something struck him as slightly off. The door remained firmly locked—all the windows were closed, and at first glance nothing seemed out of place, but he had a sudden and unmistakable feeling that someone had been there. He immediately booted up his computer and checked the access times, allowing himself to breathe out as it showed no unusual activity. The two encrypted files that now held his strange communications with Death and his friends were apparently inviolate.</p> <p>He had almost forgotten his worries when he found the card, nestled inside his fruitbowl. It was smooth and black, with rounded edges and a familiar gold cartouche. This is what the card said:</p> <blockquote> <p><em>Edward Gradley</em></p> <p><em>You are invited.</em></p> <p><sup>Christmas Ball</sup><br/> <sup>24 December 9.30pm</sup><br/> <sup>London Chapterhouse</sup></p> </blockquote> <p>Edward sat for a while looking at it. Did everyone involved with Marshall's little club get this special treatment? Or was this a warning?</p> <hr/> <p>The twenty-fourth was the busiest Edward had seen the clubhouse—though the foyer remained intimidatingly shadowy, the doors were for once wide open, as guests from politics, finance and the media flocked in. Edward had followed the directions on the glass membership card and arrived at the same time as David, who had brought Maria and the Parker girl. Edward felt a twinge of—pride, guilt?—that his car, suit and watch were all significantly more expensive than David's this time around. He had eschewed the services of Mr Stathopoulos, opting instead for Huntsman, Saville Row.</p> <p>Before he could speak to Maria she was whisked away by David and he was left talking to the willowy blonde who had sat with Maria before—Lady Penelope, he remembered—who had materialised suddenly.</p> <p>"Edward! So good to see you. You look positively <em>edible</em>," she said, as before not extending her hand but smiling prettily.</p> <p>"Thank you. Uh, are you here on your own?"</p> <p>"Yes, I'm afraid so. I usually come with Maria Beaumont, but she's been stolen away by that fat little banker." She sounded genuinely put out. "Oh, but I forget; you're in the trade too, aren't you? You must excuse me, that was horrible."</p> <p>"That's okay. Erm, do I say Dear Lady?"</p> <p>"Only if you have to! Call me Alexandra."</p> <p>"Thanks. I'm here on my own too."</p> <p>"Oh, you're too cute to be on your own. I'll keep you company."</p> <p>Lady Penelope was an amiable enough companion; he wasn't sure if her flowery compliments indicated sexual interest on her part or whether that was just her way of getting attention. They chatted for a few minutes while he tried to catch sight of Maria, wondering what spectacle MC&D would put on for its guests.</p> <p>They didn't have to wait long. A mist spread out over the whole ballroom, arching over the guests, faint pricks of precipitation spotting their hands and faces. After a few moments the air became vaguely irritating to the eyes—guests started to murmur that something had clearly gone wrong and a few started for the exits. Edward closed his eyes for a moment to clear the stinging mist and to his amazement another scene altogether appeared before his eyes; a picturesque rocky shore, somewhere northern, pocked with rockpools and with seagulls flying overhead.</p> <p>It was clearer than a dream—as though by closing his eyes he had opened another pair somewhere else entirely.</p> <p>"Close your eyes," he said to Lady Penelope, then louder, to the other guests. One by one, they seemed to populate the scene, appearing in their tuxedos and elegant ballroom gowns along the shoreline. They started to clap as they realised that this was no mere illusion—however MC&D had managed it, they were able to see and interact with each other in this ethereal world. The eyes of every other guest appeared closed; Edward wondered how his own eyes would appear in the nearest rockpool, and cautiously stepped towards it, wondering if he was about to walk into a table or another guest. The still, clear water showed no signs of his reflection, though he was able to cup the water in his hand and taste the sea salt. He realised he could hear the seagulls.</p> <p>A low, bass music began, booming out of the tide and the sea. The Marshall, Carter & Dark Christmas Ball had begun. Edward offered Lady Penelope his hand again but she shook her head, a strange mix of longing and fear on her face.</p> <p>The guests of Marshall, Carter & Dark danced on that strange, otherwise deserted shore in their ballroom garments, whirling and turning in space, kicking up small plumes of sand. Not one guest stubbed their foot on an invisible table or stumbled into a clubhouse wall. Edward had no idea how this was being effected, but it was the most astonishing thing he had experienced in his life. He looked at a distant, crumbling lighthouse on a rocky outcrop, and wondered if he could reach if it he walked long enough.</p> <p>Suddenly left adrift on the sand by his previous partner, who had spun away, Edward found himself facing Maria, wearing a white, almost bridal gown. Looking at her, he remembered the codex and almost turned away, heart stung. Instead, she took him firmly by the hand.</p> <p>"Dance with me," she said.</p> <p>It was a surreal experience—dancing on the shore of a great silver sea under a watery sun, seemingly miles away from London, his partner's eyes and the eyes of the dancers all around pressed firmly shut. As they moved he drew Maria closer until his nose was buried in her dark hair. She clung to him fiercely.</p> <p>They slowed and stopped, and the dreamlike dance around them seemed like an eternal progression; as though time had ceased to exist in this place. Then Edward looked past Maria and saw David there, facing them. His eyes, like the others, were shut, but his face was etched with lines of misery and betrayal. Edward disengaged himself from Maria, who turned and realised what he had seen.</p> <p>They hid themselves in the crowd, then, watching diplomats and celebrities dancing to that great thrumming noise at the edge of the impossible ocean.</p> <p>After a long time, the hiss of mist they realised had been there all along faded and the shore grew wavery and dim, as though the tide had come in and drowned the scene. One by one they winked out of existence, opening their eyes to find themselves seated or standing where they had been at the start of the dance. Out of the corner of his eye Edward saw Maria get up and leave David's table, though she did not come to him.</p> <p>Guests were not left long to discuss what they had experienced—a German-language operetta began, the female soprano's voice hauntingly beautiful yet startling in its mundanity next to that timeless waltz. During the opera guests were served small dishes of seafood and crudités in fresh seasonal dips, and it seemed normality had reasserted itself. An authentically MC&D touch at the end of the opera—the pain of the singers and the blood as the tenor threw himself upon his sword and the soprano agonisingly dragged herself onto the point projecting from his spine seemed very real, though this time the performers did re-emerge after the curtain came down to make their bows.</p> <p>Christmas dinner was served thereafter—marine variations on Christmas fare. Three chefs had been drafted in for this occasion, and again Edward had to wonder whether the Ready, Steady, Cook presenter, the Domestic Goddess and the school food campaigner in one kitchen wasn't a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. However, his meal of wild salmon with fennell and stuffed with bacon, pears, pecans and caramelised onion put paid to any criticism. For dessert, mixed white, milk, and dark chocolate had been woven into the form of various sea creatures, doused in spiced milk and nutmeg. On other tables he saw artificial coral crennelations in the shapes of Christmas trees, stars and angels, miniature undersea castles made from strands of sugar, a honeyed ship-flambé slowly drowning in a lake of warm rice pudding, bodies of marzipan castaways littering the surface.</p> <p>As guests finished their meals, the only thing left to do seemed to be to depart. Then, the lights began to dim, until the ballroom was lit only by cold, distant stars in the domed ceiling above.</p> <p>"I have a special part to play this time around," said Lady Penelope, as she stood up, taking a slim red leather volume out of her carrypurse. Edward obligingly clinked his glass until its sound had covered the whole length of the great hall.</p> <p>"Ladies and gentlemen," announced Lady Penelope, "we thought you really couldn't go home without just a little more excitement. So, we're going to play a party game. I've looked through this darling little book until I found something that sounded just right. We're going to play Sardines!" A couple of appreciative murmurs.</p> <p>"And because this is no ordinary place and no ordinary time, we're going to play this game with a twist."</p> <p>To Edward's surprise, Lady Penelope began disrobing in sight of the astonished guests. "We're going to play it entirely nude." Lascivious chuckles.</p> <p>"In a few minutes we'll draw straws and the longest is our first Sardine. At that time we'll extinguish all the lights. Our Sardine will go and hide somewhere in the chapterhouse. Every successive player will have to clamber in there with them, and we'll all feel sorry for the poor loser, as they'll be wandering all on their lonesome, in the dark."</p> <p>Each guest took a 'straw'—a piece of starched seaweed of varying length, some already beginning to remove their clothes. Edward saw David taking his straw—a stub of wrack—and heard him laugh, loud and bitter.</p> <p>"We have a winner," exclaimed Lady Penelope, "Maria Beaumont."</p> <p>Flushed with embarassment, Maria Beaumont stripped to the waist—Edward tried to avert his gaze, but caught a flash of tan skin. He glanced, and met her eyes—wide, the whites showing, like a wild animal. She shrugged off her skirt, her shoes. The lights went out, and he heard her footsteps pattering away, before they were engulfed in a tide of rustling and clandestine giggling, as though the great and good had been reduced to so many teenagers. He undid his zip, his buttons, and let five thousand pounds sterling of suit fall to the ground. The temperature of the ballroom had been lowered enough to induce shivering, all the better to make guests huddle together. Then the hunt began.</p> <p>Feeling their way in absolute darkness, the finders called out to each other to avoid colliding and to determine who was still in play. One by one, they went silent as each found Maria's hiding place. Occasionally enough moonlight shone through a vent or a locked backroom door to suggest some feature to the dark-adapted eye; an ornate lampshade or an Elizabethan chair.</p> <p>"Hello?" he called. "Am I the last one still out here? Come on guys, it's cold!" He thought he could hear a quiet suppressed snigger but careful exploration in the direction he thought it had come from failed to yield any results.</p> <p>Suddenly, a collision in the dark with something yielding, motile. He barely checked a yelp and startled back, his shoulder impacting what felt like wood panelling. For a moment there was nothing and he wondered if he had imagined that it had been a body—something about it had felt too cold, not alive. Then a hand touched his shoulder—icy, painfully cold.</p> <p>"I'm—sorry," he said, "I didn't hurt you, did I? I didn't think there was anyone left."</p> <p>The hand began to slide along his shoulder, up the side of his neck.</p> <p>"Erm, hi," Edward said. "I really don't think…"</p> <p>Before he could continue the shape pushed up against him—a body, unmistakeably female but so unbearably cold the absurd thought crossed his mind that he had somehow collided with a mannequin or something else human shaped. The notion was dispelled as it began to move against him, and he found it had pinned him to the wall by both shoulders, impossibly strong. It pressed in—so cold, and <em>damp</em>; clammy, like uncooked meat. It pressed against him, chilling, insistent, and Edward found himself fighting his gag reflex.</p> <p>"No," he said, and tried to pull away. The presence gripped him by his arm and chest, its nails digging into his flesh. "Let me go!"</p> <p>He twisted sideways, the woman's nails tracing lines of pain across his chest and left arm. He stumbled, bruising his shin on a low table, and half-ran half-crawled away on all fours.</p> <p>He blundered around in a daze, trying to navigate by the thin shafts of light, until a hand gripped his arm. This time he cried out, but was immediately checked by a chorus of muted laughter, and he realised the hand holding him was warm and alive.</p> <p>"Is that you, David?" said Maria's voice. He muttered an affirmative.</p> <p>"Somebody scratched me," he whispered, unable to vocalise the horror that he had felt.</p> <p>"It was probably an accident," she said, holding his face.</p> <p>Moments later, the lights slowly brightened—politicians, bankers, debutantes and stock traders found themselves in an undignified pile at the base of a staircase, spilling up as high as the mezzanine. Sheepish cheers gave way to a more businesslike atmosphere as everyone bustled to find their clothes.</p> <p>"I thought it was a cupboard," Maria said, standing up, covering herself with her arms.</p> <p>Who had been left out? Scanning the faces Edward could see only one omission—David Went. This has got to be the worst night of his life, thought Edward. He didn't know what he could or would say to the man. A couple of other guests went searching for Went, whom they agreed had probably got turned around somewhere upstairs.</p> <p>He redressed, noting ruefully the creases and footprints across Huntsman's best. Maria joined him, and acquiesced to his barely audible offer of a lift home.</p> <p>A sudden scream rang out, amplified by the domed roof. Then another. Edward got to his feet and ran towards the sound. Why 'towards'?, said his Philosophy lecturer, sitting on the lower fold of his right ear and kicking his legs against his earlobe. The human survival instinct as commonly understood that you run away from possible danger; that you take concern for the collective rather than yourself proves you to have social—in fact socialist—tendencies. Now, are they innate, or are they learned? Are you running because as a man you are socially conditioned to risk your own life for others? Are you incapable of resisting that programming, or do you have free will?</p> <p>Maria followed, still buttoning her blouse. As Edward crossed the threshold into the back stairwell, an elegant thing of three floors and jutting balconies over an alcoved space filled with flowering plants, and saw the thing hanging from the top railings by its belt, he doubled back and caught Maria.</p> <p>"Please," he said, "please don't look." She tried to push past him but at the same time buried her head in his chest, as though she already knew.</p> <p>The body of David Went, suspended in the air, rotated a quarter-turn, then reversed itself. One of his shoes—Church's, two hundred and fifty pounds—had fallen off and lay on its side two floors below. A crowd had gathered to behold the spectacle; some of them even started to applaud, as though it might have been some grisly finale to the evening—Murder in the Dark, which it was—before realising everyone else was looking on with horror. Edward pushed past them and went back to his table. No-one would be going home yet.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc1"><span>Chapter Five: "There's Five"</span></h3> <p>Along with the Parker girl, the only other guest from Cooper Drake, he had been asked to come down to the police station and provide an oral statement. At the firm's insistence he had been accompanied by Cooper Drake's lawyer, a hawk-faced gentleman with thin, slicked-back dark hair in a widower's peak who answered every question with a question and would only allow Edward to answer after whispered consultation. The police had found a note in David's pocket, handwritten, scrawled apparently blind on a napkin. Edward knew what it said because the police had shown it to him.</p> <p>This is what it said:</p> <blockquote> <p>I am guilty. Tomorrow is Christmas Day and I cannot bear to see it. I have made millions from deceit and I can no longer stand silent. I cannot confess and I will not go to jail. I am left with one honourable outcome. I say honourable, but I will be spoiling everyone's evening. I am sorry. Birkman, Solico, UN Ltd. There is more. I operated alone; I did not involve others from Cooper Drake, or any other firm. I'm sorry.</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward stared at it, speechless. Something was terribly, horribly wrong here. Could David have been driven to suicide by the events of the evening? Perhaps. Would he have completely omitted his betrayal by a man he thought of as a friend and perhaps protégé? By a woman he loved? Would he have imputed his own death to guilt felt over insider trading? Edward couldn't believe it. All the deals the note mentioned predated Cholmondeley; the note read like it had been penned by someone ignorant of the last few months of David Went's life.</p> <p>The lawyer allowed him to tell the police that David Went had not seemed suicidal earlier, though he had appeared agitated at the party. Was it Went's handwriting, they asked. Edward considered the haphazard lettering. The lawyer permitted him to express the view that never having seen anything written by David in the dark he was unable to form a verdict. The police nodded sagely and handed the plastic bag containing the note back. Had Edward ever known Went to be anything less than a perfectly ethical broker? Before Edward could even begin to formulate a response the lawyer leaned in and snippily told the officers that any questions about Went's performance were a matter for Cooper Drake's management alone, in the first instance for his direct manager, Raymond MacIntyre.</p> <p>At work, Edward watched in shock as police came and took all David's computer equipment away for forensic analysis. Another round of interviews for everyone on the trading floor; Edward insisted on hiring his own lawyer, who sat on his other side and got into short, terse disagreements with Cooper Drake's representative for four hundred and fifty pounds an hour. It didn't help that at some time since the ball Edward had caught some respiratory infection which left him hawking great lumps of phlegm into a tissue, which both his lawyers insisted on pointing out to the present police officers—every single time—did not constitute an answer and should not be taken as an affirmative or negatory response.</p> <p>After intense discussion with both his legal counsel, Edward was able to represent to the police that David had passed on several leads which seemed unusually hot; but which he had insisted originated in conversations overheard at his gentleman's club. It did not escape Edward that the words 'Marshall, Carter & Dark' were never mentioned by the police at any time; the venue's own lawyer, slick and toothy in a black suit and coiffed hair, seemed to have the power to always appear just outside any room where David Went was being discussed.</p> <p>Edward had phoned through to MC&D and demanded to speak to Jeremy Marshall.</p> <p>"Complete immunity, you said. When the police search David's computers and find reference to the Cholmondeley deal…"</p> <p>"You're safe, Edward," he crooned, voice slightly distorted by the line. "Everything's being taken care of. How unfortunate about David. Still, we have a bright new star at Cooper Drake, don't we?"</p> <p>Edward had ended the call and immediately thrown up in his sink.</p> <p>He had not been mistaken; there had been no other guests legitimately playing 'Sardines' left by the time he was wandering in silence. He felt sure that David Went had been killed, perhaps as soon as the lights had been extinguished. That cold, damp presence … the woman who had effortlessly pinned him to the wall but whose body felt like a dead thing—he was left in no doubt that she had been the killer. And he was just as sure that the agency behind her had been Jeremy Marshall. He suspected that Went had made no further acquisitions for Marshall after Cholmondeley. But if Edward had not involved himself directly with the firm, surely David would still be alive. No, Marshall, Carter & Dark had David killed because they had a shiny new toy, at least, until they got bored of him too. Perhaps it had even been a warning. Probably all three—Jeremy Marshall didn't seem like the sort of man to order a murder for just one reason.</p> <p>He needed a plan. Googling '4H' yielded nothing useful. '4H Death', similarly. '4H Death War Famine Pestilence' told him what he should probably already worked out, that '4H' meant 'Four Horsemen', but nothing else. Finally, in desperation he returned to #theologywars and asked if anyone had heard of a group or organisation called '4H' or 'Four Horsemen'.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Acts238:</strong> Actually, it's Conquest, War, Famine, Death, and Hell. There's five.</p> <p><strong>Acts238:</strong> But only four horses; Zech 6:2-3 calls them the spirits of the heavens (KJV 1611)</p> <p><strong>nodeceit:</strong> that's a deceitful interpretation. there are many horses of each kind in Zechariah, and they are chariots, not horsemen. they don't represent the same thing</p> <p><strong>nodeceit:</strong> and KJV-onlyism is a doctrine from hell, see our expose</p> <p><strong>landoverbaptist:</strong> Your mother sucks cocks in hell.</p> </blockquote> <p>Edward sighed. He probably should have known better than to ask about anything with an eschatological subtext here. Then something caught his eye.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>911truther:</strong> They're a conspiracy theorist group. Let-it-happeners.</p> <p><strong>911truther:</strong> Big into black helicopter stuff: see here—<a href="javascript:;">link</a></p> </blockquote> <p>The blog seemed to have been abandoned a long time ago; mostly blurry pictures of paramilitary-style SWAT teams raiding houses, unmarked planes and the standard conspiracy spiel about various shady non-state actors who supposedly had tendrils in every level of national and supranational government. No wonder Marshall, Carter & Dark are giving them such a boner, he thought, Secretaries of State, big business tycoons, movie stars… if the Illuminati exist, MC&D are cramping their style.</p> <p>The nicks of the authors were the same—Death_4H, War_4H, Famine_4H, Pestilence_4H, confirming for Edward that he'd found the right place. There were no contact details listed, but after trawling through their archives he found an appeal for information about an obscure Red Scare-era organisation called GRU Raskolnik P (supposedly headed by chess grandmaster Ivan Sokolov and the Soviet counter to Project Stargate), with a hotmail email address. He had no idea if it was even still active, but decided it was his best shot. He wrote:</p> <blockquote> <p>To: <a href="javascript:;">FourHorsemen</a><br/> From: <a href="javascript:;">EGradley</a></p> <p>Subject line: Marshall, Carter & Dark</p> <p>It's Edward. I'm ready.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>O'Reilly's Grill and Diner was about as far from the art deco café used by Jeremy Marshall as you could get. Dark colours, stained padded seats, with a cracked television blaring out horse races and occasionally football. The smoking ban was in force but the smell remained, pressed horribly into every surface by years of nicotine exposure. The owner, an incomprehensibly Irish man with a limp, scowled when Edward ordered a black coffee and what slid over the counter a few minutes later was some sort of tea with black grit floating in it. Edward strained some of the granules out with a napkin and took a cautious sip. It tasted like burnt toast.</p> <p>Edward wasn't sure what he had been expecting from the Four Horsemen—what did conspiracy theorists wear these days? Tie-dye and ripped jeans? Then again, if Hollywood had taught him anything about hackers, he should be looking for beautiful people in black leather and wraparound shades. The odd couple who walked in the door and ordered drinks didn't even register on his radar until they slid in beside him. One was literally a kid—a young teenager in a school shirt and trousers with dark hair in a flippy haircut with white highlights and painted fingernails. The other looked to be well into his forties, tall and borderline obese, with a massive gut hanging over his belt below a Metallica teeshirt, a goatee and thinning curly brown hair scraped into a ponytail. He did wear shades—but they were brown with big plastic frames.</p> <p>"Edward Gradley," said the kid with the black fingernails.</p> <p>"You two? You're the four horsemen?" said Edward, amusedly.</p> <p>"Well, I'm Death," said the kid, who had the good grace to look a little embarassed as he said it. "This is War -" he gestured to the overweight metal fan. "Pestilence's mom wouldn't let him come and Famine couldn't get the day off work."</p> <p>"If you don't mind me saying so, you're a bit of a mismatched pair."</p> <p>"This is the first time we've met up in person, actually," said War, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Look, we're here for one reason, and that's to talk about Marshall, Carter & Dark. Why the sudden change of heart?"</p> <p>"They killed David Went."</p> <p>"We heard suicide," said Death measuredly, sipping his glass of Sprite.</p> <p>"That's what the police think. But his suicide note doesn't make sense. It couldn't have been written by him. Things that happened that night, things that could have really pushed him over the edge, he doesn't mention at all. There was a party game—in the dark. I bumped into someone still walking around after everyone was supposed to be hidden. A woman."</p> <p>"And you can prove that MC&D were behind it?" War sounded excited.</p> <p>"No. Sorry. But Jeremy Marshall…"</p> <p>"Who Marshall?"</p> <p>"Jeremy. That's what he said his name was."</p> <p>"Interesting," said Death, and scribbled something in the margins of the ringbinder he'd brought along.</p> <p>"…Jeremy Marshall all but told me he'd had David killed because I was … better controllable, more promising, I don't know."</p> <p>"You must feel good about yourself right now," Death said flatly.</p> <p>"Look," said Edward angrily, "I didn't come to get lectured at, okay? You said you were going to explain what's really going on here."</p> <p>"We're trying," said War. "You got it the wrong way round. The art stuff isn't a cover for the insider trading—the trading covers a worldwide art theft and money laundering operation. Members ask for a piece and MC&D get it, no questions asked. In return they're taking in money from drugs, illegal arms deals, regimes like North Korea and Iran. They have a catalogue—you've seen it?"</p> <p>Edward nodded.</p> <p>"That's so any criminal can walk in and trade as much cash as he can carry for a legitimately acquired piece; guaranteed value. Right now they're untouchable—their membership includes police chiefs and politicians; not just here but in the USA, France, Germany. They make sure they have something on all their members; whether it's dodgy deals based on information they've provided, photos of kinky sex scandals orchestrated in their own clubhouses, or just straight-up bribery."</p> <p>"So they're a gentleman's club fronting an insider trading ring fronting an international crime syndicate? It seems unbelievable."</p> <p>"Well," said Death, "you've apparently met the fuckers behind this thing. Does it strike you as beyond them?"</p> <p>Edward fell silent for a moment.</p> <p>"What can I do?</p> <p>"First, you need to figure out who you can trust at Cooper Drake. If what you say is true, MC&D wouldn't have had Went killed unless they had someone else in place to keep tabs on you. Then you'll set up another acquisition with Marshall."</p> <p>War nudged the kid's arm and he stopped talking.</p> <p>"I don't wish to alarm you but that car's gone past twice already." Edward looked up but it had already gone. "Black Citroën, license plate starts 'SE'".</p> <p>Death looked up, eyes flashing. "You idiot! You didn't check to see if you were being tailed?"</p> <p>"I think you're being paranoid," said Edward, though even as he said it he thought: <em>but that doesn't mean they're not out to get you</em>.</p> <p>"Fuck that," said Death. "Look, we'll be in touch. Hey, O'Reilly, is there a back door to this place?" The barkeep said something neither Edward nor apparently the Horsemen could make out. Instead, Death tapped his watch and War nodded. Death left first, followed fifteen seconds later by War. They went in different directions. Edward was left with his toast-flavoured hot water, which after a moment's consideration he swapped for Death's half-finished soft drink.</p> <p>Who can you trust, he thought? It would help if I could trust myself first.</p> <hr/> <p>After another twenty minutes he left the bar and walked back to his apartment. Half-way he bumped into a man he didn't recognise—thirties or forties, stubbly, balding. "Sorry," Edward said, absent-mindedly. The man's reaction, however, stuck in Edward's memory—he fixed Edward with a look of fear or embarassment, then brought his hand to his mouth in a strangely feminine gesture. Then he turned and fled. There was something strange about the way he ran, but Edward couldn't put his finger on it.</p> <hr/> <p>This time Edward walked from his car to the Beaumont house under cover of an umbrella. She opened the door, resplendent in an apron and the smell of something hot and sugary filling the air.</p> <p>"Edward," she said, smiling. "I wasn't expecting -" she trailed off as he shrugged off his shoes, walked past her wordlessly. She followed him, tugging at his sleeve, asking him what was wrong.</p> <p>They stopped in the library, and he took her to the shelf containing the replica codex. Lifted it out, placed it in her hands, saw her feel its weight. He opened it for her, let her see the Currys-spare-part hinges and chipped washing-machine paint interior—its empty interior. She dropped the box, turned and grasped him tight around the chest with one arm, beat on it with the other.</p> <p>"I'm sorry." he said. "I'll get it back. I swear. I'll get it back."</p> <p>As he drove away he saw another car, a red Vauxhall Meriva, put its lights on and pull out of the row in front of the terrace. He looked in the mirror every few minutes and could see it hovering at the very edge of visibility in the London traffic. Then he saw it signal off and turn into a side road, and he allowed himself to exhale deeply as another vehicle emerged. Then, five minutes later, the car that had turned onto his road turned off, and the red Vauxhall was back. Edward deliberately took a detour from his usual route, even circling around a roundabout three times as though trying to make up his mind. When he exited, the second car was a short way behind him. He pulled over, watched it pause, then indicate that it too would park. He got out of his car and walked towards the vehicle, not caring about the rain. When he got ten paces from its tinted windows its engine started up again and it pulled away.</p> <p>That night he played chess online again for the first time in years, against a self-professed first-timer from Texas. He played under a pseudonym, just in case anyone still recognised him from that brief glorious summer when he had seemed invincible.</p> <p>Edward hadn't been able to see six moves ahead—those corridors were still closed to him. But he realised he could <em>remember</em> thinking that way, could recall the output of that black box if not the mechanism by which it had operated. He had played White and the game had resulted in a stalemate. Still, he thought, it was a start.</p> <hr/> <p>To Liz, he said that he had gambled on the launch of the latest iPhone and lost. Raymond MacIntyre heard that he had been blindsided by aviation fuel increases that put paid to a key engine refit on Ryanair's fleet. He confided in Michelle Myers that he had tied himself into four million pounds in European options on Microsoft that unless Ballmer spectacularly screwed up in the next month would leave him hundreds of thousands down. Paul Reagan offered sympathy when Edward bemoaned a million pounds of Turkish government debt wiped out by a bondholder haircut. Various members of his team were left believing he had made disastrous trades in biotech, solar power, soft furnishings or vacuum cleaners.</p> <p>No matter how you looked at it, Edward had had a rough week. Except, of course, he hadn't. The secrets left in Marshall's little red book had expired, but he had put in a few long nights and his current trades—geothermal startups in Norway, Chinese infrastructure firms in Ghana, an Oxford outfit that had worked out how to manufacture buckypaper for electronic heatsinks at a fraction of the usual price, and for old time's sake some aerodynamics contractors who had recently been signed by Lockheed Martin—were ticking over very nicely.</p> <p>Now he was just waiting for the phone call.</p> <p>"Mr Gradley," Marshall's voice oozed from his mobile. "I'm so sorry to hear you've been having some difficulties. Oh, but I shouldn't offend your pride. You're being faced with new challenges, and new opportunities. Mr O'Leary <em>clearly</em> lacks vision—those new engines would have paid dividends in the long run. I'll tell him how disappointed I am at our next brunch. In the meantime, perhaps you would care to consider making another acquisition for us?"</p> <p>"I'd love to," said Edward, through clenched teeth. MacIntyre, you insufferable shit. No wonder you called that meeting. I wonder, did you know what that meant for David? Did you realise he was signing his own death warrant by saving me?</p> <hr/> <p>Breakfast at the smaller MC&D clubhouse on Wood Lane was a surreal affair. BBC personalities—including several Edward had been quite sure were dead—and private sector TV and newspaper execs rubbed shoulders with international dignitaries over freshly baked crumpets and sticks of warmed salted butter while small drama and music acts performed enthusiastically. Every so often one of the media goliaths would politely excuse themselves and shamble over to the performers that had just left the stage. It's a glorified talent show, Edward realised; he could only imagine what the young people on stage had had to do to get their chance.</p> <p>There, at the centre of it all, was Jeremy Marshall, alternately smiling and nodding to the presenter of Newsnight and snarling into a slim mobile phone.</p> <p>"Too rough … no, my dear fellow, you gave them exactly what they were asking for. Excuse me … well, I didn't give the PM a bloody horse. Take care of her! My apologies … yes, I've seen University Challenge several times… Ah, Mr Gradley." His companion apparently sensed he had been dismissed and wandered over to the next table where Sir Trevor McDonald was holding court with a surprisingly risqué story about his time in the Caribbean.</p> <p>"Well, plant some of Mulcaire's letters in her home. No, we didn't destroy them, do you think I'm an idiot? You're supposed to be the professional, think of something." He ended the call and looked up at Edward.</p> <p>"Please, have a seat. Have a crumpet—or there are cinnamon bagels, if you like." He clapped his hands and one of the blank-eyed serving staff appeared with a serving dish covered by a cloche. Edward shook his head.</p> <p>"Very well," he said, dismissing the young man, who vanished quietly and efficiently. "Now, Edward, you are familiar, I gather, with the Lady Alexandra Penelope?"</p> <p>"Yes. I spoke to her at the Christmas Ball."</p> <p>"Very good. Yes, the dowager countess of Swindon. How tragic, to be widowed under suspicious circumstances at such a—well, at her age."</p> <p>"Which is?"</p> <p>"Entirely irrelevant, Mr Gradley! A dashing young man such as yourself should have learned never to ask a lady her age. Now, as to the acquisition I want you to make. Since you have proven yourself so able to acquire items without financial outlay—and are a man of means these days, I understand—I don't anticipate any expenses will be necessary in this case. The Lady Penelope has a certain antique comb which you are to retrieve without delay. Oh, don't adopt that ridiculous expression, Mr Gradley. The comb in any case belongs to Marshall, Carter & Dark and was lent to Lady Penelope on the understanding that she could retain it only if she met certain conditions, which events have now rendered it impossible for her to do. Go to her house, get the comb. I don't really care how you do it. And then we can talk about rectifying your latest misadventures in the big wide world of finance."</p> <p>"Okay."</p> <p>Marshall passed him another briefing document with an image of the comb—an ugly, twisted thing wrought in ivory and bearing a singularly confused version of the Last Supper, wherein at least the central four figures all appeared to be Jesus Christ. Edward thumbed along the photo, counting the participants; excluding the ones with haloes and short beards there were only 11 other figures. Now he knew what he was looking for, he realised Lady Penelope had been wearing it at least the last time he had seen her.</p> <p>"So, where do you keep all this stuff?" he asked, as nonchalantly as he could. "I'd love to take a look at the warehouse, as it were."</p> <p>Marshall looked at him, warily. "Have your eye on what's behind the shop curtain, eh? Maybe once you get the comb. Don't push your luck, though—you've already chosen your reward for this acquisition."</p> <hr/> <p>Lydiard Manor, the family residence of Lady Penelope, formally the Dowager Countess Swindon, was a stately Georgian pile set away from prying eyes down a long, leafy private lane. Edward pulled the Porsche up next to the expansive lawn, framed on either side by leafy conifers, and walked up to the front door—a plastic sheeting was visible pulled over the door from the other side.</p> <p>"Side entrance," the cut-glass vowels of Lady Penelope intoned from the window directly above him. He looked up but could only see billowing lace curtains. Obligingly he crunched the gravel path which he suspected had been a moat and found a bay door wide open to the exterior, propped open with a singularly hideous garden ornament. It led through to an attractive summer-room, decorated with fine portraits of the family—the Bolingbrookes, he recalled.</p> <p>Lady Penelope stepped out from behind a rich purple curtain, wearing a diaphanous, floaty dress that seemed at odds with the wintery drizzle outside. She looked tired—certainly older than he remembered, maybe late thirties rather than late twenties. The skin around her eyes seemed loose, as though she hadn't slept for days, and her complexion was pallid. Her hair was loose, shoulder-length, and pale—a section had been pinned diagonally over her eyes for a fringe and he could see the cream outline of the comb holding it in place.</p> <p>"La- I mean, Alexandra," he said, recalling their conversation at the Christmas Ball. "It's good to see you."</p> <p>"So good to hear from you too," said Lady Penelope. "I heard they investigated David's work—how tragic! How is Maria taking all this?"</p> <p>"I don't know," he said. "I haven't spoken to her much."</p> <p>"Really," said Lady Penelope thoughtfully. "So, what brings you to this little place?"</p> <p>"Not so little," chuckled Edward. There was something in all this that was making him nervous; the air was so dusty it was aggravating his sinuses. Didn't she clean, or hire someone to do it? He supposed if she was rattling around in here alone after the death of Lord Swindon she might only clean the rooms she used on a daily basis. He had planned to flirt his way in, exploiting her apparent affection for him, find the comb and leave—after all, he had no intent of actually leaving it in the hands of Jeremy Marshall. However, the sight of her wearing it had drained his courage and he felt suddenly guilty.</p> <p>"Alexandra, it's about Marshall, Carter & Dark."</p> <p>Her expression grew troubled. "What have they said? What have they told you?" she said, voice suddenly sharp.</p> <p>"No, no," he said. "it's just that I've gotten myself into a bit of a bind, and you might be able to help." Her expression was replaced with one of all smiles and she gestured to the staircase on their right as they left the summer-room.</p> <p>"Why didn't you say? I'll help in any way I can. But let's go somewhere in a bit of a better state, shall we? I'm sorry about all the mess, I just haven't been keeping up appearances, I'm afraid. Upstairs, first room on the left. I'll get something to drink."</p> <p>Edward ventured up the dark flight of stairs—all the doors were shut and he had to feel his way along until he found the frame. Opening it he found what had once been a great master bedroom—a colossal bed with an overhanging lace curtain and ornate frame, great wooden drawers and a writing desk in the corner. This room had been dusted but was still in a sad state of decline—damp patches were peeling the wallpaper and cracks appearing in the ceiling.</p> <p>"Here we go," the Lady Penelope said, closing the door behind them and brandishing a bottle of red wine. "Chateau Margaux, ninety-five. Not the oldest vintage but it's one I enjoy."</p> <p>She poured out a measure into crystal glasses—Edward sat at the writing desk and took an exploratory sip.</p> <p>"So Edward," she said, delicately, "what was it you hoped I could help you with?"</p> <p>She walked towards him, brought her face near his, letting him scent the frankly excessive amount of perfume the blonde seemed to be using.</p> <p>"Oh. No, I mean, Alexandra, I think you've got the wrong idea—I was hoping to ask if I could borrow that comb…" Her eyes flashed. This close he could see how made-up she was, how the skin beyond the foundation had lost its elasticity—he mentally revised his estimate to early or mid forties.</p> <p>"You don't want the comb," she said, an element of pleading entering to her voice. "You want me, don't you—you came here because you've fallen in love with me."</p> <p>Edward's mind reeled. What the hell was this? He hadn't even made any hints in that direction; had, in fact, decided to ask her plainly if he could borrow the antique comb for a day in the hopes of recovering the codex. Her personality seemed to have changed utterly since their first meeting at the chapterhouse.</p> <p>"You don't love Maria, that unfaithful bitch," Lady Penelope continued, her voice suddenly raw, croaking. "You've only wanted me."</p> <p>She took hold of his arm with surprising force, and to his horror Edward felt the cold of her seep through his suit and into his flesh. She pushed herself against him, so horribly unlike anything alive, and he knew she was the presence that had met him in the dark.</p> <p>"You killed David," he whispered.</p> <p>"He was in your way—in the way of what you wanted—he was yesterday's man," she said, voice cracking. "Please, don't hate me. I don't want you to hate me."</p> <p>And under the cloying perfume, he smelled it, as her face pressed up against his, makeup rubbing off on his collar, his skin—the smell of meat that had gone bad, rancid, and as he grabbed her arm to try and lever her off, her skin began to slip off the underlying muscle. He screamed.</p> <p>With strength he didn't know he had, he gave her an almighty push, dislodging her grip from his arms. Screeching like something possessed she toppled backwards and hit the floor with a horrible sucking sound. He didn't wait to see if she recovered; he ran through the house, out to the summer-room. The door was locked from the inside. He scrabbled around, couldn't see a key. Not knowing why he did it, he grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a <em>Complete Works of Goethe</em>, and hurled it with all his might at the French window. It shattered and he hurled himself through the gap, running raggedly back to to the Porsche.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward drove, taking turns at random, for as long as he could, and when he was too weary to continue driving, he parked and curled up on the back seat in his five thousand pound suit. He dreamed, and his dreams were a horrible, confused mess of everything that had happened to him.</p> <p>His father had died, he remembered, and in the terms of his will he had left everything to the son who surpassed him first. In the dream Edward had two brothers and a sister, though for some reason she had been left out of the will. Somehow they were all at Cooper Drake and were working side-by-side on different deals, except he knew something they didn't; Jeremy Marshall stood over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, and in the way of dreams it was all dire nonsense, about throwing sugar into people's eyes and doors that opened into other places and investing in a liquid that turned anything into food, and he prospered while his brothers grew poorer. And Maria was there, no, he was at her house, but she was made of glass and he had to stop her breaking because you only get one, and she was so cold to the touch, her skin just sloughed off the bone until there was nothing there but a skeleton made of glass.</p> <p>And now he was a child again, about twelve or thirteen, and he was at an outdoor chess club, and he suddenly realised in a flash of lucidity that this was a dream, but it was also a memory, this was something that happened and which he had forgotten. Someone cast their shadow over the table, and he looked up to see a tall man with wavy blond hair and perfect teeth, and cruelty in his blue eyes.</p> <p>"Do you want to play?" he asked. And he folded out a chessboard that was not a chessboard, because every move Edward made it countered perfectly, all on its own, and when it did it it picked at a golden thread from deep inside him and tugged a little more of it away. And the blond stranger went up to his mother, watching as the board ate her son a little bit at a time, and said something that at the time he had not understood. "Tell your husband he will have what he wanted."</p> <p>Edward awoke rumpled and bleary-eyed, the rain sluicing down the car's windows, and the dream tumbled away from him into the dark.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/acquisitions1">Act I - "Jellybeans"</a> \| <a href="/acquisitions-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/acquisitions3">Act III - "Rainy in London"</a> »</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> <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="/acquisitions2">Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act II</a>" by SRegan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/acquisitions2">https://scpwiki.com/acquisitions2</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]] [[/>]] [[toc]] +++ Chapter Four: "You Are Invited" "I must say," Jeremy said happily, "I was beginning to think you had taken our money and run. I mean, investment bankers." He chortled as he caressed the codex with long fingers, feeling the texture of the illustrated letters. "But I shouldn't have doubted. This is quite incredible." They sat in a long tearoom at the clubhouse—this time Edward had been allowed the privilege of walking through without a blindfold. Thus far he had seen at least two of the Dragon's Den judges, a pop star and a member of the royal family. There was a tray of jam scones with clotted cream on the table—Edward had not dared take one. Jeremy, on the other hand, showed no such compunction; Edward winced at every crumb that fell onto the fourteenth century document. "And what's this?" Jeremy's voice changed to one of genuine surprise as Edward held out a traveller's cheque for ten thousand pounds. He held it up, chuckling. "You certainly give good value for money. I am impressed. How did you ... no, don't tell me. However you did it, I have to admire your ruthlessness. I think it's time you got to know us a little more closely." Leaning back languorously he pulled on a white silk cord which engaged an intercom. "Please tell Mister Carter that we're ready for him." A few moments later the doors opened and an attractive young nurse entered, preceded by a shrivelled figure in a wheelchair. If he had to guess, Edward would have put Mr Carter's age at a hundred and ten or more—alarmingly frail, folds of liver-spotted skin rippling inwards towards a collapsed, toothless mouth. The ears and downturned nose seemed overlarge on him, in the way they often appeared on the extremely elderly. Edward had read somewhere that cartilage continued to grow throughout one's life. A thin ruff of white hair surrounded the lower back of his head, with the occasional straggling hair clinging to his pate. The eyebrows in contrast were thick and bushy, and the eyes underneath still alive and twinkling with a sharp, predatory brightness that belied his outward decrepitude. His hands fluttered from his lap and shook as the young nurse poured him a drink. "So! Mr Marshall. What //do// we have here? That—bright young man you were talking about?" When he spoke it was in short, anoxic gasps. Nasal tubes connected Mr Carter to a bulky apparatus mounted on the back of his chair, discreetly covered by a deep blue throw with silver threadwork; some sort of iron lung, Edward supposed. He found it vaguely disquieting to look at—it wheezed with him, rising and falling in a disturbingly organic way, as though there were some horrific tumour or Siamese twin under the cloth, growing out of the back of the aged man. "Mr Gradley," prompted Jeremy, smoothing his tie. Or rather, Edward realised, Mr Jeremy Marshall. He found it incongruous that the two could have undertaken any enterprise together given their difference in ages. Mr Carter might well be old enough to have founded a prestigious gentleman's club, but Marshall? Most likely, the named partnership had been transferred dynastically; Jeremy's father had clearly had no compunctions in giving his son the keys to the kingdom. "Gradley! A good—//Yorkshire// name," wheezed Carter affably. "But the build doesn't match. Actually -" he struggled for the spectacles hanging around his neck with the hand and the nurse retrieved them for him—"yes, the face is all wrong. I consider myself an expert in—anthropometrics. I can see that you're—baltoid, gracile, brachy—excuse me—cephaly—I'm going to guess Baltic or perhaps—West Slavic." He scanned Edward's face for a reaction. "Am I close?" "My mother was Polish," said Edward, feeling a sudden twang of revulsion towards him. "I knew it! Still sharp, eh, Mr Marshall?" The blond nodded, almost affectionately. "Ah, yes, Bernard Gradley. I remember him well. Thought he was much too good for us in the end, as I recall, and after all the help we gave him. Mail order bride, was it?" He chuckled for a second before collapsing in a coughing fit. Edward sat silently, reasoning that contradicting the ghastly old man was unlikely to yield results. Another thing you never told me, father, he thought. "Mr Gradley has completed his first Acquisition for us. The Codex, if you recall." Jeremy Marshall reached into his drawer and withdrew something wrapped in a rich velvet cloth. "Ah—at last! I've been waiting to get my hands on it for some time. Try not to lose //that// one to You Know Who; at least until you've perused every last delightful inch. It seems like only yesterday they sent the poor fellow back..." "Indeed. Perhaps the status of our mutual friend might be reconsidered after being so thoroughly beaten to the prize by Mr Gradley here—even after we fulfilled his perverse little Cinderella fantasies." "Ye-e-es, the problem being that at midnight he turns into a pumpkin!" Carter chuckled. Marshall, seeing Edward's bewildered expression, interjected to return the conversation to something approximating sanity. "Accordingly I felt it time for us to present Mr Gradley with provisional membership—and to discuss his reward, if he feels this an appropriate time. Would you care to do the honours, Mr Carter?" Carter put his wine down and took the cloth in hands which suddenly seemed a lot surer than they had a few minutes ago. He leaned in, eyes lit by an unholy light, putting it in Edward's hands. "This is knowledge. This is power. Take a look." Unwrapping the soft fabric his fingers encountered a cold, transparent sheet about six inches by three. Perspex? No, glass, he realised, turning it over in his hands. In one corner, the MC&D cartouche, in another, a contact number. In the centre, in almost unreadably tiny gold lettering, the words 'Edward Gradley, Acquisitions'. The reverse side showed what at first glance appeared to be a circuit diagram but which on closer examination was a tiny map of the City of London engraved into the glass, with several clubhouses marked. "Take good care of it, my boy," wheezed Carter. "Keep it safe. You only get the one!" "Thank you," said Edward, coolly. "Now, as to my reward..." ---- Edward knew that Marshall, Carter & Dark had held up their end of the bargain when he walked onto the trading floor the next morning. Went, MacIntyre and a couple of the other early risers had made it in ahead of him and had populated his table with little pots of bombay mix and bottles of champagne. "I think congratulations are in order," MacIntyre hailed him. "Oh?" said Edward. "We were getting a bit worried about your Western Instruments speculation. But you came through in the end, even if it wasn't quite the way we thought. Cheers!" David popped a cork and filled glasses for the early brigade. Edward casually walked over to one of the touchscreens and saw the headlines. > Western Instruments to be acquired by 'Mad Hacker' Reginald Price > > In a shock announcement, troubled scientific calculator manufacturer Western Instruments has become the subject of a hostile takeover by American cost-cutter Reg Price. Nicknamed 'The Mad Hacker' due to his efforts to restore profitability to failing firms by making steep efficiency savings, Mr Price will be looking to reverse the fortunes of the ailing giant... Edward trotted back to the table with the others and accepted a glass of champagne. He raised his glass and smiled at Liz, who didn't smile back, instead looking away with a troubled expression. Now what have I done, he wondered. That morning Western Instruments' shares rose by thirteen percent; Edward cashed out at midday, making a profit of £540,000. Edward couldn't comprehend the magnitude of what MC&D must have on Reginald Price to be able to compel him to launch a hostile buyout worth hundreds of millions in the space of a few hours, but right now he wasn't complaining. And, he thought, feeling the heft of the folder Jeremy Marshall had presented him, this was only the beginning. ---- "Edward, thank you. Come in." Edward closed the door of Raymond MacIntyre's office. MacIntyre, David, Liz and a couple of other partners sat around a table. Edward felt a frisson of anticipation but also apprehension. Their faces were neutral. He sat down at the table, taking in the documentation in front of each member. He had received a simple message by email, asking him to attend a meeting that afternoon, and to leave the rest of the day free. Edward had felt confident that it had been good news—recognition of every perfect, unbelievable deal he had made since his meeting with Jeremy Marshall. But as the morning had gone on, little things had made him feel more and more uneasy—the way Liz couldn't meet his eyes, the way David kept pacing back and forth between the desks, on several occasions walking halfway to Edward's team before changing his mind and walking back. The junior associates under him had picked up on the atmosphere and begun ribbing him about a coming inquisition. "He's done it now! You've made 'em so much cash they want to know how you're smuggling that much coke into the country!" Now he sat on the opposite end of the table to Raymond MacIntyre and he still couldn't determine whether he was about to be promoted or roasted over a slow fire. "Edward," said Raymond MacIntyre slowly, "I don't think there's any doubt that your trades have been—sensational. From Cholmondeley Holdings through to Abacus Productions, you've made the company three point one million pounds in profit over the last six months. I'm a man of my word, and I haven't forgotten what I said when you asked how much you would have to pull in before we bent the rules for you and gave you a fast-track partnership." Edward began to pull himself up in his chair, eyes bright. "But Cooper Drake is an ethical firm, and before we can think about admitting a new partner, we need to clear up a few things. Ensure everything has been -" MacIntyre loosened his cotton collar slightly, visibly perspiring, "on the level." Edward immediately modulated his body language—concerned, understanding. "Take this trade, for example, on the Sixth of November. A ten million pound short sale transaction against ACTLE. It was taken out twelve hours before the Argentinian government announced the nationalisation of Wincanton Oil, a wholly owned subsidiary of ACTLE. I have spoken to the heads of both ACTLE and Wincanton, and this was news to them until the Minister of Industry made her announcement. Now, there's nothing wrong with scooping a firm on a political sea change that could affect them. If that's what you did, congratulations." "I -" Edward began to speak, unsure of what he was going to say, but Raymond rode straight over him. "Then there's this business over Carmichael & Sons. This is especially concerning to me because of the involvement of Gerald Spointer, a man whom I believe you may know. Someone—and it has not been established with certainty that it was Mr Spointer's company that originated these rumours, so to avoid prejudicing the partners I shall not mention the name of this company—leaked false information to the press about alleged corner-cutting and use of cheap materials in C&S's latest furniture range. Now, you sold and persuaded other members of your team to sell a total of twenty-five million pounds worth of shares in Carmichael & Sons, half an hour before the leak went to press. Just prior to this meeting Carmichael & Sons' share price has recovered somewhat but it is still significantly reduced, most likely as a result of your trades. The Director of that organisation is understandably upset that large sales were made based on false information and I still have to get back to him to justify why—or even how—that decision was made. There are two ways I can get back to him; firstly, that the trade was made by our latest partner based on immaculate planning and assessment of C&S's long-term prospects and the connection to the dirty tricks campaign was coincidental. Or, I could tell him that the shares were sold at the insistence of a trader with a personal family connection to his competitor, and that the trader has since been disciplined for ethics violations." Edward felt a thin film of perspiration forming. He hadn't even made the connection between the rumours about Carmichael & Sons and Gradley Industries. He wondered if Marshall had found pleasure in linking him back to his father's firm. "You see Edward, what concerns me most about all these wonderful trades is that for the last few weeks there has been almost no activity at all on your research pass. When a trade which could be construed as potentially based on insider information goes through, we like to look at our traders' research logs and see plenty of data that shows they've been looking up that organisation's past trends, scouring industry gossip, etc. I called this meeting because we haven't found anything like that. To get your side of the picture. If you can justify your trades, Edward, then a partnership is open to you. Right now. If not, we need to think about what we do next." Edward's mouth was dry, ashy. He scanned the faces at the table. Of course there was no activity; every single trade had come straight out of Jeremy Marshall's big bent playbook. Why the hell hadn't he thought to cover his tracks? Had he thought Cooper Drake was stupid?! He had one tenuous lifeline. "Liz," he croaked. He didn't want to say anything more. Liz was studiously gazing down at the table, face bright red. "Sorry Edward, 'fraid I can't play along on this one. We've been rating Carmichael & Sons a strong buy for months. And we had no clue on Wincanton." Her voice had a bitter edge to it. "You seem to have some insight we don't. Sorry for lagging so far behind you." She seemed to shrink under Edward's vaporising gaze. Raymond was sighing now, putting aside his paper and reaching for a set of other forms. Gardening leave, Edward thought mutely. They'd pull apart every email he'd ever made, ransack his phone records. When they found out that Western Instruments had apparently been a hot tip from Edward's old firm, he'd be finished. The whole world buzzed around him, and it was a second before he realised that David had weighed in. "No, Edward's getting mixed up. There won't be anything on his research log because he lost his access card in a taxi. He couldn't afford to report it at the time so I've been lending him mine. Sorry, it's a breach of protocol, I know." Edward was left speechless, as much because it seemed like a suicidal gesture as anything. What would that do? They'd just look up David's records and find the same absence of evidence. MacIntyre turned; something weary in his voice. "I see. As you say, that's a breach of our policy, David, I'm surprised at you." David nodded, almost smiling now. "So you're saying that if we looked at //your// log we'd find excellent, bookmarked documentation showing that young Mr Gradley here has exhaustively researched Argentinian domestic economic policy and the furniture wars in the north of England?" David nodded. "Amongst quite a lot of other stuff. You see, I have to confess that Edward wasn't the only person I was loaning my card to. These things are just so flimsy—and they slide right out of your pocket when you're sitting down. Half my team have been using it, and Michelle, and Paul." He glared meaningfully at two of the other partners, who immediately started nodding their heads. "That's a hell of a lot of data to sort through, Raymond. Besides, as lead partner, to go through my research logs would mean a formal investigation into both Edward and myself. Are we sure that's justifiable?" Edward sat, gobsmacked by David Went's audacity. He had effectively dared MacIntyre to sack his two most valuable traders, and he could see from Raymond's increasingly washed-out face that he was in no mind to call David's bluff. "As you say, David, I don't think that's warranted. I'm happy to have received justification for these trades, and will now move to call a formal meeting of the board to admit Mr Gradley as a partner. Edward and anyone else who has"—he coughed—"//lost// their research passes is to purchase a new one immediately, and I expect to see all future trades documented on the right accounts to avoid embarassing situations like this in future." MacIntyre walked over to Edward, whispering something in David's ear along the way, and shook his hand. "You almost self-destructed there," he said quietly. "I think you owe Mr Went a big favour." "'Almost' never needs apologies," said Edward evenly. "Damn right. Well done, Mr Gradley," MacIntyre said in a louder voice, clapping him on the back before opening the door. Everyone filed out, Edward's team making distant football-celebratory noises when they saw his relief-flushed face. "David -" Edward said, grabbing the shorter man's shoulder, "Thank you. Why did you do that?" David looked at him with a deadpan expression. "Because we're friends, I thought. Besides, I'm 2-0 on you now, by my reckoning. I'm gunning for the hat-trick." He didn't see Elizabeth again until he broke for coffee—she was the only other person in the trading floor kitchenette, sitting under a dark cloud at the table with a cup of cocoa. "Liz?" She looked up at him, eyes and nose red. "Guess you want to know why I didn't back you up earlier. Well done on the partnership, by the way." "I kind of do want to know, yes." Her gaze carried absolute venom. "We never went for that coffee, did we?" He saw in that moment that she felt used, had realised the part he had made her play in the departure of Peter Davis. Perhaps she had even figured out where the Western Instruments tip had come from; even now she had refrained from doing the worst she could to him. He turned and walked away. ---- Death found Edward browsing for ideas for a new car. As partner his salary would start at two hundred thousand a year, not including bonuses. Right now he was trying to decide between the Porsche Panamera and a Toyota FT-86 Coupe. This time they didn't wait for him to log onto IRC; they did that for him, opening a new foreground tab that jerked him wide awake. > Death_4H: I see you've been busy Edward had almost forgotten about these jokers. They were the ones who got him into all this by trying to threaten him over the Cholmondeley takeover of Hong Kong Electric. Thoughts of saloons vs sports hatchbacks set firmly aside, he began typing. > EGradley: yes. working for a living tends to imply that. what do you do? > > Death_4H: very funny. we said we would be in touch. > > EGradley: still with that? let me guess, you want information on Marshall, Carter & Dark > > EGradley: i don't feel like playing > > Famine_4H has joined the channel > Pestilence_4H has joined the channel > > Death_4H: I know you've been trying to squirm further into their confidence because you think it will protect you > > EGradley: I'm pretty sure it does, as a matter of fact. > > Death_4H: you have no idea who you're in bed with > > EGradley: really? here's a thought: I'll tell you whatever you want if you go away > > Pestilence_4H: tell us what you think you know > > War_4H has joined the channel > > EGradley: MC&D the gentleman's club incorporates an art brokerage which is a front for insider dealing. > > EGradley: you can earn membership by acquiring pieces for resale, which is rewarded with information > > Pestilence_4H: which you've used > > EGradley: definitely did not say that > > Death_4H: try telling us something we don't know > > Pestilence_4H: wasn't a question > > Famine_4H: like the man says > > Famine_4H: no idea > > EGradley: what the hell are you going on about? > > Death_4H: we need to meet in person > > EGradley: not going to happen. > > Death_4H: it will. we're going to expose MC&D and you're going to help. > > EGradley: why is that, exactly? > > Death_4H: because, your recent illegalities aside you're not actually evil, as far as we know > > Death_4H: when you're ready, you'll figure out how to contact us. > > Death_4H has left the channel. > War_4H has left the channel. > Famine_4H has left the channel. > Pestilence_4H has left the channel. Well, that seemed to be it. Edward noted that they hadn't tried to blackmail him this time, which as far as he was concerned indicated they'd waited too long to play their hand. He couldn't decide whether they actually knew more about MC&D's activities or whether he'd just handed them Jeremy Marshall on a plate; either way, he thought, they were more likely to go after someone else now. ---- Edward was returning to his apartment after picking up the new car—he'd opted for the Porsche—when something struck him as slightly off. The door remained firmly locked—all the windows were closed, and at first glance nothing seemed out of place, but he had a sudden and unmistakable feeling that someone had been there. He immediately booted up his computer and checked the access times, allowing himself to breathe out as it showed no unusual activity. The two encrypted files that now held his strange communications with Death and his friends were apparently inviolate. He had almost forgotten his worries when he found the card, nestled inside his fruitbowl. It was smooth and black, with rounded edges and a familiar gold cartouche. This is what the card said: > //Edward Gradley// > > //You are invited.// > > ^^Christmas Ball^^ > ^^24 December 9.30pm^^ > ^^London Chapterhouse^^ Edward sat for a while looking at it. Did everyone involved with Marshall's little club get this special treatment? Or was this a warning? ---- The twenty-fourth was the busiest Edward had seen the clubhouse—though the foyer remained intimidatingly shadowy, the doors were for once wide open, as guests from politics, finance and the media flocked in. Edward had followed the directions on the glass membership card and arrived at the same time as David, who had brought Maria and the Parker girl. Edward felt a twinge of—pride, guilt?—that his car, suit and watch were all significantly more expensive than David's this time around. He had eschewed the services of Mr Stathopoulos, opting instead for Huntsman, Saville Row. Before he could speak to Maria she was whisked away by David and he was left talking to the willowy blonde who had sat with Maria before—Lady Penelope, he remembered—who had materialised suddenly. "Edward! So good to see you. You look positively //edible//," she said, as before not extending her hand but smiling prettily. "Thank you. Uh, are you here on your own?" "Yes, I'm afraid so. I usually come with Maria Beaumont, but she's been stolen away by that fat little banker." She sounded genuinely put out. "Oh, but I forget; you're in the trade too, aren't you? You must excuse me, that was horrible." "That's okay. Erm, do I say Dear Lady?" "Only if you have to! Call me Alexandra." "Thanks. I'm here on my own too." "Oh, you're too cute to be on your own. I'll keep you company." Lady Penelope was an amiable enough companion; he wasn't sure if her flowery compliments indicated sexual interest on her part or whether that was just her way of getting attention. They chatted for a few minutes while he tried to catch sight of Maria, wondering what spectacle MC&D would put on for its guests. They didn't have to wait long. A mist spread out over the whole ballroom, arching over the guests, faint pricks of precipitation spotting their hands and faces. After a few moments the air became vaguely irritating to the eyes—guests started to murmur that something had clearly gone wrong and a few started for the exits. Edward closed his eyes for a moment to clear the stinging mist and to his amazement another scene altogether appeared before his eyes; a picturesque rocky shore, somewhere northern, pocked with rockpools and with seagulls flying overhead. It was clearer than a dream—as though by closing his eyes he had opened another pair somewhere else entirely. "Close your eyes," he said to Lady Penelope, then louder, to the other guests. One by one, they seemed to populate the scene, appearing in their tuxedos and elegant ballroom gowns along the shoreline. They started to clap as they realised that this was no mere illusion—however MC&D had managed it, they were able to see and interact with each other in this ethereal world. The eyes of every other guest appeared closed; Edward wondered how his own eyes would appear in the nearest rockpool, and cautiously stepped towards it, wondering if he was about to walk into a table or another guest. The still, clear water showed no signs of his reflection, though he was able to cup the water in his hand and taste the sea salt. He realised he could hear the seagulls. A low, bass music began, booming out of the tide and the sea. The Marshall, Carter & Dark Christmas Ball had begun. Edward offered Lady Penelope his hand again but she shook her head, a strange mix of longing and fear on her face. The guests of Marshall, Carter & Dark danced on that strange, otherwise deserted shore in their ballroom garments, whirling and turning in space, kicking up small plumes of sand. Not one guest stubbed their foot on an invisible table or stumbled into a clubhouse wall. Edward had no idea how this was being effected, but it was the most astonishing thing he had experienced in his life. He looked at a distant, crumbling lighthouse on a rocky outcrop, and wondered if he could reach if it he walked long enough. Suddenly left adrift on the sand by his previous partner, who had spun away, Edward found himself facing Maria, wearing a white, almost bridal gown. Looking at her, he remembered the codex and almost turned away, heart stung. Instead, she took him firmly by the hand. "Dance with me," she said. It was a surreal experience—dancing on the shore of a great silver sea under a watery sun, seemingly miles away from London, his partner's eyes and the eyes of the dancers all around pressed firmly shut. As they moved he drew Maria closer until his nose was buried in her dark hair. She clung to him fiercely. They slowed and stopped, and the dreamlike dance around them seemed like an eternal progression; as though time had ceased to exist in this place. Then Edward looked past Maria and saw David there, facing them. His eyes, like the others, were shut, but his face was etched with lines of misery and betrayal. Edward disengaged himself from Maria, who turned and realised what he had seen. They hid themselves in the crowd, then, watching diplomats and celebrities dancing to that great thrumming noise at the edge of the impossible ocean. After a long time, the hiss of mist they realised had been there all along faded and the shore grew wavery and dim, as though the tide had come in and drowned the scene. One by one they winked out of existence, opening their eyes to find themselves seated or standing where they had been at the start of the dance. Out of the corner of his eye Edward saw Maria get up and leave David's table, though she did not come to him. Guests were not left long to discuss what they had experienced—a German-language operetta began, the female soprano's voice hauntingly beautiful yet startling in its mundanity next to that timeless waltz. During the opera guests were served small dishes of seafood and crudités in fresh seasonal dips, and it seemed normality had reasserted itself. An authentically MC&D touch at the end of the opera—the pain of the singers and the blood as the tenor threw himself upon his sword and the soprano agonisingly dragged herself onto the point projecting from his spine seemed very real, though this time the performers did re-emerge after the curtain came down to make their bows. Christmas dinner was served thereafter—marine variations on Christmas fare. Three chefs had been drafted in for this occasion, and again Edward had to wonder whether the Ready, Steady, Cook presenter, the Domestic Goddess and the school food campaigner in one kitchen wasn't a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. However, his meal of wild salmon with fennell and stuffed with bacon, pears, pecans and caramelised onion put paid to any criticism. For dessert, mixed white, milk, and dark chocolate had been woven into the form of various sea creatures, doused in spiced milk and nutmeg. On other tables he saw artificial coral crennelations in the shapes of Christmas trees, stars and angels, miniature undersea castles made from strands of sugar, a honeyed ship-flambé slowly drowning in a lake of warm rice pudding, bodies of marzipan castaways littering the surface. As guests finished their meals, the only thing left to do seemed to be to depart. Then, the lights began to dim, until the ballroom was lit only by cold, distant stars in the domed ceiling above. "I have a special part to play this time around," said Lady Penelope, as she stood up, taking a slim red leather volume out of her carrypurse. Edward obligingly clinked his glass until its sound had covered the whole length of the great hall. "Ladies and gentlemen," announced Lady Penelope, "we thought you really couldn't go home without just a little more excitement. So, we're going to play a party game. I've looked through this darling little book until I found something that sounded just right. We're going to play Sardines!" A couple of appreciative murmurs. "And because this is no ordinary place and no ordinary time, we're going to play this game with a twist." To Edward's surprise, Lady Penelope began disrobing in sight of the astonished guests. "We're going to play it entirely nude." Lascivious chuckles. "In a few minutes we'll draw straws and the longest is our first Sardine. At that time we'll extinguish all the lights. Our Sardine will go and hide somewhere in the chapterhouse. Every successive player will have to clamber in there with them, and we'll all feel sorry for the poor loser, as they'll be wandering all on their lonesome, in the dark." Each guest took a 'straw'—a piece of starched seaweed of varying length, some already beginning to remove their clothes. Edward saw David taking his straw—a stub of wrack—and heard him laugh, loud and bitter. "We have a winner," exclaimed Lady Penelope, "Maria Beaumont." Flushed with embarassment, Maria Beaumont stripped to the waist—Edward tried to avert his gaze, but caught a flash of tan skin. He glanced, and met her eyes—wide, the whites showing, like a wild animal. She shrugged off her skirt, her shoes. The lights went out, and he heard her footsteps pattering away, before they were engulfed in a tide of rustling and clandestine giggling, as though the great and good had been reduced to so many teenagers. He undid his zip, his buttons, and let five thousand pounds sterling of suit fall to the ground. The temperature of the ballroom had been lowered enough to induce shivering, all the better to make guests huddle together. Then the hunt began. Feeling their way in absolute darkness, the finders called out to each other to avoid colliding and to determine who was still in play. One by one, they went silent as each found Maria's hiding place. Occasionally enough moonlight shone through a vent or a locked backroom door to suggest some feature to the dark-adapted eye; an ornate lampshade or an Elizabethan chair. "Hello?" he called. "Am I the last one still out here? Come on guys, it's cold!" He thought he could hear a quiet suppressed snigger but careful exploration in the direction he thought it had come from failed to yield any results. Suddenly, a collision in the dark with something yielding, motile. He barely checked a yelp and startled back, his shoulder impacting what felt like wood panelling. For a moment there was nothing and he wondered if he had imagined that it had been a body—something about it had felt too cold, not alive. Then a hand touched his shoulder—icy, painfully cold. "I'm—sorry," he said, "I didn't hurt you, did I? I didn't think there was anyone left." The hand began to slide along his shoulder, up the side of his neck. "Erm, hi," Edward said. "I really don't think..." Before he could continue the shape pushed up against him—a body, unmistakeably female but so unbearably cold the absurd thought crossed his mind that he had somehow collided with a mannequin or something else human shaped. The notion was dispelled as it began to move against him, and he found it had pinned him to the wall by both shoulders, impossibly strong. It pressed in—so cold, and //damp//; clammy, like uncooked meat. It pressed against him, chilling, insistent, and Edward found himself fighting his gag reflex. "No," he said, and tried to pull away. The presence gripped him by his arm and chest, its nails digging into his flesh. "Let me go!" He twisted sideways, the woman's nails tracing lines of pain across his chest and left arm. He stumbled, bruising his shin on a low table, and half-ran half-crawled away on all fours. He blundered around in a daze, trying to navigate by the thin shafts of light, until a hand gripped his arm. This time he cried out, but was immediately checked by a chorus of muted laughter, and he realised the hand holding him was warm and alive. "Is that you, David?" said Maria's voice. He muttered an affirmative. "Somebody scratched me," he whispered, unable to vocalise the horror that he had felt. "It was probably an accident," she said, holding his face. Moments later, the lights slowly brightened—politicians, bankers, debutantes and stock traders found themselves in an undignified pile at the base of a staircase, spilling up as high as the mezzanine. Sheepish cheers gave way to a more businesslike atmosphere as everyone bustled to find their clothes. "I thought it was a cupboard," Maria said, standing up, covering herself with her arms. Who had been left out? Scanning the faces Edward could see only one omission—David Went. This has got to be the worst night of his life, thought Edward. He didn't know what he could or would say to the man. A couple of other guests went searching for Went, whom they agreed had probably got turned around somewhere upstairs. He redressed, noting ruefully the creases and footprints across Huntsman's best. Maria joined him, and acquiesced to his barely audible offer of a lift home. A sudden scream rang out, amplified by the domed roof. Then another. Edward got to his feet and ran towards the sound. Why 'towards'?, said his Philosophy lecturer, sitting on the lower fold of his right ear and kicking his legs against his earlobe. The human survival instinct as commonly understood that you run away from possible danger; that you take concern for the collective rather than yourself proves you to have social—in fact socialist—tendencies. Now, are they innate, or are they learned? Are you running because as a man you are socially conditioned to risk your own life for others? Are you incapable of resisting that programming, or do you have free will? Maria followed, still buttoning her blouse. As Edward crossed the threshold into the back stairwell, an elegant thing of three floors and jutting balconies over an alcoved space filled with flowering plants, and saw the thing hanging from the top railings by its belt, he doubled back and caught Maria. "Please," he said, "please don't look." She tried to push past him but at the same time buried her head in his chest, as though she already knew. The body of David Went, suspended in the air, rotated a quarter-turn, then reversed itself. One of his shoes—Church's, two hundred and fifty pounds—had fallen off and lay on its side two floors below. A crowd had gathered to behold the spectacle; some of them even started to applaud, as though it might have been some grisly finale to the evening—Murder in the Dark, which it was—before realising everyone else was looking on with horror. Edward pushed past them and went back to his table. No-one would be going home yet. ---- +++ Chapter Five: "There's Five" Along with the Parker girl, the only other guest from Cooper Drake, he had been asked to come down to the police station and provide an oral statement. At the firm's insistence he had been accompanied by Cooper Drake's lawyer, a hawk-faced gentleman with thin, slicked-back dark hair in a widower's peak who answered every question with a question and would only allow Edward to answer after whispered consultation. The police had found a note in David's pocket, handwritten, scrawled apparently blind on a napkin. Edward knew what it said because the police had shown it to him. This is what it said: > I am guilty. Tomorrow is Christmas Day and I cannot bear to see it. I have made millions from deceit and I can no longer stand silent. I cannot confess and I will not go to jail. I am left with one honourable outcome. I say honourable, but I will be spoiling everyone's evening. I am sorry. Birkman, Solico, UN Ltd. There is more. I operated alone; I did not involve others from Cooper Drake, or any other firm. I'm sorry. Edward stared at it, speechless. Something was terribly, horribly wrong here. Could David have been driven to suicide by the events of the evening? Perhaps. Would he have completely omitted his betrayal by a man he thought of as a friend and perhaps protégé? By a woman he loved? Would he have imputed his own death to guilt felt over insider trading? Edward couldn't believe it. All the deals the note mentioned predated Cholmondeley; the note read like it had been penned by someone ignorant of the last few months of David Went's life. The lawyer allowed him to tell the police that David Went had not seemed suicidal earlier, though he had appeared agitated at the party. Was it Went's handwriting, they asked. Edward considered the haphazard lettering. The lawyer permitted him to express the view that never having seen anything written by David in the dark he was unable to form a verdict. The police nodded sagely and handed the plastic bag containing the note back. Had Edward ever known Went to be anything less than a perfectly ethical broker? Before Edward could even begin to formulate a response the lawyer leaned in and snippily told the officers that any questions about Went's performance were a matter for Cooper Drake's management alone, in the first instance for his direct manager, Raymond MacIntyre. At work, Edward watched in shock as police came and took all David's computer equipment away for forensic analysis. Another round of interviews for everyone on the trading floor; Edward insisted on hiring his own lawyer, who sat on his other side and got into short, terse disagreements with Cooper Drake's representative for four hundred and fifty pounds an hour. It didn't help that at some time since the ball Edward had caught some respiratory infection which left him hawking great lumps of phlegm into a tissue, which both his lawyers insisted on pointing out to the present police officers—every single time—did not constitute an answer and should not be taken as an affirmative or negatory response. After intense discussion with both his legal counsel, Edward was able to represent to the police that David had passed on several leads which seemed unusually hot; but which he had insisted originated in conversations overheard at his gentleman's club. It did not escape Edward that the words 'Marshall, Carter & Dark' were never mentioned by the police at any time; the venue's own lawyer, slick and toothy in a black suit and coiffed hair, seemed to have the power to always appear just outside any room where David Went was being discussed. Edward had phoned through to MC&D and demanded to speak to Jeremy Marshall. "Complete immunity, you said. When the police search David's computers and find reference to the Cholmondeley deal..." "You're safe, Edward," he crooned, voice slightly distorted by the line. "Everything's being taken care of. How unfortunate about David. Still, we have a bright new star at Cooper Drake, don't we?" Edward had ended the call and immediately thrown up in his sink. He had not been mistaken; there had been no other guests legitimately playing 'Sardines' left by the time he was wandering in silence. He felt sure that David Went had been killed, perhaps as soon as the lights had been extinguished. That cold, damp presence ... the woman who had effortlessly pinned him to the wall but whose body felt like a dead thing—he was left in no doubt that she had been the killer. And he was just as sure that the agency behind her had been Jeremy Marshall. He suspected that Went had made no further acquisitions for Marshall after Cholmondeley. But if Edward had not involved himself directly with the firm, surely David would still be alive. No, Marshall, Carter & Dark had David killed because they had a shiny new toy, at least, until they got bored of him too. Perhaps it had even been a warning. Probably all three—Jeremy Marshall didn't seem like the sort of man to order a murder for just one reason. He needed a plan. Googling '4H' yielded nothing useful. '4H Death', similarly. '4H Death War Famine Pestilence' told him what he should probably already worked out, that '4H' meant 'Four Horsemen', but nothing else. Finally, in desperation he returned to #theologywars and asked if anyone had heard of a group or organisation called '4H' or 'Four Horsemen'. > Acts238: Actually, it's Conquest, War, Famine, Death, and Hell. There's five. > > Acts238: But only four horses; Zech 6:2-3 calls them the spirits of the heavens (KJV 1611) > > nodeceit: that's a deceitful interpretation. there are many horses of each kind in Zechariah, and they are chariots, not horsemen. they don't represent the same thing > > nodeceit: and KJV-onlyism is a doctrine from hell, see our expose > > landoverbaptist: Your mother sucks cocks in hell. Edward sighed. He probably should have known better than to ask about anything with an eschatological subtext here. Then something caught his eye. > 911truther: They're a conspiracy theorist group. Let-it-happeners. > > 911truther: Big into black helicopter stuff: see here—[# link] The blog seemed to have been abandoned a long time ago; mostly blurry pictures of paramilitary-style SWAT teams raiding houses, unmarked planes and the standard conspiracy spiel about various shady non-state actors who supposedly had tendrils in every level of national and supranational government. No wonder Marshall, Carter & Dark are giving them such a boner, he thought, Secretaries of State, big business tycoons, movie stars... if the Illuminati exist, MC&D are cramping their style. The nicks of the authors were the same—Death_4H, War_4H, Famine_4H, Pestilence_4H, confirming for Edward that he'd found the right place. There were no contact details listed, but after trawling through their archives he found an appeal for information about an obscure Red Scare-era organisation called GRU Raskolnik P (supposedly headed by chess grandmaster Ivan Sokolov and the Soviet counter to Project Stargate), with a hotmail email address. He had no idea if it was even still active, but decided it was his best shot. He wrote: > To: [# FourHorsemen] > From: [# EGradley] > > Subject line: Marshall, Carter & Dark > > It's Edward. I'm ready. ---- O'Reilly's Grill and Diner was about as far from the art deco café used by Jeremy Marshall as you could get. Dark colours, stained padded seats, with a cracked television blaring out horse races and occasionally football. The smoking ban was in force but the smell remained, pressed horribly into every surface by years of nicotine exposure. The owner, an incomprehensibly Irish man with a limp, scowled when Edward ordered a black coffee and what slid over the counter a few minutes later was some sort of tea with black grit floating in it. Edward strained some of the granules out with a napkin and took a cautious sip. It tasted like burnt toast. Edward wasn't sure what he had been expecting from the Four Horsemen—what did conspiracy theorists wear these days? Tie-dye and ripped jeans? Then again, if Hollywood had taught him anything about hackers, he should be looking for beautiful people in black leather and wraparound shades. The odd couple who walked in the door and ordered drinks didn't even register on his radar until they slid in beside him. One was literally a kid—a young teenager in a school shirt and trousers with dark hair in a flippy haircut with white highlights and painted fingernails. The other looked to be well into his forties, tall and borderline obese, with a massive gut hanging over his belt below a Metallica teeshirt, a goatee and thinning curly brown hair scraped into a ponytail. He did wear shades—but they were brown with big plastic frames. "Edward Gradley," said the kid with the black fingernails. "You two? You're the four horsemen?" said Edward, amusedly. "Well, I'm Death," said the kid, who had the good grace to look a little embarassed as he said it. "This is War -" he gestured to the overweight metal fan. "Pestilence's mom wouldn't let him come and Famine couldn't get the day off work." "If you don't mind me saying so, you're a bit of a mismatched pair." "This is the first time we've met up in person, actually," said War, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Look, we're here for one reason, and that's to talk about Marshall, Carter & Dark. Why the sudden change of heart?" "They killed David Went." "We heard suicide," said Death measuredly, sipping his glass of Sprite. "That's what the police think. But his suicide note doesn't make sense. It couldn't have been written by him. Things that happened that night, things that could have really pushed him over the edge, he doesn't mention at all. There was a party game—in the dark. I bumped into someone still walking around after everyone was supposed to be hidden. A woman." "And you can prove that MC&D were behind it?" War sounded excited. "No. Sorry. But Jeremy Marshall..." "Who Marshall?" "Jeremy. That's what he said his name was." "Interesting," said Death, and scribbled something in the margins of the ringbinder he'd brought along. "...Jeremy Marshall all but told me he'd had David killed because I was ... better controllable, more promising, I don't know." "You must feel good about yourself right now," Death said flatly. "Look," said Edward angrily, "I didn't come to get lectured at, okay? You said you were going to explain what's really going on here." "We're trying," said War. "You got it the wrong way round. The art stuff isn't a cover for the insider trading—the trading covers a worldwide art theft and money laundering operation. Members ask for a piece and MC&D get it, no questions asked. In return they're taking in money from drugs, illegal arms deals, regimes like North Korea and Iran. They have a catalogue—you've seen it?" Edward nodded. "That's so any criminal can walk in and trade as much cash as he can carry for a legitimately acquired piece; guaranteed value. Right now they're untouchable—their membership includes police chiefs and politicians; not just here but in the USA, France, Germany. They make sure they have something on all their members; whether it's dodgy deals based on information they've provided, photos of kinky sex scandals orchestrated in their own clubhouses, or just straight-up bribery." "So they're a gentleman's club fronting an insider trading ring fronting an international crime syndicate? It seems unbelievable." "Well," said Death, "you've apparently met the fuckers behind this thing. Does it strike you as beyond them?" Edward fell silent for a moment. "What can I do? "First, you need to figure out who you can trust at Cooper Drake. If what you say is true, MC&D wouldn't have had Went killed unless they had someone else in place to keep tabs on you. Then you'll set up another acquisition with Marshall." War nudged the kid's arm and he stopped talking. "I don't wish to alarm you but that car's gone past twice already." Edward looked up but it had already gone. "Black Citroën, license plate starts 'SE'". Death looked up, eyes flashing. "You idiot! You didn't check to see if you were being tailed?" "I think you're being paranoid," said Edward, though even as he said it he thought: //but that doesn't mean they're not out to get you//. "Fuck that," said Death. "Look, we'll be in touch. Hey, O'Reilly, is there a back door to this place?" The barkeep said something neither Edward nor apparently the Horsemen could make out. Instead, Death tapped his watch and War nodded. Death left first, followed fifteen seconds later by War. They went in different directions. Edward was left with his toast-flavoured hot water, which after a moment's consideration he swapped for Death's half-finished soft drink. Who can you trust, he thought? It would help if I could trust myself first. ---- After another twenty minutes he left the bar and walked back to his apartment. Half-way he bumped into a man he didn't recognise—thirties or forties, stubbly, balding. "Sorry," Edward said, absent-mindedly. The man's reaction, however, stuck in Edward's memory—he fixed Edward with a look of fear or embarassment, then brought his hand to his mouth in a strangely feminine gesture. Then he turned and fled. There was something strange about the way he ran, but Edward couldn't put his finger on it. ---- This time Edward walked from his car to the Beaumont house under cover of an umbrella. She opened the door, resplendent in an apron and the smell of something hot and sugary filling the air. "Edward," she said, smiling. "I wasn't expecting -" she trailed off as he shrugged off his shoes, walked past her wordlessly. She followed him, tugging at his sleeve, asking him what was wrong. They stopped in the library, and he took her to the shelf containing the replica codex. Lifted it out, placed it in her hands, saw her feel its weight. He opened it for her, let her see the Currys-spare-part hinges and chipped washing-machine paint interior—its empty interior. She dropped the box, turned and grasped him tight around the chest with one arm, beat on it with the other. "I'm sorry." he said. "I'll get it back. I swear. I'll get it back." As he drove away he saw another car, a red Vauxhall Meriva, put its lights on and pull out of the row in front of the terrace. He looked in the mirror every few minutes and could see it hovering at the very edge of visibility in the London traffic. Then he saw it signal off and turn into a side road, and he allowed himself to exhale deeply as another vehicle emerged. Then, five minutes later, the car that had turned onto his road turned off, and the red Vauxhall was back. Edward deliberately took a detour from his usual route, even circling around a roundabout three times as though trying to make up his mind. When he exited, the second car was a short way behind him. He pulled over, watched it pause, then indicate that it too would park. He got out of his car and walked towards the vehicle, not caring about the rain. When he got ten paces from its tinted windows its engine started up again and it pulled away. That night he played chess online again for the first time in years, against a self-professed first-timer from Texas. He played under a pseudonym, just in case anyone still recognised him from that brief glorious summer when he had seemed invincible. Edward hadn't been able to see six moves ahead—those corridors were still closed to him. But he realised he could //remember// thinking that way, could recall the output of that black box if not the mechanism by which it had operated. He had played White and the game had resulted in a stalemate. Still, he thought, it was a start. ---- To Liz, he said that he had gambled on the launch of the latest iPhone and lost. Raymond MacIntyre heard that he had been blindsided by aviation fuel increases that put paid to a key engine refit on Ryanair's fleet. He confided in Michelle Myers that he had tied himself into four million pounds in European options on Microsoft that unless Ballmer spectacularly screwed up in the next month would leave him hundreds of thousands down. Paul Reagan offered sympathy when Edward bemoaned a million pounds of Turkish government debt wiped out by a bondholder haircut. Various members of his team were left believing he had made disastrous trades in biotech, solar power, soft furnishings or vacuum cleaners. No matter how you looked at it, Edward had had a rough week. Except, of course, he hadn't. The secrets left in Marshall's little red book had expired, but he had put in a few long nights and his current trades—geothermal startups in Norway, Chinese infrastructure firms in Ghana, an Oxford outfit that had worked out how to manufacture buckypaper for electronic heatsinks at a fraction of the usual price, and for old time's sake some aerodynamics contractors who had recently been signed by Lockheed Martin—were ticking over very nicely. Now he was just waiting for the phone call. "Mr Gradley," Marshall's voice oozed from his mobile. "I'm so sorry to hear you've been having some difficulties. Oh, but I shouldn't offend your pride. You're being faced with new challenges, and new opportunities. Mr O'Leary //clearly// lacks vision—those new engines would have paid dividends in the long run. I'll tell him how disappointed I am at our next brunch. In the meantime, perhaps you would care to consider making another acquisition for us?" "I'd love to," said Edward, through clenched teeth. MacIntyre, you insufferable shit. No wonder you called that meeting. I wonder, did you know what that meant for David? Did you realise he was signing his own death warrant by saving me? ---- Breakfast at the smaller MC&D clubhouse on Wood Lane was a surreal affair. BBC personalities—including several Edward had been quite sure were dead—and private sector TV and newspaper execs rubbed shoulders with international dignitaries over freshly baked crumpets and sticks of warmed salted butter while small drama and music acts performed enthusiastically. Every so often one of the media goliaths would politely excuse themselves and shamble over to the performers that had just left the stage. It's a glorified talent show, Edward realised; he could only imagine what the young people on stage had had to do to get their chance. There, at the centre of it all, was Jeremy Marshall, alternately smiling and nodding to the presenter of Newsnight and snarling into a slim mobile phone. "Too rough ... no, my dear fellow, you gave them exactly what they were asking for. Excuse me ... well, I didn't give the PM a bloody horse. Take care of her! My apologies ... yes, I've seen University Challenge several times... Ah, Mr Gradley." His companion apparently sensed he had been dismissed and wandered over to the next table where Sir Trevor McDonald was holding court with a surprisingly risqué story about his time in the Caribbean. "Well, plant some of Mulcaire's letters in her home. No, we didn't destroy them, do you think I'm an idiot? You're supposed to be the professional, think of something." He ended the call and looked up at Edward. "Please, have a seat. Have a crumpet—or there are cinnamon bagels, if you like." He clapped his hands and one of the blank-eyed serving staff appeared with a serving dish covered by a cloche. Edward shook his head. "Very well," he said, dismissing the young man, who vanished quietly and efficiently. "Now, Edward, you are familiar, I gather, with the Lady Alexandra Penelope?" "Yes. I spoke to her at the Christmas Ball." "Very good. Yes, the dowager countess of Swindon. How tragic, to be widowed under suspicious circumstances at such a—well, at her age." "Which is?" "Entirely irrelevant, Mr Gradley! A dashing young man such as yourself should have learned never to ask a lady her age. Now, as to the acquisition I want you to make. Since you have proven yourself so able to acquire items without financial outlay—and are a man of means these days, I understand—I don't anticipate any expenses will be necessary in this case. The Lady Penelope has a certain antique comb which you are to retrieve without delay. Oh, don't adopt that ridiculous expression, Mr Gradley. The comb in any case belongs to Marshall, Carter & Dark and was lent to Lady Penelope on the understanding that she could retain it only if she met certain conditions, which events have now rendered it impossible for her to do. Go to her house, get the comb. I don't really care how you do it. And then we can talk about rectifying your latest misadventures in the big wide world of finance." "Okay." Marshall passed him another briefing document with an image of the comb—an ugly, twisted thing wrought in ivory and bearing a singularly confused version of the Last Supper, wherein at least the central four figures all appeared to be Jesus Christ. Edward thumbed along the photo, counting the participants; excluding the ones with haloes and short beards there were only 11 other figures. Now he knew what he was looking for, he realised Lady Penelope had been wearing it at least the last time he had seen her. "So, where do you keep all this stuff?" he asked, as nonchalantly as he could. "I'd love to take a look at the warehouse, as it were." Marshall looked at him, warily. "Have your eye on what's behind the shop curtain, eh? Maybe once you get the comb. Don't push your luck, though—you've already chosen your reward for this acquisition." ---- Lydiard Manor, the family residence of Lady Penelope, formally the Dowager Countess Swindon, was a stately Georgian pile set away from prying eyes down a long, leafy private lane. Edward pulled the Porsche up next to the expansive lawn, framed on either side by leafy conifers, and walked up to the front door—a plastic sheeting was visible pulled over the door from the other side. "Side entrance," the cut-glass vowels of Lady Penelope intoned from the window directly above him. He looked up but could only see billowing lace curtains. Obligingly he crunched the gravel path which he suspected had been a moat and found a bay door wide open to the exterior, propped open with a singularly hideous garden ornament. It led through to an attractive summer-room, decorated with fine portraits of the family—the Bolingbrookes, he recalled. Lady Penelope stepped out from behind a rich purple curtain, wearing a diaphanous, floaty dress that seemed at odds with the wintery drizzle outside. She looked tired—certainly older than he remembered, maybe late thirties rather than late twenties. The skin around her eyes seemed loose, as though she hadn't slept for days, and her complexion was pallid. Her hair was loose, shoulder-length, and pale—a section had been pinned diagonally over her eyes for a fringe and he could see the cream outline of the comb holding it in place. "La- I mean, Alexandra," he said, recalling their conversation at the Christmas Ball. "It's good to see you." "So good to hear from you too," said Lady Penelope. "I heard they investigated David's work—how tragic! How is Maria taking all this?" "I don't know," he said. "I haven't spoken to her much." "Really," said Lady Penelope thoughtfully. "So, what brings you to this little place?" "Not so little," chuckled Edward. There was something in all this that was making him nervous; the air was so dusty it was aggravating his sinuses. Didn't she clean, or hire someone to do it? He supposed if she was rattling around in here alone after the death of Lord Swindon she might only clean the rooms she used on a daily basis. He had planned to flirt his way in, exploiting her apparent affection for him, find the comb and leave—after all, he had no intent of actually leaving it in the hands of Jeremy Marshall. However, the sight of her wearing it had drained his courage and he felt suddenly guilty. "Alexandra, it's about Marshall, Carter & Dark." Her expression grew troubled. "What have they said? What have they told you?" she said, voice suddenly sharp. "No, no," he said. "it's just that I've gotten myself into a bit of a bind, and you might be able to help." Her expression was replaced with one of all smiles and she gestured to the staircase on their right as they left the summer-room. "Why didn't you say? I'll help in any way I can. But let's go somewhere in a bit of a better state, shall we? I'm sorry about all the mess, I just haven't been keeping up appearances, I'm afraid. Upstairs, first room on the left. I'll get something to drink." Edward ventured up the dark flight of stairs—all the doors were shut and he had to feel his way along until he found the frame. Opening it he found what had once been a great master bedroom—a colossal bed with an overhanging lace curtain and ornate frame, great wooden drawers and a writing desk in the corner. This room had been dusted but was still in a sad state of decline—damp patches were peeling the wallpaper and cracks appearing in the ceiling. "Here we go," the Lady Penelope said, closing the door behind them and brandishing a bottle of red wine. "Chateau Margaux, ninety-five. Not the oldest vintage but it's one I enjoy." She poured out a measure into crystal glasses—Edward sat at the writing desk and took an exploratory sip. "So Edward," she said, delicately, "what was it you hoped I could help you with?" She walked towards him, brought her face near his, letting him scent the frankly excessive amount of perfume the blonde seemed to be using. "Oh. No, I mean, Alexandra, I think you've got the wrong idea—I was hoping to ask if I could borrow that comb..." Her eyes flashed. This close he could see how made-up she was, how the skin beyond the foundation had lost its elasticity—he mentally revised his estimate to early or mid forties. "You don't want the comb," she said, an element of pleading entering to her voice. "You want me, don't you—you came here because you've fallen in love with me." Edward's mind reeled. What the hell was this? He hadn't even made any hints in that direction; had, in fact, decided to ask her plainly if he could borrow the antique comb for a day in the hopes of recovering the codex. Her personality seemed to have changed utterly since their first meeting at the chapterhouse. "You don't love Maria, that unfaithful bitch," Lady Penelope continued, her voice suddenly raw, croaking. "You've only wanted me." She took hold of his arm with surprising force, and to his horror Edward felt the cold of her seep through his suit and into his flesh. She pushed herself against him, so horribly unlike anything alive, and he knew she was the presence that had met him in the dark. "You killed David," he whispered. "He was in your way—in the way of what you wanted—he was yesterday's man," she said, voice cracking. "Please, don't hate me. I don't want you to hate me." And under the cloying perfume, he smelled it, as her face pressed up against his, makeup rubbing off on his collar, his skin—the smell of meat that had gone bad, rancid, and as he grabbed her arm to try and lever her off, her skin began to slip off the underlying muscle. He screamed. With strength he didn't know he had, he gave her an almighty push, dislodging her grip from his arms. Screeching like something possessed she toppled backwards and hit the floor with a horrible sucking sound. He didn't wait to see if she recovered; he ran through the house, out to the summer-room. The door was locked from the inside. He scrabbled around, couldn't see a key. Not knowing why he did it, he grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a //Complete Works of Goethe//, and hurled it with all his might at the French window. It shattered and he hurled himself through the gap, running raggedly back to to the Porsche. ---- Edward drove, taking turns at random, for as long as he could, and when he was too weary to continue driving, he parked and curled up on the back seat in his five thousand pound suit. He dreamed, and his dreams were a horrible, confused mess of everything that had happened to him. His father had died, he remembered, and in the terms of his will he had left everything to the son who surpassed him first. In the dream Edward had two brothers and a sister, though for some reason she had been left out of the will. Somehow they were all at Cooper Drake and were working side-by-side on different deals, except he knew something they didn't; Jeremy Marshall stood over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, and in the way of dreams it was all dire nonsense, about throwing sugar into people's eyes and doors that opened into other places and investing in a liquid that turned anything into food, and he prospered while his brothers grew poorer. And Maria was there, no, he was at her house, but she was made of glass and he had to stop her breaking because you only get one, and she was so cold to the touch, her skin just sloughed off the bone until there was nothing there but a skeleton made of glass. And now he was a child again, about twelve or thirteen, and he was at an outdoor chess club, and he suddenly realised in a flash of lucidity that this was a dream, but it was also a memory, this was something that happened and which he had forgotten. Someone cast their shadow over the table, and he looked up to see a tall man with wavy blond hair and perfect teeth, and cruelty in his blue eyes. "Do you want to play?" he asked. And he folded out a chessboard that was not a chessboard, because every move Edward made it countered perfectly, all on its own, and when it did it it picked at a golden thread from deep inside him and tugged a little more of it away. And the blond stranger went up to his mother, watching as the board ate her son a little bit at a time, and said something that at the time he had not understood. "Tell your husband he will have what he wanted." Edward awoke rumpled and bleary-eyed, the rain sluicing down the car's windows, and the dream tumbled away from him into the dark. ---- [[=]] << [[[acquisitions1 \| Act I - "Jellybeans"]]] \| [[[acquisitions-hub \| HUB]]] \| [[[acquisitions3 \| Act III - "Rainy in London"]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-09-01T19:33:00	[ "_licensebox", "corporate", "crime-fiction", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act II - SCP Foundation	122	[ "acquisitions2#toc0", "acquisitions2#toc1", "acquisitions1", "acquisitions-hub", "acquisitions3", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "acquisitions-hub" ]	[]	14189218	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/acquisitions2
acquisitions3	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <table style="margin:0; padding:0"> <tr> <td style="margin:0; padding:0"> <div id="toc"> <div id="toc-action-bar"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.foldToc(event)">Fold</a><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.unfoldToc(event)" style="display: none">Unfold</a></div> <div class="title">Table of Contents</div> <div id="toc-list"> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc0">Chapter Six: "Rainy in London"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc1">Chapter Seven: "Codex"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc2">Chapter Eight: "Castle"</a></div> </div> </div> </td> </tr> </table> <h3 id="toc0"><span>Chapter Six: "Rainy in London"</span></h3> <p>In the morning's watery light, he sat for a few minutes while the events of the previous evening caught up with him. You fucking idiot, he thought to himself. He had forgotten the comb! There was no way if it remained on the person of Lady Penelope that he could call the police, if they were even willing to investigate. Besides, something within him told him that the noise her skull had made when it hit the floor had been very, very bad. He would have to go back, confront what had happened and try to get the comb if he had any realistic prospect of accessing MC&D's acquisitions warehouse and recovering the codex.</p> <p>He bought a warm Danish and a coke from a street vendor and sat in his car, considering his options, when his mobile vibrated to indicate a new text message. He picked it up and checked it, apprehensively.</p> <blockquote> <p>meet me @pimlico fresh 10mins death</p> </blockquote> <p>Unless the hygiene level of Pimlico Fresh's frappucino had really gone downhill, this was presumably a message from the Four Horsemen. He checked his watch. While he didn't have time to spare they might have some way out of this insanity. He dried his runny nose with a tissue—the night in the car had reactivated his flu, it seemed.</p> <p>As he entered the coffee shop he saw kid Death and his silly hairdo, sitting on a stool and swinging his legs. Beside him was a blackhead-smattered older teen who he presumed was Pestilence.</p> <p>"The harbingers of the apocalypse, I presume," said Edward tiredly, adjusting his tie and ruffling his hair in the café window.</p> <p>"Yes. You got another little mission from Marshall, didn't you?" Death seemed tetchy; maybe he'd chipped his nail polish.</p> <p>"So what if I did?" Edward challenged. "I need to set some things right and I can't do that unless I find out where Marshall's keeping … something I stole from someone close to me. Do you have a problem with that?"</p> <p>"No, look, that's OK. Fine, actually, it's what we hoped for. It's the comb, isn't it?" said Pestilence, excitedly, grabbing a shoebox off the floor.</p> <p>"Yes it is. First of all, how exactly did you…"</p> <p>"Never mind about that," started Death.</p> <p>"Actually, I want to tell him. It's been requested by Saad bin Abdullah bin Abd al-Aziz bin Abdul-Rahman Al Saud."</p> <p>"Pardon?"</p> <p>"One of MC&D's Saudi clients. Something's up with the comb and Lady Penelope—it keeps being given to different people and ending up in her possession—haven't quite gotten on top of that yet—but it's an 11<sup>th</sup> century liturgical comb. I mean, it's worth something, but why is it being treated like the Holy Grail? We think there's something else going on—whether it's being used to smuggle government secrets, or whether it's some sort of Dan Brown puzzle. That's why we want you to bring it to us. At the very least we'd have something MC&D wants."</p> <p>"What? Did you not just hear…"</p> <p>"Yes," said Death, cutting in. "That's why War went and had this made." He signalled to Pestilence, who opened the box to reveal a yellowed ivory comb, identical-looking to the one he'd seen in the document given to him by Jeremy Marshall. "You give <em>this</em> to Marshall and return the real one to us."</p> <p>Edward took the comb from the box, turned it over in his hands. It was small, no more than six inches across, with fine ivory teeth in two different widths.</p> <p>"So, you guys are with the police, or…?"</p> <p>Death harrumphed. "Yeah, sure, I'm Officer Steve McDeath, you're all under arrest. Book 'em, Pestilence. Seriously, do we look like cops?"</p> <p>"No idea, but if you end up with something Marshall wants you'd better know what you're doing. Right now all I'm seeing are two kids in way out of your depth."</p> <p>"Please," said Death, "I've been screwing with powerful people longer than you've been a stock trader. We know what we're doing. You haven't met Famine yet, have you?"</p> <p>"Okay," said Edward, and finished his hot chocolate.</p> <p>"Good," Death said, wandering over to the window and looking out in both directions. "Pestilence, this idiot has a tendency to attract tails. One of them followed me half-way through London after our last meeting before I ditched him on the Tube."</p> <p>"MC&D?" asked Pestilence.</p> <p>"Not as far as I can tell. Crypto-governmental, looked like."</p> <p>"Well, looks like you're on your own," said Pestilence to Edward, leaving a five pound tip and disappearing into the back of the shop. When Edward looked around Death had similarly made his egress.</p> <p>Some pros, thought Edward. I give Marshall the fake—and what happens when you get in touch to ransom the real thing? Either you didn't think that part of the plan out or you don't care if I get myself killed either. No, he'd have to find something else to appease the Horsemen.</p> <hr/> <p>Lady Penelope's mansion was as he'd left it—glass strewn over the porch on the right hand side of the house, increasingly soggy Goethe sinking into the drain. He cautiously moved into the summer-house.</p> <p>"Alexandra?" he called. "Alexandra? Are you OK?"</p> <p>No response. The creeping decay he had noticed before seemed suddenly more profound, ceilings sagging noticeably, the stairs feeling rotten and unsteady as he ascended to the first floor. The smell hit him as he pushed open the door to the master bedroom—nauseating, hideous.</p> <p>Lady Penelope lay on the floor—where she had fallen? He couldn't be sure. Her body had already caved in on itself, a putrefying mass he had to try and keep his breakfast down to approach. What could have done this? Her skin was taut over her skull, eyes like burst egg yolks. The comb was still in her hair.</p> <p>He knelt down, one arm up over his face, burying his nose in his elbow and breathing in the smell of Huntsman's proprietary fabric softeners. They did little to mask the stench. His other hand, trembling, reached out for the comb. He half expected the horrific thing to sit up and try to stop him. It came away, chunks of her blonde hair following, with little chunks of rotten flesh at their tips. He brushed the hair away in morbid fascination.</p> <p>The comb was in his hand. The replica, in his pocket. He knew he could not give the real comb to the Horsemen, and briefly toyed with the idea of returning them their own fake. No, still too risky. Not only would they likely have integrated some flaw to point out to Marshall to convince him that what he held was indeed fake, he still couldn't risk anyone telling Marshall he had been given a forgery, even if it wasn't true. And I don't like what one more theft will make me, he thought.</p> <p>On a whim, he went over to the oak writing table and saw the little key in the lock of the drawer. He turned it, put the real comb inside and locked it, and put the key in his other pocket.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward drove to the main London chapterhouse and knocked on the door, holding his glass member's pass, which had somehow survived the night in his pocket. The bag-eyed porter opened his peephole and glared out, before crinkling in amusement.</p> <p>"Mr Gradley—you're expected! Straight through; Mr Marshall and Mr Carter are in the office towards the back."</p> <p>Edward didn't feel like facing either man again, but nodded and walked through into the ballroom, which was being prepared for some great theatrical display.</p> <p>"Excuse me, can you tell me where…" The staff ignored him, continuing their actions as though they hadn't heard or seen him at all. Brainwashed, he thought.</p> <p>Far from 'straight through', the offices required navigation of the labyrinthine system of back rooms; many were locked and he heard voices raised in pleasure and pain. Eventually he emerged into a lavish Elizabethan parlour where Messrs Marshall and Carter sat taking tea from a pot in the shape of a screaming human head. It seemed to be a hit.</p> <p>"The <em>body</em>, Mr Carter!" Jeremy Marshall was enthusing wildly when Edward entered. "Ah, Mr Gradley. Does the young hero return triumphant?"</p> <p>Edward held up the comb, which he had wrapped in tissue, fearful that its teeth might break, before sneezing volcanically.</p> <p>"The dowager's comb, Mr Carter—back in the hands of its rightful owners."</p> <p>"Not for long, Mr Marshall," chuckled Carter, the growth on his back groaning with him. "Just make sure its new owner knows what precautions to take. Give Mr Gradley some Peramivir before he goes."</p> <p>Marshall smiled thinly. "Indeed. Now, Mr Gradley, the item?" He extended his hand.</p> <p>"I said I wanted to see where the acquisitions are stored," he insisted.</p> <p>Marshall scowled. "Oh, very well. Mr Gradley insists on aggregating a double reward to himself, Mr Carter."</p> <p>"A—man after my own heart—Mr Marshall. Good to see old Bernard's Nordic blood not wholly diluted, yes?"</p> <p>"Then you shall see what lies beneath, Mr Gradley. But be advised—this is not a shopping trip. If you wish us to help you salvage your career, then you will be content to look and not touch, at least for now."</p> <hr/> <p>Again with the blindfold! A velvety cloth was tied over his eyes and he was escorted quietly and efficiently into a car, which he later learned was a black limousine. He held the comb—the fake, of course—clutched tightly in his hands the whole way, fully expecting Jeremy to renege on his promise the second he had it in his possession. Mr Marshall sat somewhere to his right, doing something that made a disquietening scritch-scratch that seemed alarmingly close to his ear—possibly filing his nails, possibly not.</p> <p>The ride seemed to take hours, and Edward became increasingly nervous. It occurred to him that he had no real exit strategy—assuming he somehow got free of Marshall and gained free run of the warehouse, and assuming he found and was able to get out with the codex, what would he do? He had no car, no means of transport, and would surely be run down and returned to Marshall's tender ministrations within minutes. He resolved to take events as they came. For a while he tried to focus on the sound of the limo's wheels on the road, but, of course, he had no training in identifying a surface from the sound it made. For what it was worth the ride seemed smooth, so they probably hadn't gone offroad. Was that a good thing?</p> <p>At length the vehicle purred to a halt and Edward was bundled out, the blindfold removed. The blank-faced young men and women in formal serving attire had given way to seedy-looking private security with a paramilitary flavour; he saw at the hip of one the stock of a semi-automatic rifle. Before them was a vast rectangular concrete monstrosity, surrounded by two barbed-wire fences and angled subterranean roller shutters which as he watched retracted to admit an armoured truck. It looked less like a warehouse than some despot's compound.</p> <p>"This is where it all comes, Mr Gradley," gestured Marshall, as they entered on foot via a checkpoint—the guards immediately found something fascinating to look at on the wall or ceiling as Jeremy Marshall passed and the barriers were raised before they got within ten paces of them. Good to know, thought Edward; they're terrified of him. Any time something or someone behaves in a predictable way they can be exploited—stocks and shares 101.</p> <p>Edward had expected some vast space inside the warehouse—instead, they entered a serpentine mess of stacks and shelves, the aisles not straight but turning and twisting like a labyrinth. The only clue to the area's size could be seen in the height of the ceiling, rising far above the three and four shelf units. Watery naked bulbs hung like Christmas ornaments from the walkways above, criss-crossing the space and casting a green-grey pallor on everything. The area nearest to the door appeared to be outgoing objects—guards packaging five foot tall Easter Island heads in bubblewrap and loading them onto pallets. He scanned the items lined up for shipping but couldn't see the codex.</p> <p>"Stay close to me," warned Marshall, "we wouldn't anything happening to you, would we? And speaking of which…" he clicked his fingers and held his hand out occasionally. Edward grudgingly surrendered the comb, which Marshall spun between his fingers with glee, watching the play of light on its twisted little engraved figures.</p> <p>"A singular find, this. Such a shame that we have to give it away again so soon—and for such petty pleasures! Still, it always manages to return to us eventually." He withdrew a white silk handkerchief from his pocket, monogrammed with the club cartouche, and wrapped the comb before sliding it into his breast pocket.</p> <p>"So," he said, striding purposefully deeper into the warehouse, "this is the kingdom. Our little gallery. Well, one of them."</p> <p>Edward hadn't expected the noise. When they had first entered it had been almost too soft to hear—a distant susurration like the sound of a jungle. But as they pressed deeper into the bowels of MC&D's treasurehouse it rose sharply and horrifically; screams bird, animal, human, and things besides which sounded like none of them, and on top of them all the sounds of scraping iron and sawing.</p> <p>"Mind your step, Mr Gradley. I have business at the corner office—I need to see a man about a set of teeth. His, in fact."</p> <p>Marshall skipped lightly over an industrial cable running through sawdust and dark brown, flaking stains Edward hoped were creosote. Nearer the door the objects on either side had been relatively mundane; stacks of yellowed papers, covered canvases stacked in rows; a metal shelf with a row of antique fountain pens under a jeweller's light. Now they grew progressively stranger—a 1960s Dust Devil vacuum cleaner, a locked fishtank containing a Pez dispenser with a blackface minstrel's head and sealed with hazard warning tape, a firehose packed in flame-retardant foam. None of it looked valuable, unless it was supposed to be modern art. Marshall's face was turned away as he navigated a teetering mass of bulging cardboard boxes containing something pink that was slowly leaking out onto the floor. Edward held his breath and took a left at a shattered Exidy Sorceror home computer from the 1970s, which for reasons known to themselves someone had hooked up to an HD monitor. A moment, then:</p> <p>"Mr Gradley?"</p> <p>Edward ran, his only purpose to create as much distance between himself and Marshall as possible. He tripped over a wind-up monkey that had been left in the middle of an aisle—labelled '7H' on a disintegrating tag around its neck. He flung it disgustedly away and was about to rise to his feet again when he realised it had been a blessing in disguise. A guard was slowly patrolling the walkway above the next aisle; if he had remained upright for another moment he would have been seen running through the warehouse and alarms would have been raised. Instead he crawled on hands and knees in his suit, engine oil and packing dust staining his cuffs and trousers.</p> <p>Now what? He couldn't even try to get his bearing among the stacks—he moved, bereft of direction, and the cacaphony grew ever louder around him. Inanimate objects had given way to a parade of living horrors—fleshy, snakelike things with chimpanzee faces hammering themselves against perspex, a squirrel with blood-crusted eyes screaming at him from inside a cage inches away from his face, something like an owl constantly everting itself and turning right-side out again with a sickening pop. He fixed his eyes on the next corner and continued crawling. When the worst of it seemed to be over he stopped, breathing heavily. Where he was now was dark—overshadowed by a portion of the catwalk and a great glass container filled with sand which seemed to be a giant antfarm, except the tunnels nearest the glass were five times wider than any ant had a right to be. He would sit here for a minute, take stock. Face it, Edward, he thought, this was not your brightest idea. You're trapped in a warehouse of things that came out of a nightmare and you have absolutely no idea how to go about finding the codex, if it's even here.</p> <p>"Sunny in Mogadishu," said a voice close behind him. He flinched, spinning around to face the cage he had been resting against. His eyes couldn't make anything out in the enclosure, eclipsed by the towering pile of bric-a-brac dumped on top of it.</p> <p>"Hello?" he said. "Is there someone in there?"</p> <p>"Drizzle in Los Angeles"—the voice was mournful, the words mumbled as though by someone who had learned the sound of the phrases but not their meaning. Edward felt the hairs on the backs of his hands pricking.</p> <p>"I mean, are you a prisoner here? I'm sorry … I'm not sure if I can help you. Get you out, I mean." The cage had been secured by a hefty combination padlock. In the nearest corner he could see a bowl of water. "I don't know how to get out myself."</p> <p>"Tornado in Rio de Janeiro," it said. "A mild depression moving eastwards towards Astrakhan."</p> <p>"Please," said Edward, hoping against hope that whoever it was in the cage could even understand him. "I need to find a book. It looks like an iron box. It would be where they keep the latest acquisitions."</p> <p>"Rainy in London," said the voice, a note of utter despair entering its voice. "Rainy in London."</p> <p>Edward tugged at the lock but it was solid. He considered trying to pry it open, but he couldn't see anything long or solid enough.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," he said, and began to move away.</p> <p>"Storm coming in over Gradley," it said. "Bring your umbrellas."</p> <p>Edward paused. "Did you say my name?" Squinting, he made out a shadow at the far side of the cage—a couple of glints which could be eyes. It was the wrong shape to be human.</p> <p>"Snow right around the corner," it said, miserably. "Then for the next four days straight. Wrap up warm."</p> <p>Edward thought about it for a moment. Well, it wasn't the most insane thing he'd done today.</p> <p>"Thank you," he said.</p> <p>"Always rainy in London," he heard the voice say from behind him.</p> <p>He turned right on the mummified alligator pinned to a board with copper wire. He counted as he ducked between each stack, counting them off as he passed gravity wheels and Archimedes screws, rotating slowly and quietly. One.</p> <p>Rows of surgical equipment, some gleaming, some corroded and damp. As he passed they vibrated, chattering in their constraints. Two.</p> <p>Television monitors, seemingly fused together into a spreading tree. Three.</p> <p>A human fetus in a jar. The jar was taller than Edward. So was the fetus. Four.</p> <p>And there it was—a clearing in the wilderness, a square area surrounded with shelving and dominated by a thick wooden table, which might have been lacquered once but had been stripped down to the raw by scrapes, scratches, and what looked like acid burns. In the middle, a sign had been scrawled in permanent marker on a piece of corrugated card and propped against a tin filled with stationery. 'NEW ARRIVALS'. The shelves were littered with debris—a metal slinky toy, an astronaut's helmet with a crack running the full length of the visor, a pair of high heels. No codex. He clawed at the items, threw them to the floor, angry with himself for having made such a stupid gambit. Then, tucked between a table clamp stained with blood and other matter and a curiously elderly and overweight Action Man still in its packaging and dressed in the outfit of a four-star general, his eye picked out the shape of the metal box with 'Gervais' scratched on its spine. He grabbed it, held it close to his chest.</p> <p>"Hey!" he heard from somewhere above him. He dropped to his knees, crawled back into the shadow of the stacks. He maybe had a few minutes before the guard came looking for him; or maybe he goes and finds Marshall first. Yes, that would fit. He'll go and ask Marshall what to do. He guessed he might have a little longer.</p> <p>There was something glittering by his shoe, half-hidden under the box of a mouldering board game protruding from the shelving—a shard of glass, he realised, though the light caught it oddly. For a second he thought that his MC&D member's pass might have slipped out of his pocket and shattered, and something about that chilled him even though he knew he never intended to return to the chapterhouse. Had he dreamed something about it? But no, it was intact in his pocket.</p> <p>He slid his hand under the shelves and retrieved the shard, cold and sharp between his fingers, no more than five centimetres across. Up close he could see what had puzzled him—it wasn't transparent at all but opaque; he couldn't see his fingers through it at all. Instead—he looked closer at the small reflection. He jolted out of his reverie and jerked around—nothing but a burlap sack, filled with coal, upon which someone had written 'D-5067'. He looked back and saw it again—the glass shard reflected not his own face but the head of an English bulldog, mottled brown and black with a white stripe on its forehead, occasionally blinking or turning this way or that. It looked out at him, slightly cock-eyed, and licked its nose. Edward waved his hand in front of the glass. Unsurprisingly the animal showed no indication that it could see him, instead opting to pursue the exciting taste of its own nostrils.</p> <p>This wasn't possible was it?, he thought, turning the shard over—the exact same canine reflection. No power source, no apparent means of projecting the image. It seemed to be part of a larger whole, but looking about he could see nowhere it might have come from. At the very least, he thought, this represented a good century's advancement in materials science. Just my luck, the stock-trader thought, I get the piece without the manufacturer's name. He tucked it into his pocket and continued moving, this time away from the screaming.</p> <hr/> <p>"Hold on," said the square-jawed guard at the entrance, stubbing out his cigarette on the arm of the traffic barrier and swaggering over, ball of his palm over the holster of his weapon. "Nothing and no-one comes in or out without Mr Marshall's say-so." He eyed the metal case under Edward's arm.</p> <p>"He's said so," Edward replied, as haughtily as he could. "I've chosen my reward and now I'm on the clock. I need to be on the road asap."</p> <p>"What you need don't come into it," the security officer said. "You're gonna wait until Mr Marshall gets here to let you out."</p> <p>Edward tried not to sweat. Right now, he thought, Marshall was being disabused of any notions he might have that Edward had just got turned around amidst the debris of MC&D's empire. He eyed the walkie-talkie at the man's chest. Soon a call would come in on that and he'd be dead.</p> <p>"By that time it'll be a little late. I've been dispatched on Mr Marshall's orders. Any delays will be severely punished." He saw the guard swallow, look around shiftily as if hoping the blond man might appear to resolve his dilemma. Edward mused—Marshall considers his underlings a less competent substitute for himself; he can't be everywhere, so they're here to fill in. They aren't trusted to think for themselves, which means eventually they don't think at all, they just follow orders. And that means in the end they do and say whatever they think you want, whether you like it or not; the idea of you being angry with them is more powerful than what you actually want. And you're trapped in a universe of reflections.</p> <p>"I don't know," said the guard. Edward heard the buzz of a radio from within the office. Soon, one of the other guards—perhaps the big one with the stubble tossing a coin over his knuckles by the freight entrance—would go over to see what was happening.</p> <p>"Listen," said Edward, trying to perfect the Marshall sneer. "if I'm not in that limousine -" he nodded at the vehicle outside "- and headed back to Whitehall in the next fifteen seconds…"</p> <p>It was the most ludicrous, stupid thing he'd ever said, a piece of nonsense that he cursed even as it came out of his mouth. What kind of a threat is that, he thought, that's pathetic. He had just plucked an image out of the air, paired it with the most senior person he could think of in MC&D's hierarchy, that terrible old man, and it had become mixed up in his mind with that horrible, moving thing under the cloth…</p> <p>"…I'll feed you to Carter's chair."</p> <p>The guard went grey, all at once. His eyes started watering. He was trying to speak, but nothing was coming out. Shaking like a newborn foal he thumbed the controls to disengage the pedestrian door and Edward strode forcefully past as behind him he heard the first faint yells. No point trying to bluff the limousine driver—as soon as his feet met pavement he started running. That had worked better than expected, he thought.</p> <p>Edward had feared that when he got out he would find himself in the middle of nowhere, nothing but fields for miles around. Instead, he found to his amazement that after only a few paces he emerged on the thoroughfare of Pall Mall, city traffic buzzing around, deafening yet reassuring in its mundanity. They must have driven the limo around in circles to try and disorientate him, he reasoned, until he remembered the way the sounds of the city had fallen behind to be replaced by silence and the occasional note of birdsong. He pushed onto the pavement and mingled with the crush of pedestrians, becoming invisible under their umbrellas.</p> <hr/> <p>"You let him out." It was not a question. Matt Berkeley, four O-levels, army dropout, felt like a rotten oak in a storm. Every day for the last three years he had prayed—"Don't let him see me. The pay's good, it's easy money, if he just doesn't see me. Let me go another day without him noticing anything I do. Let him take it out on someone else today, please, just not me." He had perfected the art of seeming engaged in reviewing security logs or approving access papers whenever anyone more senior happened by, then joined in wholeheartedly with the poker and the prank calls to Paki shopkeepers and the furtively exchanged dirty mags. Inside he was hollow—he knew he deserved no praise and had spent every day hoping he would never be found out.</p> <p>"He said you'd approved it," said Berkeley, in barely more than a whisper.</p> <p>"And you believed him?"</p> <p>"Yes sir," Berkeley's head dropped onto his chest, waiting. He had seen what happened to men who screwed up in the employ of Marshall, Carter & Dark. And afterwards he had put the bits into bags and dropped them in front of trains. He looked around. Would Mikkelsen be the one lugging Berkeley's bin liner down in front of the five-o-five to Reading? Maybe 'Hammers' Rogan. Or perhaps there wouldn't be enough left of him to bother.</p> <p>Marshall's long fingers dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew something in a silky white handkerchief, unwrapping it delicately. Some sort of comb, he saw—intricately carved but warped and yellowed.</p> <p>"Hold still, idiot." He took Berkeley's head with one hand and delicately inserted the comb into the still-thick clump of hair behind his ear. Sweat dripped from the man's forehead as he waited to turn inside out or his teeth to come alive or his soft tissues to melt. The other guards looked on with morbid fascination.</p> <p>After an excruciating minute Berkeley looked up and said "Is something supposed to happen, or…"</p> <p>The guards turned their attention to Marshall, who stood back bowed, leaning against a concrete pillar. He was taking great sucking gasps of air, his teeth bared. They exchanged brief glances, faces pale. They had never, <em>ever</em> seen Mr Marshall like this.</p> <p>"Wake him up," he said, voice like polished bone.</p> <p>"Sir?" asked Berkeley, but he already knew what was coming.</p> <p>"You heard me. Wake up the Bagman."</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc1"><span>Chapter Seven: "Codex"</span></h3> <p>"Look at you," she had said. "Every time you come to me these days it is in such a state."</p> <p>Maria had accepted the codex silently, looking at him with an unreadable expression in those brown eyes. She had sat him down, his clothes stained and rent, on a chair in the kitchen, and brought him a hot cocoa. Later, she found him one of her father's dressing gowns and put him up in the house's master bedroom.</p> <p>"Marshall will be looking for me," he croaked. "If he guesses I've brought the codex back to you…"</p> <p>"Sssh," she said. She looked at the tired dark rings under his blue eyes and ruffled his hair with her fingers. "You'll stay here tonight," she said.</p> <p>They sat up together in bed, reading the codex. The <em>Viage to the Contree of the Cimmerians</em> was written in densely packed cursive; designed for economy of parchment, not ease of reading. But Edward had read the extracts that had once been published in a 1754 chapbook as <em>A Journey to the End of the World</em>, and was able to fill in the blanks where the manuscript became illegible.</p> <p>"It starts like one of the Arthurian legends," he explained. "A wandering knight is taken into the home of a nobleman, and during the feasting they are attacked by a knight with the head of a stag, or a stag with the head of a knight, it changes from chapter to chapter. He challenges them to seek out the Rose Chapel, a stained-glass church built where Maura of Troyes shed a river of miraculous tears. So far, so Green Knight. They gird themselves up and take to the saddle, and follow the trail of the stag knight, righting wrongs as they go. Then they approach a shadowy canyon. The stag knight flies out of it—presumably in human-head, stag-body form—and shouts for them to give up their quest; even he's terrified by whatever lies within. Being your average Arthurian meatheads they swear an oath to brave the dangers of the canyon."</p> <p>"What happens?" she said, craning her neck.</p> <p>"Nothing. That's the thing. There's just -" he turned the yellow parchment—"a blank page." It was black from top to bottom, saturated with ink. "It's unbelievably literary for the time; makes Chaucer look like a second-rater. Some commentaries on <em>A Journey</em> just treat it as a misprint—it ends the first fragment—but here it is, in the original manuscript."</p> <p>"What does it mean?" asked Maria. "Just that it was dark?"</p> <p>"Not exactly … it's more like Gervase sees the darkness as swallowing up any mention of what happened. We're never told what happens in the canyon—it's like the text has been redacted. But when we pick up with them something has changed. Most of the knights are dead—the chap we've been following goes home but his castle's ruined and his family slain. There's a long digression here -" he turned the pages—"very long, actually. It's one of the fragments, so I'll cut it short; he meets the stag knight and they have a lengthy debate on the nature of heaven, hell and reality; except all the concepts were far too advanced for the time, as though the writer were channeling post-Reformation thinkers."</p> <p>"No wonder Gervase got written out of history."</p> <p>"Most commentaries assume it was a later addition, something that couldn't have been in the original text. Another strike for the critics. Then things get weird."</p> <p>"Weirder than they already are, you mean?"</p> <p>"Definitely. The knight goes back to South-Cadbyri Palis, Gervase's Camelot-in-all-but-name, and they sally out and fight monsters, except it's written in the most bizarre, repetitive way. Look here—this was in the chapbook; it's an honest-to-god itemised list of all the giants, demons and goblins they kill or capture. The dragon's new, though."</p> <p>"It isn't a good Arthurian legend without a dragon-slaying," Maria said, nuzzling his arm.</p> <p>"This one is slightly unconventional. It doesn't breathe fire, well most of the time. It still eats people, though. The thing is, they slay it again, and again, and again. They chop off its head, they put it in a cauldron to boil its flesh off its bones, they crush it under a boulder… And the next chapter it's back and they have to do it all over again."</p> <p>"Sounds like it represents something."</p> <p>"Too right. What, I don't know. Look, each chapter starts with an illustrated letter of them trying to kill the dragon." It was a weirdly scrawny, beaked thing with a long mane in the heraldric tradition that looked thoroughly <em>disgusted</em> by the knights' attempts at dispatching it—here it was, being impaled on a dozen glaives. It was probably intended to be wild with pain, though Edward thought it looked like it was just rolling its eyes.</p> <p>"The knight has a son and grows old, and his son becomes a knight too—and then one day, while <em>he's</em> making merry in the hall, the stag knight comes in and challenges them to seek the Chapel. It's unclear whether it's warning the knights they haven't yet completed their quest, or whether time has somehow looped."</p> <p>"The son becomes his father," observed Maria.</p> <p>"This time the knight succeeds in his quest—he finds the chapel. But it's ruined, broken. The spring of healing tears is dry. And then the writing goes mad. Our hero hunts down the stag knight and <em>eats</em> him, then tries to disembowel himself, but is resurrected by some kind of angel, it's not really clear—people die and reappear without rhyme or reason. There are these huge battles out of nowhere, like the world's tearing itself apart. The sky starts raining blood. The knight volunteers for one last mission to try and set things right—to sail to Hyperboria, the land beyond the wind."</p> <p>"The mythical land of the Cimmerians."</p> <p>"Yes. There's a whole sequence here about his voyage on a raft, travelling into the icy north. But it's not very convincing—he recycles the Sirens and Charybdis from The Odyssey, even the island of the Lotus Eaters. It's like he's trying to put the voyage into words his listeners will understand. Things get interesting when he finally drifts ashore. Gervais wrote Cimmeria as this desolate wasteland where it's twilight all the time; the knight finds a frozen body of a woman in a ditch. The people are all half-starved; they've nearly forgotten language and live in these half-collapsed huts, living on root croops and herding a few skinny sheep. It's obviously a metaphor; Edward Forsyth -"</p> <p>"Who?"</p> <p>"The man who printed the fragments of the Viage as <em>A Journey to the End of the World</em>."</p> <p>"He has your name," said Maria, sleepily.</p> <p>"He obviously believed Cimmeria was <em>England</em> after the apocalypse. It's a valid interpretation—there's a whole section where the knight loses his way on the ocean due to mist and can't be sure whether he's progressing or regressing."</p> <p>"You bastards, you blew it up," she said, not quite accurately. It was the first time he had heard her swear.</p> <p>"Exactly; but 800 years before Heston. Other commentators just take the knight's doubts as a religious analogy, feeling unsure about your faith, et cetera. There's a sort of compromise position—Cimmeria represents Gervais' own view of the world around him, seemingly falling to bits after the knightly golden age. Remember, this was back when Geoffrey of Monmouth was considered a reliable non-fiction writer. King Arthur was seen as a historical figure."</p> <p>"How does it end?"</p> <p>Edward narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the spidery writing. "He finds the Rose Chapel, intact, the miraculous spring flowing again."</p> <p>"That doesn't make sense."</p> <p>"You bet. He goes in and prays, and he knows—this is really odd for the time, there should be some thundering voice from heaven or an angel or something to tell him—that his own land is safe, but that he can never leave Cimmeria for the rest of his life."</p> <p>"It is a horrible book and it ends sadly," decided Maria. "Why do you think Marshall wanted it?"</p> <p>"Well, it's an important manuscript—some of the things Gervase does here rewrite our understanding of the development of English literature. It must be quite valuable. I'd love to see what a medievalist would make of the dragon." Except that'll never happen now, he said to himself, because of you. He turned the last page and closed the iron cover. Maria drew up the covers and he slept.</p> <p>He was awakened by a thin pale light shining through the window, illuminating Maria's arm draped over his chest. He looked at the bedside carriage clock—it was already nine o'clock.</p> <p>"I have to go," he said, gently moving Maria's arm. "You're in danger if Marshall finds me here."</p> <p>Maria, stirred, looked up at him with her brown eyes. "You think I'm fragile, that I need to be protected. Don't forget I'm a Beaumont. We can take care of ourselves."</p> <p>"I don't want you to suffer for my mistakes. Take the codex; I'm sorry but you mustn't let anyone see it. No-one can know you have it back."</p> <p>"Don't worry. It's not going to be on my coffee table. And you mustn't go out in those," she said, as Edward picked at his ruined trousers. "You're too tall for Daddy's clothes, but maybe Grandfather's will work."</p> <p>Thus outfitted with a dead man's suit—the fit not quite up to Huntsman's or Stathopoulos's standards but still comfortable—and a big black umbrella like the wings of a bat, he kissed her, and left the Beaumont house for the last time.</p> <p>Fingering the shard of glass he had removed from the pocket of his last suit, Edward stopped under the porch of St Martin-in-the-Fields and, finding Death's last text, selected 'Answer by phone'.</p> <p>"Hello, is that Death? … Well, I don't know his name, is he your son? Just put him on, please, this is urgent … Yes, it's Edward. Of course I'm still alive. … No, forget the comb, I … No, I don't have the replica … I can imagine. Expensive. … I'm sure it didn't come out of your pocket money, <em>was</em> that your mother? Oh. You start early these days, don't you? Look, I've got something way better if you like conspiracies. You show this to any news agency and … No, meet me at O'Reilly's in half an hour. … Well, this isn't a movie, and I don't intend to die before showing it to you. … Better make it an hour and a half then, Jesus. Make sure you bring enough change for the fare. Or get War to give you a lift, I presume at least <em>he's</em> passed his test."</p> <p>Edward stashed the phone in his other pocket and leaned against the pillar. It was faint, now, but it was coming back to him; he could see the pieces in movement. Not six moves ahead, not yet, but four, or three. Enough. Now he just had to stay alive long enough to reach the endgame.</p> <hr/> <p>This time Edward stood across the street and watched them arrive, one at a time, taking their seats by the window as they ordered milkshakes, Coke, a pint of beer: Death the kid; the spotty young man who rejoiced in the name Pestilence; War, waddling in playing a game on his iPhone; and a grim-faced man in his late twenties or early thirties with prematurely greying hair and military surplus togs he presumed must be Famine. He checked his watch—fashionably late for only the second time in his life. He strolled over the crossing and approached, slowing as he did so until he was close enough to see the on-rails FPS on War's mobile. Death looked up and caught his eye.</p> <p>The men in black paramilitary jumpers and dog tags around their neck approached him from behind, clapped a hand over his mouth with casual ease, grabbed his arms and pushed him sideways into the rear of the waiting van.</p> <p>Death punched War's arm and shouted something, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rolled off their seats to take cover under the table with long-practiced grace. No-one else on the street or in the bar even noticed Edward's disappearance.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward was getting used to journeys where he couldn't see where he was going. No blindfold at first, just a windowless van and handcuffs. Then, for a few minutes, light again; clean, clinical walls and stairs edged with crisp yellow safety tape. Making a sudden and jarring appearance, the grey sky, still resolutely spitting down at the earth. <em>Now</em> the blindfold, as the roaring in front of him rose like a dragon.</p> <p>My first helicopter ride, he thought. He had envisioned it going rather more glamorously.</p> <p>"Mobile Task Force Epsilon-Seven 'Santa's Little Regifters' reporting in," someone said into a radio close to him. "Package acquired."</p> <p>He was reasonably sure—indeed was counting on—the fact that the men around him were not in the employ of Marshall, Carter & Dark. Exactly who they were working for was a matter he'd have to clear up as he went.</p> <p>The helicopter's drone descended, stabilised, then petered away.</p> <p>After being unloaded like a sack of potatoes, Edward was led through several hydraulic-sounding doors before the gift of sight was finally, gloriously returned. He stood blinking in the glaringly bright white corridors, the dark balaclava'd men who had abducted him filling out various forms he was sure pertained to him before handing him into the custody of less militarised but equally alert men with blue hard hats and truncheons. There would be no bluffing these men, he was sure—he got the impression they were trusted to do their job well.</p> <p>"Don't I get at least the courtesy of an introduction?" he asked cheerily. "You did just snatch me off the street, after all."</p> <p>"You're here to answer some questions for us," retorted one of the men, "and then we might end up letting you go. Don't count on being able to remember anything we say."</p> <p>He was led down through level after level of brightly lit concrete, punctuated by small safety glass windows through which he caught glimpses of men in laboratory coats at work, though the experiments in progress seemed to verge on the lunatic. White coats watching from a distance as a man in an orange jumpsuit painted a door clamped horizontally to a pair of workbenches. Examining a horse, hanging in a set of medical stirrups from the ceiling, as though it were some kind of alien creature. Pouring a popular brand of detergent on clothes within a fumigation tank via a robotic arm.</p> <p>The plaque on the office door read "Professor J Gelding DPhil DEng"—when the door was opened Edward saw a large desk. The man sat behind it was small with shiny round glasses which obscured his eyes and a close-cropped horseshoe of grey hair. The room was outfitted like a doctor's surgery, with a medical cabinet, reclining bed covered in green construction paper and a small chair in front of the desk.</p> <p>"Close the door, please, Agent Howard," he said to the hard-hatted man, who complied. "Please ensure the subject is searched prior to interview."</p> <p>Edward submitted to the indignity of search by Howard, who turned out his pockets, patted down Grandfather Beaumont's suit and shone a bright light in his mouth. His car keys, wallet and phone were taken and put in a tray near the door—hopefully to be returned, he thought. His glass MC&D membership pass was held up and passed to the Professor, who turned it over thoughtfully.</p> <p>"Please take a seat." Edward settled in the uncomfortable plastic chair across from the little bald man. Agent Howard stood a respectful distance away, watching.</p> <p>"This is an interview, not an interrogation, Mr Gradley. Having said, that, we make use of applied pressure techniques and will employ them if we feel you are being untruthful. We are not law enforcement personnel, which means you are not under caution. That also means we are not obliged to offer you legal counsel. As you may have already surmised from the manner you were brought in, you are also not subject to the protections of the law."</p> <p>"I understand."</p> <p>"What is the nature of your relation with Marshall, Carter & Dark?"</p> <p>"I think you know that," said Edward, calmly. "I'm a stock trader with Cooper Drake. I was introduced to the club by the late David Went and was recruited to handle fine art acquisitions for Mr Marshall on a part-time basis."</p> <p>"Have you been exposed to any of the objects they ask you to acquire?"</p> <p>"I'm not sure I follow you. I've touched them, sure."</p> <p>Professor Gelding furrowed his brow. "Have you been experiencing any…" his voice suddenly changed into a machine-gun staccato "…lost time, hallucinations, sudden mood shifts, encounters with anomalous entities, rashes or illness, loss of energy, trouble sleeping, strange or disturbing dreams, perceptions of reality or history out of sync with others around you, emotional or cognitive difficulties?"</p> <p>Edward shook his head. "No. Not really. I mean, I had a terrible case of the flu recently, if that helps." The Professor shook his head. "There was something at the clubhouse—like an illusion. You closed your eyes and you were somewhere else."</p> <p>"You know the location of their clubhouses?" The glasses glittered, sharply.</p> <p>"One or two of them. If you want to know where they are, there's a map on that membership card."</p> <p>The Professor took a lingering glance at the card, then chuckled and looked at Agent Howard. "You know, that gets me every time. I always look for it. Mr Gradley, I'm afraid there's nothing on this 'card' besides Marshall, Carter & Dark's logo in one corner."</p> <p>"No," said Edward, "look, it's engraved on the glass, I can see it from here…"</p> <p>"Only visible for the person it's assigned to, I'm afraid. And if you were to draw it out it wouldn't lead anywhere. Same with the 'switchboard number'—not sure if you noticed but it's different every time you call it. We've gone through this whole rigmarole before. You can't contact them in our presence or lead us to them."</p> <p>"That's impossible."</p> <p>"I think you would have a keen idea of just what is and what isn't possible for Mr Marshall and his partners, Mr Gradley. Now, in your recent phone conversation with the individual who goes by the epithet 'Death' you mention something you wanted to show them. What was that, exactly?"</p> <p>Edward thought for a moment before responding. "Marshall took me to the warehouse where they keep the acquisitions. Some of the things there—I don't know. Secret organisations, warehouses of monsters … that's the sort of stuff conspiracy theorists go in for, isn't it?"</p> <p>"Interesting. Where is this warehouse?"</p> <p>"It's in London. Just off Pall Mall." The little man in the glasses began scribbling excitedly. "There's something strange about it, though—the closer you get to it, the less you can hear the city around it. I thought I'd been taken out into the country."</p> <p>Just like when you brought me here, thought Edward. The Professor's face fell.</p> <p>"I see … What do you know about the comb?"</p> <p>"Nothing," said Edward, very nearly truthfully. "It was something Death wanted me to look into."</p> <p>"Do you know who currently owns the comb, or what it looks like?"</p> <p>"No," said Edward, without guile. It was a truthful answer to the first question, after all. If what he suspected about the comb was right, he couldn't even say for sure who had owned it last.</p> <p>"Okay," said the Professor, taking off those full-moon glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. That was probably a bad sign, Edward thought. Any moment he's going to ask Mr Howard to apply some of those wonderful pressure techniques, just to make absolutely sure what it is I don't know. The guard in the corner stood up slightly straighter.</p> <p>The intercom buzzed and the Professor thumbed it irritably. "Ms Cairnes, I am in interview. This had better be scintillating."</p> <p>"Sir, we have a problem. Five-three-eight and one-seven-two-nine…"</p> <p>At that moment a klaxon blared into life above them, as a recorded voice began to intone, "Containment breach alert. We are experiencing multiple Euclid-level containment breaches. Please stand by for further instructions."</p> <p>Professor Gelding stood up. "Mr Gradley, I think that concludes our discussion. I am now going to administer you a Class-A amnestic. Once it has taken effect you will no longer remember me or the events of this afternoon. You may feel some disorientation; this is normal."</p> <p>Agent Howard took Edward's arm firmly and pulled down his sleeve, turning it to expose the underside of his arm to Dr Gelding, who selected a small jet injector from his cabinet and inserted a crisp white ampoule.</p> <p>"This shouldn't hurt."</p> <p>That was a lie—it felt like someone punched his forearm hard with a chisel.</p> <p>Edward didn't think he'd forgotten anything—though how could you tell? For all he knew Agent Howard had made him give the Professor a striptease—but after a few minutes he did begin to feel very, drowsy and out of it. Agent Howard had escorted him at a brisk pace back through the facility, and at some point Edward's legs had given out under him. He just barely caught the edge of the man's words to the researchers suddenly running through the corridors as he drifted in and out of consciousness: "…sual side-effects. He shouldn't…". But then Edward was gone.</p> <hr/> <p>He woke up back in London, neatly propped up in the alleyway across from O'Reilly's Bar and Grill. Everything ached, radiating from the pain in his arm. Someone had thoughtfully placed a bowl in front of him and he had already accumulated several pounds. "Please help," he muttered, trying to order his muscles to move but receiving only a declaration of independence. "Please. Call an ambulance." The people stepping over him didn't even pause. Just another City hopeful down on his luck—or out of his mind on booze or cocaine.</p> <p>After a few minutes the bulky, ponytailed shape of War hover into view, apparently strolling nonchalantly down the road opposite O'Reilly's. He glanced right, glanced left.</p> <p>"There you are," he grumbled. "It's not like I booked the whole day off, you know?" He picked up Edward with appalling ease and carried him into the Bar and Grill, where the bartender tucked him up on one of the corner seats with a blanket and a mug of something vile-tasting but ultimately reviving, as though it were something he did every day. After half an hour or so Edward began to regain some semblance of alertness, together with the feeling in his extremities. The Four Horsemen were sitting around him tucking into half-rump steaks at various grades of overdone. Death was perched up on the chair back, watching him.</p> <p>"Feeling better?"</p> <p>"Uh-huh."</p> <p>"I can sympathise. We've had run-ins with those guys before. Never seen them rough up someone this bad, though."</p> <p>"Fortunately," said War between mouthfuls, "they always bring the guy back to where they picked him up. Let me guess, the Ess-See-Pee lot?"</p> <p>"I don't think they ever mentioned," said Edward, faintly.</p> <p>"It'll be them," said Death vehemently. "Unmarked van, the works. Wish I'd got it on my phone. Broad daylight abduction."</p> <p>"Who are they?" asked Edward. "MI5 or something like that?"</p> <p>"You wish. Seriously, didn't you read our blog? They're one of the biggest crypto-governmental agencies out there. The SCP Foundation. It sounds like a not-for-profit. Like the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It's actually a private army and shadow government that national armed forces actually defer to. Even the Russians roll over and play dead when they want something these days."</p> <p>"What does the name mean?"</p> <p>"Pseudo-fascist bullshit. 'Secure, Contain, Protect'. The totalitarian mantra throughout history. You need to be 'secured', and 'contained'. We-know-best stuff. The whole freemasonry, Bilderberg Group, Bohemian Grove theorists are totally off-track—these are the guys they should have been watching out for, and they failed, big time. Now they're everywhere."</p> <p>"Moriah Conquering Wind's for real," interjected the serious man Edward thought of as Famine, taking a pause from wolfing down his second steak. "But the Foundation, they're the real pros. They're the ones covering up the alien tech."</p> <p>Edward saw Death clap a black-manicured hand over his eyes. "Seriously? You're still on that kick? I thought I proved pretty conclusively that the Veil Protocol is only about protecting public knowledge of the Foundation's existence."</p> <p>Famine scowled, mouth full. "It's the technology, too. Seriously, any time you intercept any communications from these guys it's all about 'the objects'. Alien technology. The Sagittarians keep trying to send it down. It would make everything better—free energy, anti-pollution, nanotech. A second Industrial Revolution. The Foundation don't want it to get out because it would mean them losing <em>control</em> of us. You remember <em>Star Signals</em>?"</p> <p>Edward realised he was being addressed. "Erm, it rings a bell. Was it some kind of self-help book?"</p> <p>"Yes, like <em>The Secret</em> or the <em>The Prayer of Jabez</em>, except it really worked. It was all over the chat shows, but no-one mentions it anymore. It was the Foundation. They <em>wiped</em> a fortnight of pop culture from history. You remember that episode of American Idol? The one where Cowell started breathing smoke?"</p> <p>"Ahhh…" Edward felt a tinge of a headache coming on.</p> <p>"See that?" Famine turned to Death. "That's the face they all make. They didn't even need to put drugs in the water supply. They just put lots of similar scenes into programmes like <em>Doctor Who</em> and <em>Lost</em>, so people couldn't tell if what they'd seen was real, or not. The Sagittarians wrote the book to help us heal the world, but the Foundation confiscated almost every copy."</p> <p>Pestilence turned to Edward and whispered softly, "For what it's worth, we think he's a bit crazy. But he knows his way around a firearm and he's got a bunker out in the New Forest if things get really bad."</p> <p>"Death said you mentioned you got something from Marshall, Carter & Dark. Something big," said Famine, eyes pleading. "I don't suppose you…"</p> <p>Edward shook his head. "Your crypto-fascists took it," he lied. "Sorry."</p> <p>The Horsemen looked glum. "Don't worry," said Death. "We're used to this crap."</p> <p>"Look," said Edward, "I'd better go. People are probably wondering where I am." He got up unsteadily and hobbled to the door.</p> <p>"You should get that limp checked out," advised War. "Looks nasty."</p> <p>Edward got a few hundred paces from the bar before the pain became too much. Stooping as though to tie up his shoelaces, he slid his fingers into the side of the now-shredded Testoni leather and eased out the shard of glass. The bulldog seemed none the worse for its experience, grinning as traces of Edward's blood dried on the glass's surface. It was enjoying a bowlful of juicy-looking chunks as a pair of hands in medical gloves checked its fur and ears for mites. I should have stayed for the steak, thought Edward, his stomach rumbling. Seems everyone but me's eaten today.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc2"><span>Chapter Eight: "Castle"</span></h3> <p>"Edward? Is that you?" Liz's voice sounded curious but not concerned. "Where the hell have you been? Your phone's been off. MacIntyre's been ready to send out the search party."</p> <p>"Tell him that my flu didn't clear up. Tell him I'm in bed with some chicken soup."</p> <p>"You don't sound sick."</p> <p>"No, I don't. I know you don't like me. You don't have to. But right now you're just about the only person at CD I can trust."</p> <p>"I didn't stand up for you in the review."</p> <p>"I know. You did the right thing. I think I can rely on you to do that. That's why I called you."</p> <p>"Edward, have you had some kind of breakdown? You sound –"</p> <p>"Crazy? I'm beginning to wonder."</p> <p>"Okay, I'll bite. What are you trying to pull this time?"</p> <p>"I'm just trying to set things right."</p> <p>"Like getting the office idiot fired, you mean? Peter was a loser, but he was <em>our</em> loser."</p> <p>"I wish I could say I felt bad for that, Liz. I don't. I do feel sorry that I misled you. But yes, if I pull off the track I'm on, there'll be some more changes at Cooper Drake."</p> <p>"Jesus Christ, Edward. Why do you think I'm going to help you?"</p> <p>"Because … because you're not evil. If you figured me out I'm pretty sure you've figured out MacIntyre too. How long have you been keeping his secrets?"</p> <p>"… Damn you."</p> <p>"MacIntyre's got a couple of days left, then I'm coming for him. You should start thinking about yourself. He really isn't worth your loyalty."</p> <p>There was a long pause. In the background he heard the real world; the world which had become real for him—the clamour as a hundred and fifty men scrabbled for shares in AAPL or short-sold Romanian seven-year bonds.</p> <p>"Get well soon, Edward," said Liz, loudly, and rang off. Edward smiled and wondered how on earth he was going to follow through on his promises.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward paid for the Travelodge room with his credit card. To think some people thought it was expensive—it cost significantly less than his last business lunch. He wondered vaguely if Marshall, Carter & Dark had enough pull in the police force to trace such transactions, but the other options were equally dangerous right now. The room was small and functional with the incessant hum of a radiator through the floor. He spent an hour scribbling on the back of a Little Chef menu someone had left on the coffee table. His twelve-year-old self could probably think of a way out of this, a flawless game that kept all his pieces safe, but right now he couldn't find a path through that didn't require him to sacrifice someone. Then he thought—you've been assuming you're the king, haven't you? What if you're the rook, or the bishop, or the white knight? And he saw it, just for an instant, traced out beautifully between the Hunters Chicken and the pancakes with maple syrup. It wasn't perfect. But it only required him to sacrifice one piece. He'd been carrying it around with him for all his life, and only now it occurred to him that he didn't have to keep it alive to win.</p> <p>He tried to sleep, but the ideas churning in his head, the snoring of the man next door and the thin, hard mattress meant all he was able to manage were brief, hypnopompic episodes of walking along that unearthly beach he had seen before with his eyes closed, or else sitting at his desk at Cooper Drake looking down at the world.</p> <p>A noise broke his stupor, a careless rustling and tearing like a cat or fox going through a rubbish bag. And again, closer to his window. He got up, cautiously, and walked across the floor, bare feet picking up little particles of lint from the over-vacuumed carpet as he went. He twitched aside the diaphanous orange curtain and looked down.</p> <p>The Travelodge took the form of two buildings connected by a bridge on the second floor—the gap between them was used for refuse collection, deliveries and the like, and Edward's room had a commanding view of this little alleyway. What he saw now in the glaring security spotlights was the form of a gigantic man, more than seven feet tall, crouching in the refuse skip a storey beneath the window. The man was entirely nude, massive corded muscles covering his form, and something in that nakedness made him seem less than human—an animal given human shape. It looked up, and he saw that over its head was a tattered hessian bag, stained dark about a third of the way down. It might once have been fastened around his neck with a drawstring, but it had torn so the cord lay around his neck like a necklace and the bag hung loose around his jaw. There was no way he could see through it but Edward knew as surely as anything he had experienced in his life that he had been seen, and recognised. His hands had become clumsy and he batted at the curtains, trying to close them. The bedside drawers were affixed to the bed, which proved beyond the efforts of Edward's lean frame to move. In the end he settled for walking the wardrobe across the room and allowing it to fall horizontally across the door with a satisfyingly solid thud.</p> <p>"Keep it down!" shouted the man in the next room. "Some of us are trying to sleep."</p> <p>Edward scoured the room for anything that might be used as a weapon, finding precious little that could actually be detached from the walls or tables. In the end he smashed the bathroom mirror with the toilet plunger, found a large triangular piece that looked like it would hold up relatively well, and tested the edge, before wrapping half of it in a flannel. He sat on the bed with his silver dagger, watching the door.</p> <hr/> <p>There was no transition—from Edward's perspective, one moment he was sitting up, engaged in his vigil, and the next he was flat on the bed, eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep? He opened his eyes and angled himself upwards, momentarily startled by the face-shape looming out of the strangely deepened darkess in the unfamiliar room. He waited for the waking pareidolia to subside, for the face to resolve itself into the edge of a lampshade or his coat hanging on the chair. It didn't.</p> <p>"Well done, Mr Gradley," it said. Edward jerked upright, hands searching for the piece of mirror and finding nothing.</p> <p>"I think the Bagman's losing his touch," Marshall continued, "I gave him your spoor from the fake comb but you managed to shake him somehow. Like you'd dropped off the face of the earth. It took him a full day to pick your scent up again."</p> <p>As his eyes readjusted to the darkness, Edward saw to his horror that the massive man was there, kneeling behind Marshall with its hessian forehead almost touching the floor in an attitude of prostration. The wardrobe had been flung aside like a toothpick, and now rested across the window, blocking the light from the street.</p> <p>"Now, Mr Gradley. You have some things that belong to me. I'd like you to return them now." Marshall's voice was like a universe of knives behind a silk curtain.</p> <p>"What things would those be, exactly?" Edward said, groggily. With any luck Marshall thought he was just being insolent.</p> <p>"A certain codex, Mr Gradley. And a certain antique comb. One stolen from my premises, the other still owed to me after you delivered a clumsy forgery. You have quite a way of repaying my trust."</p> <p>"I ran into someone who was very interested in you," Edward said—"I wonder if you've heard of them. They call themselves," he struggled to remember what Death had said, "the SCP Foundation." He was gratified by the look of recognition, rage and was that?—yes!—the minutest trace of fear, in Marshall's expression.</p> <p>"Really," he said, taking a step back and placing his hand on the monstrous man's head—reassuring, Edward realised, but also seeking reassurance himself in the creature's strength. "What did they say, I wonder?"</p> <p>"Well," said Edward, carefully, "I seem to have given them the impression that I've deserted MC&D and am going to deliver them the items you mention. Sorry for the stunt with the codex; I had to take it so they would see you trying to find me and think I was on the level."</p> <p>"What's this?" Marshall seemed startled.</p> <p>"I'll get them back to you, just as soon as I can go back to where I'm keeping them."</p> <p>"And where is that, exactly? I'm sure our friend here is more than a match for any <em>agents</em>," he spat the word as though it was hateful to him—"of the Foundation who might be watching it."</p> <p>"And then they would know that it was a hoax and I never intended to hand them over. No, just give me a couple of days to work this out. I'll be in the confidence of the Foundation and you'll have your things back."</p> <p>"And I would have a man in Cooper Drake and the Foundation," mused Marshall, hungrily. "I suppose this is an attempt to make yourself indispensable?"</p> <p>"I know what you did to David. What you had Alexandra do," said Edward, allowing a tendril of anger to shine through.</p> <p>Marshall scoffed: "I barely hinted at it. Your friend filled in all the blanks herself. She—if I can use the word—was quite eager at the prospect. I presume from the commotion around her residence that you evened the score in your acquisition of the comb." Edward's heart sank.</p> <p>"I know MacIntyre's your man. He outlasted David—I'm not about to let him outlast me. If you kill me, you lose the codex, and the comb, and an inside track on the Foundation."</p> <p>Marshall scowled, and snapped his fingers. The Bagman rose to his full height, arms thicker than Marshall's torso. Edward closed his eyes.</p> <p>"You have two days to do what you need to do. At the end of that time I expect my property returned to me—genuine, undamaged. Do you understand?"</p> <p>When he opened his eyes Marshall and the creature were gone. The door hung on one hinge, the lock torn from its moorings. Edward looked at the collapsing wardrobe, tiny fragments of mirrordust coating the bed and floor. Travelodge weren't going to be happy.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward had hoped that he had misunderstood Marshall when he had mentioned Lady Penelope's house. He had ridden over to Swindon on the bus—Carter's stay of execution apparently not extending to the return of the Porsche—half-expecting to see the Four Horsemen sitting in the seats. When he got there he saw the whole house had been taped off—two police cars had drawn up at the front together with a dark, understated vehicle he assumed belonged to the coroner.</p> <p>"What's going on?" he asked the stony-faced policeman at the front gate. "Is Alexandra okay?" He had some vague thought that he might be invited inside, but the policeman just shook his head.</p> <p>"Do you know the Lady Penelope, sir?" he asked. Edward stammered out an affirmative. "Think you'd better go home, sir. You'll probably read about it soon enough."</p> <p>There would be no hope of gaining access and retrieving the comb, Edward realised, and he cursed himself for not having had the guts to take it and keep it somewhere safer. He turned on his heel and left, just as another policeman said:</p> <p>"Hold on, wasn't you at the Went suicide? Here, Travers, get his number."</p> <p>But another bus had already drawn up at the stop and Edward moved as swiftly has he could towards it, not caring much which direction it took him. By the time the police had decided he was a person of interest the driver had already pulled away and they made no attempt to halt it.</p> <p>He was almost out of trump cards, he thought. Almost. He got out his phone. One bar of charge left. He made two calls; the first to Death, the second to Maria. Both started the same way:</p> <p>"I'm sorry. I need one more favour."</p> <p>The one to Maria Beaumont ended "I love you. Goodbye."</p> <hr/> <p>Edward took the elevator up to the trading floor at Cooper Drake. The security staff and the pretty secretary with glasses had looked askance at him; Maria's grandfather's suit was fine enough but he had slept in it two nights running and he had been expelled from the Travelodge without even the luxury of a shower. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass ceiling as he rose through it—hollow-eyed and unshaven, his mother's dark brown, almost black hair contrasting with his father's Yorkshire complexion, giving him the appearance of a week's worth of beard. He didn't look like he belonged here anymore. When he reached the top floor his team caught sight of him and hollered enthusiastically, one shouting that Oxford Fullerene had gone up almost twenty percent in value since Edward bought in. It all seemed like distant memories—a lifetime ago. Liz's eyes went wide when she saw him and she started walking in the opposite direction. As she passed him, she said "Seven years." and he nodded.</p> <p>MacIntyre came out of his office to see what was happening and strode over, bristling.</p> <p>"Where the hell have you been, Gradley? Part of having responsibility for a team means being here to oversee them. As it is they've been running your bloody portfolio. Partners at Cooper Drake are held to a higher standard!"</p> <p>Edward leaned in, smiled. "Like making millions off stock tips from an international money launderer. Or having people underneath you murdered so no-one gets too big for their boots." He had the satisfaction of seeing MacIntyre wilt; someone had left him in the dryer too long and the starched fabric he was made out of had gone limp. Edward continued, in a louder tone. "I'm going to make myself a cup of coffee and then I'm going to have a sit down. You can wait for the main event."</p> <p>He didn't have to wait long. Edward didn't even bother to turn on his computer, instead sitting with his shredded boots up on the desk while he sipped his first cup of coffee in days that didn't taste like something had died in it. His team had realised something was about to happen and had quietened down. Myers and Reagan, it seemed, sensed what was coming better than MacIntyre and had made hurried excuses and left the building.</p> <p>"Gradley." The voice was at normal modulation but somehow filled the air, deafening the admittedly somewhat muted buzz of the floor. Edward swivelled his chair and saw the tall blond man enter, wearing a red and black evening jacket and with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose. In the doorway behind him he could see a massive, dark shape.</p> <p>"Jesus Christ Edward," said MacIntyre, rising from the table at which he had been sitting head bowed and fingers tapping. "You brought him here. You fucking brought Marshall here. What the fuck have you done?"</p> <p>"I'm here to get what's mine, Mr Gradley," said Marshall, gliding over the floor. The other stockbrokers looked on, bemused by the apparent reckoning taking place.</p> <p>"You're going to be disappointed then, Jeremy," shrugged Edward. "I don't have either the codex or the comb anymore. Nor would I be inclined to return them to you if I did."</p> <p>Marshall's mouth twitched upwards but his composure remained intact. "I thought so. You're a thief, Gradley. At least your father paid his way. Who did you sell them to? The Foundation? The Global Occult Coalition? GRU? Or am I going to hear that you gave my property to those ragbag conspiracy theorists? Oh yes, I know about them. They're flies, Mr Gradley."</p> <p>"None of the above," said Edward, and he saw Marshall detect the sincerity in his voice.</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>"You heard me. I'm not going to enlighten you—you're the only Saturday morning cartoon villain in the room, you can handle the monologues."</p> <p>"Do you actually think you can walk away?" challenged Marshall. "How far up does this go, Mr MacIntyre? Did you sanction this betrayal?" MacIntyre blanched even further, shaking his head and sinking to his knees.</p> <p>"I do. I'm going to walk out of this building and disappear. Somewhere you'll never find me." Edward was fighting every instinct he had to put his hand in his pocket. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing.</p> <p>"We can follow you anywhere."</p> <p>"You know that's not true."</p> <p>Marshall shook his head. "I'll have everyone close to you taken and brought to me. Your mother, Beatrycze Wozny—perhaps you thought I didn't know where she lives. And the Beaumont woman—ah, I see that touches a nerve. Is it love?" Edward remembered the turn of phrase and looked at MacIntyre, still kneeling aghast on the floor. You're his creature, Edward thought, bought and paid for. You even think like him. You didn't go to the clubhouse, maybe didn't even care about the objects. You just wanted the secrets to allow you to keep rolling your life up into that one big futile bet. And now you can see it coming apart. Marshall can't, not yet, but you can.</p> <p>Edward answered, calmly. "The best protection I can give those I care for is to tell you right now—I'll never come back. I don't even think I would be told if something happened to them. But even if I were, I wouldn't come back."</p> <p>"A selfish little bastard to the end, then," said Marshall, still sneering, but some of the wind knocked out of his sails. "You think you wouldn't return for my blood if I captured and killed your mother? You have no idea about the human psyche, do you, you little ape? Men aren't in control of their drives, they are controlled by them. The success of Marshall, Carter & Dark is testimony to the fact that choices make men, not the other way around. If I were to take lovely Maria and have her despoiled…"</p> <p>"You know what I think?" said Edward. "I think you don't kill, or despoil, or maim, or kidnap—unless it profits you. The fact of the matter is, if I don't care what you do to my mother, to Maria, they are safe. So go ahead—except you can't, because it would mean nothing. I tried to explain to David—the ideal of capitalism. Everyone working in their self-interest—and only in their self-interest—is the optimum solution to the societal puzzle. I still believe that; I've just learned to expand my definition of self-interest." He raised his voice. "I won't help you launder drugs and arms dealers' money. I won't help you steal antiques and sell them to dictators. I won't do those things because it is in my self-interest to live in a stable, lawful society, where I can trade in fair competition with others." Edward's team had risen to their feet and began to slink away; other traders similarly moved towards the door, where the shadow moved and vanished.</p> <p>"No-one's going to believe anything you say," stammered MacIntyre. "Remember Went," he said, in a pleading voice. "He died with his reputation ruined; even his family think of him as a disgrace. Nothing could be traced to other members."</p> <p>"You're finished," added Marshall, with gleeful finality.</p> <p>"Yes, I am."</p> <p>"W-what?" It was MacIntyre's turn to look bewildered.</p> <p>"Oh, what the hell. There's nothing you can do to stop it now. As we speak, police have been called to the scene of an apparent suicide in the toilets of a small diner on Farringdon High Street. The body will be identified from documentation in its pockets as Edward Gradley. Sound familiar? There'll even be a note in the pocket. Just like David Went. Except it'll say something like:</p> <blockquote> <p>I am writing this letter because I suspect I will not live to see tomorrow. I have uncovered a massive insider trading ring within investment banking firm Cooper Drake originating in the gentleman's club Marshall, Carter & Dark, which I believe to be a front for the fencing of stolen goods and liaison with organised crime. I have found letters from my colleague and friend David Went indicating that he discovered the same criminal activity—I now believe he was killed to prevent him blowing the whistle on this activity and evidence of personal ethical violations planted to discredit him. I have been followed by men I believe to be in the employ of MC&D; I fear I am to be subject to the same treatment as David. I have left documentation detailing Cooper Drake's involvement with Marshall, Carter & Dark with a close friend—should anything happen to me, these documents will be released to the police.</p> </blockquote> <p>"That's not an empty bluff, by the way. All the trades in Mr Marshall's book have been conscientiously documented; I just took the liberty of replacing my name with yours, Raymond. I'm sure Marshall, Carter & Dark can buy immunity from prosecution, but I wonder if that extends to Cooper Drake? I rather doubt anyone is going to believe your version of events after they see the quite impeccably forged emails from David Went to me dated from before his suicide detailing the death threats you made to him. Seems to me that your usefulness to Mr Marshall here is at an end."</p> <p>MacIntyre put his hands over his face. "Get out," he whispered to the last traders gathered in a thin circle around the three.</p> <p>"You're abandoning your life," said Marshall, nonplussed.</p> <p>"Yes. Don't worry," said Edward, "I've lined up a new one."</p> <p>"Where are you going to run?" Marshall was twitching now, something in his eyes that spoke of incipient madness. "There's no-one on Earth who can protect you. You've got nothing left to trade!"</p> <p>"Not quite."</p> <p>Marshall stood for a moment, still erect next to the pitiful figure of Raymond MacIntyre, who had curled up on the floor, ridiculous gelled hair cracking as he pushed it against Marshall's slim, glossy brown shoes. Marshall looked down and his face twisted into a mask of disgust before kicking MacIntyre, hard.</p> <p>"You still think I'm going to explain, don't you?"</p> <p>Edward met the blond man's gaze and held it until Jeremy Marshall at last rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and screamed:</p> <p>"Run, then! See what good it does you!"</p> <p>Edward turned and walked down the fire escape. With almost boyish glee he pushed hard on the door bar until the glass beam shattered and the sound of the fire alarm filled the building, and continued down.</p> <hr/> <p>Marshall left the wreck that had been Raymond MacIntyre on the trading floor and paced over to the fire escape. He wanted to call the Bagman, tell him to kill everyone in the building, but he knew it would be a pointless and expensive act of pique. There was nowhere the Gradley boy could go—as soon as he left the building the Bagman would pick up his scent. Whether it was at Heathrow, or Grand Cayman, or the highest mountain of the Andes, there was nowhere he could hide.</p> <p>And yet, in the dark, non-Euclidean corners of his mind, there was doubt—some part of him saw the black pawn take the white knight, revealing the final check, the black king exposed to attack from … what was it? A rook? A castle.</p> <p>The call came a couple of minutes too late.</p> <p>"Erm, sir? I'm not sure how to tell you this…"</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>Document 1552-12</strong></p> <p>Re: Sagittarius-cruft (maybe)<br/> Death_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT</p> <p>If anyone wants to see a piece of glass containing by preternatural means live footage of a dog (English bulldog) you should be at the Cooper Drake offices, 48 Gray's Inn Road, around midday today. You'll want to speak to Edward Gradley, who can also tell you some interesting things about what certain ex-BBC news presenters got up to in the Bahamas.</p> <p>Oh, and by the way, if you're listening in, Professor Gelding, he remembers everything. You might want to look into that.</p> <p>Reply \| Options</p> <p>.</p> <p>Re: Sagittarius-cruft (maybe)<br/> War_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT</p> <p>Just incredible, really.<br/> Reply \| Options</p> <p>.</p> <p>Re: Sagittarius-cruft (maybe)<br/> Pestilence_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT<br/> > Just incredible, really.</p> <p>I wish to state for the record that none of us have actually seen this thing.<br/> Reply \| Options</p> <p>.</p> <p>Re: Sagittarius-cruft (definitely)<br/> Famine_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT<br/> > Just incredible, really.</p> <p>I've seen it. The Sagittarians sent me photos of it inside a dream.<br/> Reply \| Options</p> <p>.</p> <p>Re: Sagittarius-cruft (just no)<br/> Death_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT</p> <p>> I've seen it. The Sagittarians sent me photos of it inside a dream.</p> <p>OK, now you're just [EXPLETIVE REDACTED] with us.</p> <p>Reply \| Options</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>Edward Gradley walked out of the offices of Cooper Drake just as the clouds cracked open, casting direct sunlight on the ground for the first time in months. The shadow watched from the lobby as he strolled through the carpark. He took his phone out of his pocket and threw it into the landscaped edging, followed by his wallet.</p> <p>The unmarked van had been waiting for him in the overflow area and pulled up. The dark-jumpered man who got out opened the back of the van and looked at him. Edward reached into his pocket and withdrew something small, shining in the light.</p> <p>"You can see this?" he asked, a final note of apprehension entering his voice. "You can see the dog?"</p> <p>The agent nodded, swallowing, then averted his eyes, flipping over a small lockbox. "Yessir I can see it. Please put it into the box. I've seen what happens when people look at that stuff too long."</p> <p>Edward carefully placed the glass shard at the bottom of the box, where the bulldog panted enthusiastically and looked hopeful, though that might have been because someone had entered the room behind it with a bright pink chewtoy. He shut the lid.</p> <p>"We investigated the Pall Mall lead," he said. "Your information led to the capture of numerous MC&D assets and the near-total disruption of their UK distribution network. They moved most of the items, but that's par for the course. How do you feel about the idea of saving the world on a regular basis?"</p> <p>"I think," said Edward, "that sounds like it's something that would fall within the scope of my enlightened self-interest. Plus, I've got nothing else to do. I'm about to become legally dead."</p> <p>"Join the club," said the agent. The shadow watched as Edward hopped up on the running board and Mobile Task Force Epsilon-Nine ''The Nation's Job Creators" rolled away.</p> <hr/> <p>Edward Gradley disappeared from the world on a sunny January afternoon. The coroner called to O'Reilly's Grill and Diner pronounced him dead at twelve fifty-eight, and his remaining family was notified, though his mother seemed less upset than one might have expected.</p> <p>The coroner transported his body to the morgue at St Pancras and was vaguely surprised to find one more free tray than he remembered. Indeed, something about Edward's face seemed awfully familiar, though he could be certain he wasn't one of his previous guests—all the bodies were accounted for on their online admin area. If he had bothered to look, he would have found absolutely no trace of remote access, though the nurse might have remembered the serious-looking young man with the gray hair who had flashed an official-looking Special Branch badge and taken a body awaiting post-mortem for 'priority forensic analysis'.</p> <p>The following morning Maria Beaumont brought a stack of documents into Camden Police Station and Edward's death was officially announced as a murder investigation. It took the lawyer in the black suit three weeks at five thousand and fifty pounds an hour to secure the dismissal of all charges against Marshall, Carter & Dark and the re-expungement of all mention of the club from Scotland Yard's records.</p> <p>Raymond MacIntyre and several other partners were arrested and charged with Market Abuse under the Financial Services and Markets Act 2000, money laundering under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002 and two counts of conspiracy to commit murder. David Went was posthumously cleared of all charges.</p> <p>Elizabeth Keating, as the most senior partner not under investigation, was made acting principal in an extraordinary meeting of the board of directors.</p> <p>The trial continues.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/acquisitions2">Act II - "You are invited"</a> \| <a href="/acquisitions-hub">HUB</a> \| Act III - "Rainy in London" »</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> <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="/acquisitions3">Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act III</a>" by SRegan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/acquisitions3">https://scpwiki.com/acquisitions3</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]] [[/>]] [[toc]] +++ Chapter Six: "Rainy in London" In the morning's watery light, he sat for a few minutes while the events of the previous evening caught up with him. You fucking idiot, he thought to himself. He had forgotten the comb! There was no way if it remained on the person of Lady Penelope that he could call the police, if they were even willing to investigate. Besides, something within him told him that the noise her skull had made when it hit the floor had been very, very bad. He would have to go back, confront what had happened and try to get the comb if he had any realistic prospect of accessing MC&D's acquisitions warehouse and recovering the codex. He bought a warm Danish and a coke from a street vendor and sat in his car, considering his options, when his mobile vibrated to indicate a new text message. He picked it up and checked it, apprehensively. > meet me @pimlico fresh 10mins death Unless the hygiene level of Pimlico Fresh's frappucino had really gone downhill, this was presumably a message from the Four Horsemen. He checked his watch. While he didn't have time to spare they might have some way out of this insanity. He dried his runny nose with a tissue—the night in the car had reactivated his flu, it seemed. As he entered the coffee shop he saw kid Death and his silly hairdo, sitting on a stool and swinging his legs. Beside him was a blackhead-smattered older teen who he presumed was Pestilence. "The harbingers of the apocalypse, I presume," said Edward tiredly, adjusting his tie and ruffling his hair in the café window. "Yes. You got another little mission from Marshall, didn't you?" Death seemed tetchy; maybe he'd chipped his nail polish. "So what if I did?" Edward challenged. "I need to set some things right and I can't do that unless I find out where Marshall's keeping ... something I stole from someone close to me. Do you have a problem with that?" "No, look, that's OK. Fine, actually, it's what we hoped for. It's the comb, isn't it?" said Pestilence, excitedly, grabbing a shoebox off the floor. "Yes it is. First of all, how exactly did you..." "Never mind about that," started Death. "Actually, I want to tell him. It's been requested by Saad bin Abdullah bin Abd al-Aziz bin Abdul-Rahman Al Saud." "Pardon?" "One of MC&D's Saudi clients. Something's up with the comb and Lady Penelope—it keeps being given to different people and ending up in her possession—haven't quite gotten on top of that yet—but it's an 11^^th^^ century liturgical comb. I mean, it's worth something, but why is it being treated like the Holy Grail? We think there's something else going on—whether it's being used to smuggle government secrets, or whether it's some sort of Dan Brown puzzle. That's why we want you to bring it to us. At the very least we'd have something MC&D wants." "What? Did you not just hear..." "Yes," said Death, cutting in. "That's why War went and had this made." He signalled to Pestilence, who opened the box to reveal a yellowed ivory comb, identical-looking to the one he'd seen in the document given to him by Jeremy Marshall. "You give //this// to Marshall and return the real one to us." Edward took the comb from the box, turned it over in his hands. It was small, no more than six inches across, with fine ivory teeth in two different widths. "So, you guys are with the police, or...?" Death harrumphed. "Yeah, sure, I'm Officer Steve McDeath, you're all under arrest. Book 'em, Pestilence. Seriously, do we look like cops?" "No idea, but if you end up with something Marshall wants you'd better know what you're doing. Right now all I'm seeing are two kids in way out of your depth." "Please," said Death, "I've been screwing with powerful people longer than you've been a stock trader. We know what we're doing. You haven't met Famine yet, have you?" "Okay," said Edward, and finished his hot chocolate. "Good," Death said, wandering over to the window and looking out in both directions. "Pestilence, this idiot has a tendency to attract tails. One of them followed me half-way through London after our last meeting before I ditched him on the Tube." "MC&D?" asked Pestilence. "Not as far as I can tell. Crypto-governmental, looked like." "Well, looks like you're on your own," said Pestilence to Edward, leaving a five pound tip and disappearing into the back of the shop. When Edward looked around Death had similarly made his egress. Some pros, thought Edward. I give Marshall the fake—and what happens when you get in touch to ransom the real thing? Either you didn't think that part of the plan out or you don't care if I get myself killed either. No, he'd have to find something else to appease the Horsemen. ---- Lady Penelope's mansion was as he'd left it—glass strewn over the porch on the right hand side of the house, increasingly soggy Goethe sinking into the drain. He cautiously moved into the summer-house. "Alexandra?" he called. "Alexandra? Are you OK?" No response. The creeping decay he had noticed before seemed suddenly more profound, ceilings sagging noticeably, the stairs feeling rotten and unsteady as he ascended to the first floor. The smell hit him as he pushed open the door to the master bedroom—nauseating, hideous. Lady Penelope lay on the floor—where she had fallen? He couldn't be sure. Her body had already caved in on itself, a putrefying mass he had to try and keep his breakfast down to approach. What could have done this? Her skin was taut over her skull, eyes like burst egg yolks. The comb was still in her hair. He knelt down, one arm up over his face, burying his nose in his elbow and breathing in the smell of Huntsman's proprietary fabric softeners. They did little to mask the stench. His other hand, trembling, reached out for the comb. He half expected the horrific thing to sit up and try to stop him. It came away, chunks of her blonde hair following, with little chunks of rotten flesh at their tips. He brushed the hair away in morbid fascination. The comb was in his hand. The replica, in his pocket. He knew he could not give the real comb to the Horsemen, and briefly toyed with the idea of returning them their own fake. No, still too risky. Not only would they likely have integrated some flaw to point out to Marshall to convince him that what he held was indeed fake, he still couldn't risk anyone telling Marshall he had been given a forgery, even if it wasn't true. And I don't like what one more theft will make me, he thought. On a whim, he went over to the oak writing table and saw the little key in the lock of the drawer. He turned it, put the real comb inside and locked it, and put the key in his other pocket. ---- Edward drove to the main London chapterhouse and knocked on the door, holding his glass member's pass, which had somehow survived the night in his pocket. The bag-eyed porter opened his peephole and glared out, before crinkling in amusement. "Mr Gradley—you're expected! Straight through; Mr Marshall and Mr Carter are in the office towards the back." Edward didn't feel like facing either man again, but nodded and walked through into the ballroom, which was being prepared for some great theatrical display. "Excuse me, can you tell me where..." The staff ignored him, continuing their actions as though they hadn't heard or seen him at all. Brainwashed, he thought. Far from 'straight through', the offices required navigation of the labyrinthine system of back rooms; many were locked and he heard voices raised in pleasure and pain. Eventually he emerged into a lavish Elizabethan parlour where Messrs Marshall and Carter sat taking tea from a pot in the shape of a screaming human head. It seemed to be a hit. "The //body//, Mr Carter!" Jeremy Marshall was enthusing wildly when Edward entered. "Ah, Mr Gradley. Does the young hero return triumphant?" Edward held up the comb, which he had wrapped in tissue, fearful that its teeth might break, before sneezing volcanically. "The dowager's comb, Mr Carter—back in the hands of its rightful owners." "Not for long, Mr Marshall," chuckled Carter, the growth on his back groaning with him. "Just make sure its new owner knows what precautions to take. Give Mr Gradley some Peramivir before he goes." Marshall smiled thinly. "Indeed. Now, Mr Gradley, the item?" He extended his hand. "I said I wanted to see where the acquisitions are stored," he insisted. Marshall scowled. "Oh, very well. Mr Gradley insists on aggregating a double reward to himself, Mr Carter." "A—man after my own heart—Mr Marshall. Good to see old Bernard's Nordic blood not wholly diluted, yes?" "Then you shall see what lies beneath, Mr Gradley. But be advised—this is not a shopping trip. If you wish us to help you salvage your career, then you will be content to look and not touch, at least for now." ---- Again with the blindfold! A velvety cloth was tied over his eyes and he was escorted quietly and efficiently into a car, which he later learned was a black limousine. He held the comb—the fake, of course—clutched tightly in his hands the whole way, fully expecting Jeremy to renege on his promise the second he had it in his possession. Mr Marshall sat somewhere to his right, doing something that made a disquietening scritch-scratch that seemed alarmingly close to his ear—possibly filing his nails, possibly not. The ride seemed to take hours, and Edward became increasingly nervous. It occurred to him that he had no real exit strategy—assuming he somehow got free of Marshall and gained free run of the warehouse, and assuming he found and was able to get out with the codex, what would he do? He had no car, no means of transport, and would surely be run down and returned to Marshall's tender ministrations within minutes. He resolved to take events as they came. For a while he tried to focus on the sound of the limo's wheels on the road, but, of course, he had no training in identifying a surface from the sound it made. For what it was worth the ride seemed smooth, so they probably hadn't gone offroad. Was that a good thing? At length the vehicle purred to a halt and Edward was bundled out, the blindfold removed. The blank-faced young men and women in formal serving attire had given way to seedy-looking private security with a paramilitary flavour; he saw at the hip of one the stock of a semi-automatic rifle. Before them was a vast rectangular concrete monstrosity, surrounded by two barbed-wire fences and angled subterranean roller shutters which as he watched retracted to admit an armoured truck. It looked less like a warehouse than some despot's compound. "This is where it all comes, Mr Gradley," gestured Marshall, as they entered on foot via a checkpoint—the guards immediately found something fascinating to look at on the wall or ceiling as Jeremy Marshall passed and the barriers were raised before they got within ten paces of them. Good to know, thought Edward; they're terrified of him. Any time something or someone behaves in a predictable way they can be exploited—stocks and shares 101. Edward had expected some vast space inside the warehouse—instead, they entered a serpentine mess of stacks and shelves, the aisles not straight but turning and twisting like a labyrinth. The only clue to the area's size could be seen in the height of the ceiling, rising far above the three and four shelf units. Watery naked bulbs hung like Christmas ornaments from the walkways above, criss-crossing the space and casting a green-grey pallor on everything. The area nearest to the door appeared to be outgoing objects—guards packaging five foot tall Easter Island heads in bubblewrap and loading them onto pallets. He scanned the items lined up for shipping but couldn't see the codex. "Stay close to me," warned Marshall, "we wouldn't anything happening to you, would we? And speaking of which..." he clicked his fingers and held his hand out occasionally. Edward grudgingly surrendered the comb, which Marshall spun between his fingers with glee, watching the play of light on its twisted little engraved figures. "A singular find, this. Such a shame that we have to give it away again so soon—and for such petty pleasures! Still, it always manages to return to us eventually." He withdrew a white silk handkerchief from his pocket, monogrammed with the club cartouche, and wrapped the comb before sliding it into his breast pocket. "So," he said, striding purposefully deeper into the warehouse, "this is the kingdom. Our little gallery. Well, one of them." Edward hadn't expected the noise. When they had first entered it had been almost too soft to hear—a distant susurration like the sound of a jungle. But as they pressed deeper into the bowels of MC&D's treasurehouse it rose sharply and horrifically; screams bird, animal, human, and things besides which sounded like none of them, and on top of them all the sounds of scraping iron and sawing. "Mind your step, Mr Gradley. I have business at the corner office—I need to see a man about a set of teeth. His, in fact." Marshall skipped lightly over an industrial cable running through sawdust and dark brown, flaking stains Edward hoped were creosote. Nearer the door the objects on either side had been relatively mundane; stacks of yellowed papers, covered canvases stacked in rows; a metal shelf with a row of antique fountain pens under a jeweller's light. Now they grew progressively stranger—a 1960s Dust Devil vacuum cleaner, a locked fishtank containing a Pez dispenser with a blackface minstrel's head and sealed with hazard warning tape, a firehose packed in flame-retardant foam. None of it looked valuable, unless it was supposed to be modern art. Marshall's face was turned away as he navigated a teetering mass of bulging cardboard boxes containing something pink that was slowly leaking out onto the floor. Edward held his breath and took a left at a shattered Exidy Sorceror home computer from the 1970s, which for reasons known to themselves someone had hooked up to an HD monitor. A moment, then: "Mr Gradley?" Edward ran, his only purpose to create as much distance between himself and Marshall as possible. He tripped over a wind-up monkey that had been left in the middle of an aisle—labelled '7H' on a disintegrating tag around its neck. He flung it disgustedly away and was about to rise to his feet again when he realised it had been a blessing in disguise. A guard was slowly patrolling the walkway above the next aisle; if he had remained upright for another moment he would have been seen running through the warehouse and alarms would have been raised. Instead he crawled on hands and knees in his suit, engine oil and packing dust staining his cuffs and trousers. Now what? He couldn't even try to get his bearing among the stacks—he moved, bereft of direction, and the cacaphony grew ever louder around him. Inanimate objects had given way to a parade of living horrors—fleshy, snakelike things with chimpanzee faces hammering themselves against perspex, a squirrel with blood-crusted eyes screaming at him from inside a cage inches away from his face, something like an owl constantly everting itself and turning right-side out again with a sickening pop. He fixed his eyes on the next corner and continued crawling. When the worst of it seemed to be over he stopped, breathing heavily. Where he was now was dark—overshadowed by a portion of the catwalk and a great glass container filled with sand which seemed to be a giant antfarm, except the tunnels nearest the glass were five times wider than any ant had a right to be. He would sit here for a minute, take stock. Face it, Edward, he thought, this was not your brightest idea. You're trapped in a warehouse of things that came out of a nightmare and you have absolutely no idea how to go about finding the codex, if it's even here. "Sunny in Mogadishu," said a voice close behind him. He flinched, spinning around to face the cage he had been resting against. His eyes couldn't make anything out in the enclosure, eclipsed by the towering pile of bric-a-brac dumped on top of it. "Hello?" he said. "Is there someone in there?" "Drizzle in Los Angeles"—the voice was mournful, the words mumbled as though by someone who had learned the sound of the phrases but not their meaning. Edward felt the hairs on the backs of his hands pricking. "I mean, are you a prisoner here? I'm sorry ... I'm not sure if I can help you. Get you out, I mean." The cage had been secured by a hefty combination padlock. In the nearest corner he could see a bowl of water. "I don't know how to get out myself." "Tornado in Rio de Janeiro," it said. "A mild depression moving eastwards towards Astrakhan." "Please," said Edward, hoping against hope that whoever it was in the cage could even understand him. "I need to find a book. It looks like an iron box. It would be where they keep the latest acquisitions." "Rainy in London," said the voice, a note of utter despair entering its voice. "Rainy in London." Edward tugged at the lock but it was solid. He considered trying to pry it open, but he couldn't see anything long or solid enough. "I'm sorry," he said, and began to move away. "Storm coming in over Gradley," it said. "Bring your umbrellas." Edward paused. "Did you say my name?" Squinting, he made out a shadow at the far side of the cage—a couple of glints which could be eyes. It was the wrong shape to be human. "Snow right around the corner," it said, miserably. "Then for the next four days straight. Wrap up warm." Edward thought about it for a moment. Well, it wasn't the most insane thing he'd done today. "Thank you," he said. "Always rainy in London," he heard the voice say from behind him. He turned right on the mummified alligator pinned to a board with copper wire. He counted as he ducked between each stack, counting them off as he passed gravity wheels and Archimedes screws, rotating slowly and quietly. One. Rows of surgical equipment, some gleaming, some corroded and damp. As he passed they vibrated, chattering in their constraints. Two. Television monitors, seemingly fused together into a spreading tree. Three. A human fetus in a jar. The jar was taller than Edward. So was the fetus. Four. And there it was—a clearing in the wilderness, a square area surrounded with shelving and dominated by a thick wooden table, which might have been lacquered once but had been stripped down to the raw by scrapes, scratches, and what looked like acid burns. In the middle, a sign had been scrawled in permanent marker on a piece of corrugated card and propped against a tin filled with stationery. 'NEW ARRIVALS'. The shelves were littered with debris—a metal slinky toy, an astronaut's helmet with a crack running the full length of the visor, a pair of high heels. No codex. He clawed at the items, threw them to the floor, angry with himself for having made such a stupid gambit. Then, tucked between a table clamp stained with blood and other matter and a curiously elderly and overweight Action Man still in its packaging and dressed in the outfit of a four-star general, his eye picked out the shape of the metal box with 'Gervais' scratched on its spine. He grabbed it, held it close to his chest. "Hey!" he heard from somewhere above him. He dropped to his knees, crawled back into the shadow of the stacks. He maybe had a few minutes before the guard came looking for him; or maybe he goes and finds Marshall first. Yes, that would fit. He'll go and ask Marshall what to do. He guessed he might have a little longer. There was something glittering by his shoe, half-hidden under the box of a mouldering board game protruding from the shelving—a shard of glass, he realised, though the light caught it oddly. For a second he thought that his MC&D member's pass might have slipped out of his pocket and shattered, and something about that chilled him even though he knew he never intended to return to the chapterhouse. Had he dreamed something about it? But no, it was intact in his pocket. He slid his hand under the shelves and retrieved the shard, cold and sharp between his fingers, no more than five centimetres across. Up close he could see what had puzzled him—it wasn't transparent at all but opaque; he couldn't see his fingers through it at all. Instead—he looked closer at the small reflection. He jolted out of his reverie and jerked around—nothing but a burlap sack, filled with coal, upon which someone had written 'D-5067'. He looked back and saw it again—the glass shard reflected not his own face but the head of an English bulldog, mottled brown and black with a white stripe on its forehead, occasionally blinking or turning this way or that. It looked out at him, slightly cock-eyed, and licked its nose. Edward waved his hand in front of the glass. Unsurprisingly the animal showed no indication that it could see him, instead opting to pursue the exciting taste of its own nostrils. This wasn't possible was it?, he thought, turning the shard over—the exact same canine reflection. No power source, no apparent means of projecting the image. It seemed to be part of a larger whole, but looking about he could see nowhere it might have come from. At the very least, he thought, this represented a good century's advancement in materials science. Just my luck, the stock-trader thought, I get the piece without the manufacturer's name. He tucked it into his pocket and continued moving, this time away from the screaming. ---- "Hold on," said the square-jawed guard at the entrance, stubbing out his cigarette on the arm of the traffic barrier and swaggering over, ball of his palm over the holster of his weapon. "Nothing and no-one comes in or out without Mr Marshall's say-so." He eyed the metal case under Edward's arm. "He's said so," Edward replied, as haughtily as he could. "I've chosen my reward and now I'm on the clock. I need to be on the road asap." "What you need don't come into it," the security officer said. "You're gonna wait until Mr Marshall gets here to let you out." Edward tried not to sweat. Right now, he thought, Marshall was being disabused of any notions he might have that Edward had just got turned around amidst the debris of MC&D's empire. He eyed the walkie-talkie at the man's chest. Soon a call would come in on that and he'd be dead. "By that time it'll be a little late. I've been dispatched on Mr Marshall's orders. Any delays will be severely punished." He saw the guard swallow, look around shiftily as if hoping the blond man might appear to resolve his dilemma. Edward mused—Marshall considers his underlings a less competent substitute for himself; he can't be everywhere, so they're here to fill in. They aren't trusted to think for themselves, which means eventually they don't think at all, they just follow orders. And that means in the end they do and say whatever they think you want, whether you like it or not; the idea of you being angry with them is more powerful than what you actually want. And you're trapped in a universe of reflections. "I don't know," said the guard. Edward heard the buzz of a radio from within the office. Soon, one of the other guards—perhaps the big one with the stubble tossing a coin over his knuckles by the freight entrance—would go over to see what was happening. "Listen," said Edward, trying to perfect the Marshall sneer. "if I'm not in that limousine -" he nodded at the vehicle outside "- and headed back to Whitehall in the next fifteen seconds..." It was the most ludicrous, stupid thing he'd ever said, a piece of nonsense that he cursed even as it came out of his mouth. What kind of a threat is that, he thought, that's pathetic. He had just plucked an image out of the air, paired it with the most senior person he could think of in MC&D's hierarchy, that terrible old man, and it had become mixed up in his mind with that horrible, moving thing under the cloth... "...I'll feed you to Carter's chair." The guard went grey, all at once. His eyes started watering. He was trying to speak, but nothing was coming out. Shaking like a newborn foal he thumbed the controls to disengage the pedestrian door and Edward strode forcefully past as behind him he heard the first faint yells. No point trying to bluff the limousine driver—as soon as his feet met pavement he started running. That had worked better than expected, he thought. Edward had feared that when he got out he would find himself in the middle of nowhere, nothing but fields for miles around. Instead, he found to his amazement that after only a few paces he emerged on the thoroughfare of Pall Mall, city traffic buzzing around, deafening yet reassuring in its mundanity. They must have driven the limo around in circles to try and disorientate him, he reasoned, until he remembered the way the sounds of the city had fallen behind to be replaced by silence and the occasional note of birdsong. He pushed onto the pavement and mingled with the crush of pedestrians, becoming invisible under their umbrellas. ---- "You let him out." It was not a question. Matt Berkeley, four O-levels, army dropout, felt like a rotten oak in a storm. Every day for the last three years he had prayed—"Don't let him see me. The pay's good, it's easy money, if he just doesn't see me. Let me go another day without him noticing anything I do. Let him take it out on someone else today, please, just not me." He had perfected the art of seeming engaged in reviewing security logs or approving access papers whenever anyone more senior happened by, then joined in wholeheartedly with the poker and the prank calls to Paki shopkeepers and the furtively exchanged dirty mags. Inside he was hollow—he knew he deserved no praise and had spent every day hoping he would never be found out. "He said you'd approved it," said Berkeley, in barely more than a whisper. "And you believed him?" "Yes sir," Berkeley's head dropped onto his chest, waiting. He had seen what happened to men who screwed up in the employ of Marshall, Carter & Dark. And afterwards he had put the bits into bags and dropped them in front of trains. He looked around. Would Mikkelsen be the one lugging Berkeley's bin liner down in front of the five-o-five to Reading? Maybe 'Hammers' Rogan. Or perhaps there wouldn't be enough left of him to bother. Marshall's long fingers dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew something in a silky white handkerchief, unwrapping it delicately. Some sort of comb, he saw—intricately carved but warped and yellowed. "Hold still, idiot." He took Berkeley's head with one hand and delicately inserted the comb into the still-thick clump of hair behind his ear. Sweat dripped from the man's forehead as he waited to turn inside out or his teeth to come alive or his soft tissues to melt. The other guards looked on with morbid fascination. After an excruciating minute Berkeley looked up and said "Is something supposed to happen, or..." The guards turned their attention to Marshall, who stood back bowed, leaning against a concrete pillar. He was taking great sucking gasps of air, his teeth bared. They exchanged brief glances, faces pale. They had never, //ever// seen Mr Marshall like this. "Wake him up," he said, voice like polished bone. "Sir?" asked Berkeley, but he already knew what was coming. "You heard me. Wake up the Bagman." ---- +++ Chapter Seven: "Codex" "Look at you," she had said. "Every time you come to me these days it is in such a state." Maria had accepted the codex silently, looking at him with an unreadable expression in those brown eyes. She had sat him down, his clothes stained and rent, on a chair in the kitchen, and brought him a hot cocoa. Later, she found him one of her father's dressing gowns and put him up in the house's master bedroom. "Marshall will be looking for me," he croaked. "If he guesses I've brought the codex back to you..." "Sssh," she said. She looked at the tired dark rings under his blue eyes and ruffled his hair with her fingers. "You'll stay here tonight," she said. They sat up together in bed, reading the codex. The //Viage to the Contree of the Cimmerians// was written in densely packed cursive; designed for economy of parchment, not ease of reading. But Edward had read the extracts that had once been published in a 1754 chapbook as //A Journey to the End of the World//, and was able to fill in the blanks where the manuscript became illegible. "It starts like one of the Arthurian legends," he explained. "A wandering knight is taken into the home of a nobleman, and during the feasting they are attacked by a knight with the head of a stag, or a stag with the head of a knight, it changes from chapter to chapter. He challenges them to seek out the Rose Chapel, a stained-glass church built where Maura of Troyes shed a river of miraculous tears. So far, so Green Knight. They gird themselves up and take to the saddle, and follow the trail of the stag knight, righting wrongs as they go. Then they approach a shadowy canyon. The stag knight flies out of it—presumably in human-head, stag-body form—and shouts for them to give up their quest; even he's terrified by whatever lies within. Being your average Arthurian meatheads they swear an oath to brave the dangers of the canyon." "What happens?" she said, craning her neck. "Nothing. That's the thing. There's just -" he turned the yellow parchment—"a blank page." It was black from top to bottom, saturated with ink. "It's unbelievably literary for the time; makes Chaucer look like a second-rater. Some commentaries on //A Journey// just treat it as a misprint—it ends the first fragment—but here it is, in the original manuscript." "What does it mean?" asked Maria. "Just that it was dark?" "Not exactly ... it's more like Gervase sees the darkness as swallowing up any mention of what happened. We're never told what happens in the canyon—it's like the text has been redacted. But when we pick up with them something has changed. Most of the knights are dead—the chap we've been following goes home but his castle's ruined and his family slain. There's a long digression here -" he turned the pages—"very long, actually. It's one of the fragments, so I'll cut it short; he meets the stag knight and they have a lengthy debate on the nature of heaven, hell and reality; except all the concepts were far too advanced for the time, as though the writer were channeling post-Reformation thinkers." "No wonder Gervase got written out of history." "Most commentaries assume it was a later addition, something that couldn't have been in the original text. Another strike for the critics. Then things get weird." "Weirder than they already are, you mean?" "Definitely. The knight goes back to South-Cadbyri Palis, Gervase's Camelot-in-all-but-name, and they sally out and fight monsters, except it's written in the most bizarre, repetitive way. Look here—this was in the chapbook; it's an honest-to-god itemised list of all the giants, demons and goblins they kill or capture. The dragon's new, though." "It isn't a good Arthurian legend without a dragon-slaying," Maria said, nuzzling his arm. "This one is slightly unconventional. It doesn't breathe fire, well most of the time. It still eats people, though. The thing is, they slay it again, and again, and again. They chop off its head, they put it in a cauldron to boil its flesh off its bones, they crush it under a boulder... And the next chapter it's back and they have to do it all over again." "Sounds like it represents something." "Too right. What, I don't know. Look, each chapter starts with an illustrated letter of them trying to kill the dragon." It was a weirdly scrawny, beaked thing with a long mane in the heraldric tradition that looked thoroughly //disgusted// by the knights' attempts at dispatching it—here it was, being impaled on a dozen glaives. It was probably intended to be wild with pain, though Edward thought it looked like it was just rolling its eyes. "The knight has a son and grows old, and his son becomes a knight too—and then one day, while //he's// making merry in the hall, the stag knight comes in and challenges them to seek the Chapel. It's unclear whether it's warning the knights they haven't yet completed their quest, or whether time has somehow looped." "The son becomes his father," observed Maria. "This time the knight succeeds in his quest—he finds the chapel. But it's ruined, broken. The spring of healing tears is dry. And then the writing goes mad. Our hero hunts down the stag knight and //eats// him, then tries to disembowel himself, but is resurrected by some kind of angel, it's not really clear—people die and reappear without rhyme or reason. There are these huge battles out of nowhere, like the world's tearing itself apart. The sky starts raining blood. The knight volunteers for one last mission to try and set things right—to sail to Hyperboria, the land beyond the wind." "The mythical land of the Cimmerians." "Yes. There's a whole sequence here about his voyage on a raft, travelling into the icy north. But it's not very convincing—he recycles the Sirens and Charybdis from The Odyssey, even the island of the Lotus Eaters. It's like he's trying to put the voyage into words his listeners will understand. Things get interesting when he finally drifts ashore. Gervais wrote Cimmeria as this desolate wasteland where it's twilight all the time; the knight finds a frozen body of a woman in a ditch. The people are all half-starved; they've nearly forgotten language and live in these half-collapsed huts, living on root croops and herding a few skinny sheep. It's obviously a metaphor; Edward Forsyth -" "Who?" "The man who printed the fragments of the Viage as //A Journey to the End of the World//." "He has your name," said Maria, sleepily. "He obviously believed Cimmeria was //England// after the apocalypse. It's a valid interpretation—there's a whole section where the knight loses his way on the ocean due to mist and can't be sure whether he's progressing or regressing." "You bastards, you blew it up," she said, not quite accurately. It was the first time he had heard her swear. "Exactly; but 800 years before Heston. Other commentators just take the knight's doubts as a religious analogy, feeling unsure about your faith, et cetera. There's a sort of compromise position—Cimmeria represents Gervais' own view of the world around him, seemingly falling to bits after the knightly golden age. Remember, this was back when Geoffrey of Monmouth was considered a reliable non-fiction writer. King Arthur was seen as a historical figure." "How does it end?" Edward narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the spidery writing. "He finds the Rose Chapel, intact, the miraculous spring flowing again." "That doesn't make sense." "You bet. He goes in and prays, and he knows—this is really odd for the time, there should be some thundering voice from heaven or an angel or something to tell him—that his own land is safe, but that he can never leave Cimmeria for the rest of his life." "It is a horrible book and it ends sadly," decided Maria. "Why do you think Marshall wanted it?" "Well, it's an important manuscript—some of the things Gervase does here rewrite our understanding of the development of English literature. It must be quite valuable. I'd love to see what a medievalist would make of the dragon." Except that'll never happen now, he said to himself, because of you. He turned the last page and closed the iron cover. Maria drew up the covers and he slept. He was awakened by a thin pale light shining through the window, illuminating Maria's arm draped over his chest. He looked at the bedside carriage clock—it was already nine o'clock. "I have to go," he said, gently moving Maria's arm. "You're in danger if Marshall finds me here." Maria, stirred, looked up at him with her brown eyes. "You think I'm fragile, that I need to be protected. Don't forget I'm a Beaumont. We can take care of ourselves." "I don't want you to suffer for my mistakes. Take the codex; I'm sorry but you mustn't let anyone see it. No-one can know you have it back." "Don't worry. It's not going to be on my coffee table. And you mustn't go out in those," she said, as Edward picked at his ruined trousers. "You're too tall for Daddy's clothes, but maybe Grandfather's will work." Thus outfitted with a dead man's suit—the fit not quite up to Huntsman's or Stathopoulos's standards but still comfortable—and a big black umbrella like the wings of a bat, he kissed her, and left the Beaumont house for the last time. Fingering the shard of glass he had removed from the pocket of his last suit, Edward stopped under the porch of St Martin-in-the-Fields and, finding Death's last text, selected 'Answer by phone'. "Hello, is that Death? ... Well, I don't know his name, is he your son? Just put him on, please, this is urgent ... Yes, it's Edward. Of course I'm still alive. ... No, forget the comb, I ... No, I don't have the replica ... I can imagine. Expensive. ... I'm sure it didn't come out of your pocket money, //was// that your mother? Oh. You start early these days, don't you? Look, I've got something way better if you like conspiracies. You show this to any news agency and ... No, meet me at O'Reilly's in half an hour. ... Well, this isn't a movie, and I don't intend to die before showing it to you. ... Better make it an hour and a half then, Jesus. Make sure you bring enough change for the fare. Or get War to give you a lift, I presume at least //he's// passed his test." Edward stashed the phone in his other pocket and leaned against the pillar. It was faint, now, but it was coming back to him; he could see the pieces in movement. Not six moves ahead, not yet, but four, or three. Enough. Now he just had to stay alive long enough to reach the endgame. ---- This time Edward stood across the street and watched them arrive, one at a time, taking their seats by the window as they ordered milkshakes, Coke, a pint of beer: Death the kid; the spotty young man who rejoiced in the name Pestilence; War, waddling in playing a game on his iPhone; and a grim-faced man in his late twenties or early thirties with prematurely greying hair and military surplus togs he presumed must be Famine. He checked his watch—fashionably late for only the second time in his life. He strolled over the crossing and approached, slowing as he did so until he was close enough to see the on-rails FPS on War's mobile. Death looked up and caught his eye. The men in black paramilitary jumpers and dog tags around their neck approached him from behind, clapped a hand over his mouth with casual ease, grabbed his arms and pushed him sideways into the rear of the waiting van. Death punched War's arm and shouted something, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rolled off their seats to take cover under the table with long-practiced grace. No-one else on the street or in the bar even noticed Edward's disappearance. ---- Edward was getting used to journeys where he couldn't see where he was going. No blindfold at first, just a windowless van and handcuffs. Then, for a few minutes, light again; clean, clinical walls and stairs edged with crisp yellow safety tape. Making a sudden and jarring appearance, the grey sky, still resolutely spitting down at the earth. //Now// the blindfold, as the roaring in front of him rose like a dragon. My first helicopter ride, he thought. He had envisioned it going rather more glamorously. "Mobile Task Force Epsilon-Seven 'Santa's Little Regifters' reporting in," someone said into a radio close to him. "Package acquired." He was reasonably sure—indeed was counting on—the fact that the men around him were not in the employ of Marshall, Carter & Dark. Exactly who they were working for was a matter he'd have to clear up as he went. The helicopter's drone descended, stabilised, then petered away. After being unloaded like a sack of potatoes, Edward was led through several hydraulic-sounding doors before the gift of sight was finally, gloriously returned. He stood blinking in the glaringly bright white corridors, the dark balaclava'd men who had abducted him filling out various forms he was sure pertained to him before handing him into the custody of less militarised but equally alert men with blue hard hats and truncheons. There would be no bluffing these men, he was sure—he got the impression they were trusted to do their job well. "Don't I get at least the courtesy of an introduction?" he asked cheerily. "You did just snatch me off the street, after all." "You're here to answer some questions for us," retorted one of the men, "and then we might end up letting you go. Don't count on being able to remember anything we say." He was led down through level after level of brightly lit concrete, punctuated by small safety glass windows through which he caught glimpses of men in laboratory coats at work, though the experiments in progress seemed to verge on the lunatic. White coats watching from a distance as a man in an orange jumpsuit painted a door clamped horizontally to a pair of workbenches. Examining a horse, hanging in a set of medical stirrups from the ceiling, as though it were some kind of alien creature. Pouring a popular brand of detergent on clothes within a fumigation tank via a robotic arm. The plaque on the office door read "Professor J Gelding DPhil DEng"—when the door was opened Edward saw a large desk. The man sat behind it was small with shiny round glasses which obscured his eyes and a close-cropped horseshoe of grey hair. The room was outfitted like a doctor's surgery, with a medical cabinet, reclining bed covered in green construction paper and a small chair in front of the desk. "Close the door, please, Agent Howard," he said to the hard-hatted man, who complied. "Please ensure the subject is searched prior to interview." Edward submitted to the indignity of search by Howard, who turned out his pockets, patted down Grandfather Beaumont's suit and shone a bright light in his mouth. His car keys, wallet and phone were taken and put in a tray near the door—hopefully to be returned, he thought. His glass MC&D membership pass was held up and passed to the Professor, who turned it over thoughtfully. "Please take a seat." Edward settled in the uncomfortable plastic chair across from the little bald man. Agent Howard stood a respectful distance away, watching. "This is an interview, not an interrogation, Mr Gradley. Having said, that, we make use of applied pressure techniques and will employ them if we feel you are being untruthful. We are not law enforcement personnel, which means you are not under caution. That also means we are not obliged to offer you legal counsel. As you may have already surmised from the manner you were brought in, you are also not subject to the protections of the law." "I understand." "What is the nature of your relation with Marshall, Carter & Dark?" "I think you know that," said Edward, calmly. "I'm a stock trader with Cooper Drake. I was introduced to the club by the late David Went and was recruited to handle fine art acquisitions for Mr Marshall on a part-time basis." "Have you been exposed to any of the objects they ask you to acquire?" "I'm not sure I follow you. I've touched them, sure." Professor Gelding furrowed his brow. "Have you been experiencing any..." his voice suddenly changed into a machine-gun staccato "...lost time, hallucinations, sudden mood shifts, encounters with anomalous entities, rashes or illness, loss of energy, trouble sleeping, strange or disturbing dreams, perceptions of reality or history out of sync with others around you, emotional or cognitive difficulties?" Edward shook his head. "No. Not really. I mean, I had a terrible case of the flu recently, if that helps." The Professor shook his head. "There was something at the clubhouse—like an illusion. You closed your eyes and you were somewhere else." "You know the location of their clubhouses?" The glasses glittered, sharply. "One or two of them. If you want to know where they are, there's a map on that membership card." The Professor took a lingering glance at the card, then chuckled and looked at Agent Howard. "You know, that gets me every time. I always look for it. Mr Gradley, I'm afraid there's nothing on this 'card' besides Marshall, Carter & Dark's logo in one corner." "No," said Edward, "look, it's engraved on the glass, I can see it from here..." "Only visible for the person it's assigned to, I'm afraid. And if you were to draw it out it wouldn't lead anywhere. Same with the 'switchboard number'—not sure if you noticed but it's different every time you call it. We've gone through this whole rigmarole before. You can't contact them in our presence or lead us to them." "That's impossible." "I think you would have a keen idea of just what is and what isn't possible for Mr Marshall and his partners, Mr Gradley. Now, in your recent phone conversation with the individual who goes by the epithet 'Death' you mention something you wanted to show them. What was that, exactly?" Edward thought for a moment before responding. "Marshall took me to the warehouse where they keep the acquisitions. Some of the things there—I don't know. Secret organisations, warehouses of monsters ... that's the sort of stuff conspiracy theorists go in for, isn't it?" "Interesting. Where is this warehouse?" "It's in London. Just off Pall Mall." The little man in the glasses began scribbling excitedly. "There's something strange about it, though—the closer you get to it, the less you can hear the city around it. I thought I'd been taken out into the country." Just like when you brought me here, thought Edward. The Professor's face fell. "I see ... What do you know about the comb?" "Nothing," said Edward, very nearly truthfully. "It was something Death wanted me to look into." "Do you know who currently owns the comb, or what it looks like?" "No," said Edward, without guile. It was a truthful answer to the first question, after all. If what he suspected about the comb was right, he couldn't even say for sure who had owned it last. "Okay," said the Professor, taking off those full-moon glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. That was probably a bad sign, Edward thought. Any moment he's going to ask Mr Howard to apply some of those wonderful pressure techniques, just to make absolutely sure what it is I don't know. The guard in the corner stood up slightly straighter. The intercom buzzed and the Professor thumbed it irritably. "Ms Cairnes, I am in interview. This had better be scintillating." "Sir, we have a problem. Five-three-eight and one-seven-two-nine..." At that moment a klaxon blared into life above them, as a recorded voice began to intone, "Containment breach alert. We are experiencing multiple Euclid-level containment breaches. Please stand by for further instructions." Professor Gelding stood up. "Mr Gradley, I think that concludes our discussion. I am now going to administer you a Class-A amnestic. Once it has taken effect you will no longer remember me or the events of this afternoon. You may feel some disorientation; this is normal." Agent Howard took Edward's arm firmly and pulled down his sleeve, turning it to expose the underside of his arm to Dr Gelding, who selected a small jet injector from his cabinet and inserted a crisp white ampoule. "This shouldn't hurt." That was a lie—it felt like someone punched his forearm hard with a chisel. Edward didn't think he'd forgotten anything—though how could you tell? For all he knew Agent Howard had made him give the Professor a striptease—but after a few minutes he did begin to feel very, drowsy and out of it. Agent Howard had escorted him at a brisk pace back through the facility, and at some point Edward's legs had given out under him. He just barely caught the edge of the man's words to the researchers suddenly running through the corridors as he drifted in and out of consciousness: "...sual side-effects. He shouldn't...". But then Edward was gone. ---- He woke up back in London, neatly propped up in the alleyway across from O'Reilly's Bar and Grill. Everything ached, radiating from the pain in his arm. Someone had thoughtfully placed a bowl in front of him and he had already accumulated several pounds. "Please help," he muttered, trying to order his muscles to move but receiving only a declaration of independence. "Please. Call an ambulance." The people stepping over him didn't even pause. Just another City hopeful down on his luck—or out of his mind on booze or cocaine. After a few minutes the bulky, ponytailed shape of War hover into view, apparently strolling nonchalantly down the road opposite O'Reilly's. He glanced right, glanced left. "There you are," he grumbled. "It's not like I booked the whole day off, you know?" He picked up Edward with appalling ease and carried him into the Bar and Grill, where the bartender tucked him up on one of the corner seats with a blanket and a mug of something vile-tasting but ultimately reviving, as though it were something he did every day. After half an hour or so Edward began to regain some semblance of alertness, together with the feeling in his extremities. The Four Horsemen were sitting around him tucking into half-rump steaks at various grades of overdone. Death was perched up on the chair back, watching him. "Feeling better?" "Uh-huh." "I can sympathise. We've had run-ins with those guys before. Never seen them rough up someone this bad, though." "Fortunately," said War between mouthfuls, "they always bring the guy back to where they picked him up. Let me guess, the Ess-See-Pee lot?" "I don't think they ever mentioned," said Edward, faintly. "It'll be them," said Death vehemently. "Unmarked van, the works. Wish I'd got it on my phone. Broad daylight abduction." "Who are they?" asked Edward. "MI5 or something like that?" "You wish. Seriously, didn't you read our blog? They're one of the biggest crypto-governmental agencies out there. The SCP Foundation. It sounds like a not-for-profit. Like the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It's actually a private army and shadow government that national armed forces actually defer to. Even the Russians roll over and play dead when they want something these days." "What does the name mean?" "Pseudo-fascist bullshit. 'Secure, Contain, Protect'. The totalitarian mantra throughout history. You need to be 'secured', and 'contained'. We-know-best stuff. The whole freemasonry, Bilderberg Group, Bohemian Grove theorists are totally off-track—these are the guys they should have been watching out for, and they failed, big time. Now they're everywhere." "Moriah Conquering Wind's for real," interjected the serious man Edward thought of as Famine, taking a pause from wolfing down his second steak. "But the Foundation, they're the real pros. They're the ones covering up the alien tech." Edward saw Death clap a black-manicured hand over his eyes. "Seriously? You're still on that kick? I thought I proved pretty conclusively that the Veil Protocol is only about protecting public knowledge of the Foundation's existence." Famine scowled, mouth full. "It's the technology, too. Seriously, any time you intercept any communications from these guys it's all about 'the objects'. Alien technology. The Sagittarians keep trying to send it down. It would make everything better—free energy, anti-pollution, nanotech. A second Industrial Revolution. The Foundation don't want it to get out because it would mean them losing //control// of us. You remember //Star Signals//?" Edward realised he was being addressed. "Erm, it rings a bell. Was it some kind of self-help book?" "Yes, like //The Secret// or the //The Prayer of Jabez//, except it really worked. It was all over the chat shows, but no-one mentions it anymore. It was the Foundation. They //wiped// a fortnight of pop culture from history. You remember that episode of American Idol? The one where Cowell started breathing smoke?" "Ahhh..." Edward felt a tinge of a headache coming on. "See that?" Famine turned to Death. "That's the face they all make. They didn't even need to put drugs in the water supply. They just put lots of similar scenes into programmes like //Doctor Who// and //Lost//, so people couldn't tell if what they'd seen was real, or not. The Sagittarians wrote the book to help us heal the world, but the Foundation confiscated almost every copy." Pestilence turned to Edward and whispered softly, "For what it's worth, we think he's a bit crazy. But he knows his way around a firearm and he's got a bunker out in the New Forest if things get really bad." "Death said you mentioned you got something from Marshall, Carter & Dark. Something big," said Famine, eyes pleading. "I don't suppose you..." Edward shook his head. "Your crypto-fascists took it," he lied. "Sorry." The Horsemen looked glum. "Don't worry," said Death. "We're used to this crap." "Look," said Edward, "I'd better go. People are probably wondering where I am." He got up unsteadily and hobbled to the door. "You should get that limp checked out," advised War. "Looks nasty." Edward got a few hundred paces from the bar before the pain became too much. Stooping as though to tie up his shoelaces, he slid his fingers into the side of the now-shredded Testoni leather and eased out the shard of glass. The bulldog seemed none the worse for its experience, grinning as traces of Edward's blood dried on the glass's surface. It was enjoying a bowlful of juicy-looking chunks as a pair of hands in medical gloves checked its fur and ears for mites. I should have stayed for the steak, thought Edward, his stomach rumbling. Seems everyone but me's eaten today. ---- +++ Chapter Eight: "Castle" "Edward? Is that you?" Liz's voice sounded curious but not concerned. "Where the hell have you been? Your phone's been off. MacIntyre's been ready to send out the search party." "Tell him that my flu didn't clear up. Tell him I'm in bed with some chicken soup." "You don't sound sick." "No, I don't. I know you don't like me. You don't have to. But right now you're just about the only person at CD I can trust." "I didn't stand up for you in the review." "I know. You did the right thing. I think I can rely on you to do that. That's why I called you." "Edward, have you had some kind of breakdown? You sound –" "Crazy? I'm beginning to wonder." "Okay, I'll bite. What are you trying to pull this time?" "I'm just trying to set things right." "Like getting the office idiot fired, you mean? Peter was a loser, but he was //our// loser." "I wish I could say I felt bad for that, Liz. I don't. I do feel sorry that I misled you. But yes, if I pull off the track I'm on, there'll be some more changes at Cooper Drake." "Jesus Christ, Edward. Why do you think I'm going to help you?" "Because … because you're not evil. If you figured me out I'm pretty sure you've figured out MacIntyre too. How long have you been keeping his secrets?" "... Damn you." "MacIntyre's got a couple of days left, then I'm coming for him. You should start thinking about yourself. He really isn't worth your loyalty." There was a long pause. In the background he heard the real world; the world which had become real for him—the clamour as a hundred and fifty men scrabbled for shares in AAPL or short-sold Romanian seven-year bonds. "Get well soon, Edward," said Liz, loudly, and rang off. Edward smiled and wondered how on earth he was going to follow through on his promises. ---- Edward paid for the Travelodge room with his credit card. To think some people thought it was expensive—it cost significantly less than his last business lunch. He wondered vaguely if Marshall, Carter & Dark had enough pull in the police force to trace such transactions, but the other options were equally dangerous right now. The room was small and functional with the incessant hum of a radiator through the floor. He spent an hour scribbling on the back of a Little Chef menu someone had left on the coffee table. His twelve-year-old self could probably think of a way out of this, a flawless game that kept all his pieces safe, but right now he couldn't find a path through that didn't require him to sacrifice someone. Then he thought—you've been assuming you're the king, haven't you? What if you're the rook, or the bishop, or the white knight? And he saw it, just for an instant, traced out beautifully between the Hunters Chicken and the pancakes with maple syrup. It wasn't perfect. But it only required him to sacrifice one piece. He'd been carrying it around with him for all his life, and only now it occurred to him that he didn't have to keep it alive to win. He tried to sleep, but the ideas churning in his head, the snoring of the man next door and the thin, hard mattress meant all he was able to manage were brief, hypnopompic episodes of walking along that unearthly beach he had seen before with his eyes closed, or else sitting at his desk at Cooper Drake looking down at the world. A noise broke his stupor, a careless rustling and tearing like a cat or fox going through a rubbish bag. And again, closer to his window. He got up, cautiously, and walked across the floor, bare feet picking up little particles of lint from the over-vacuumed carpet as he went. He twitched aside the diaphanous orange curtain and looked down. The Travelodge took the form of two buildings connected by a bridge on the second floor—the gap between them was used for refuse collection, deliveries and the like, and Edward's room had a commanding view of this little alleyway. What he saw now in the glaring security spotlights was the form of a gigantic man, more than seven feet tall, crouching in the refuse skip a storey beneath the window. The man was entirely nude, massive corded muscles covering his form, and something in that nakedness made him seem less than human—an animal given human shape. It looked up, and he saw that over its head was a tattered hessian bag, stained dark about a third of the way down. It might once have been fastened around his neck with a drawstring, but it had torn so the cord lay around his neck like a necklace and the bag hung loose around his jaw. There was no way he could see through it but Edward knew as surely as anything he had experienced in his life that he had been seen, and recognised. His hands had become clumsy and he batted at the curtains, trying to close them. The bedside drawers were affixed to the bed, which proved beyond the efforts of Edward's lean frame to move. In the end he settled for walking the wardrobe across the room and allowing it to fall horizontally across the door with a satisfyingly solid thud. "Keep it down!" shouted the man in the next room. "Some of us are trying to sleep." Edward scoured the room for anything that might be used as a weapon, finding precious little that could actually be detached from the walls or tables. In the end he smashed the bathroom mirror with the toilet plunger, found a large triangular piece that looked like it would hold up relatively well, and tested the edge, before wrapping half of it in a flannel. He sat on the bed with his silver dagger, watching the door. ---- There was no transition—from Edward's perspective, one moment he was sitting up, engaged in his vigil, and the next he was flat on the bed, eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep? He opened his eyes and angled himself upwards, momentarily startled by the face-shape looming out of the strangely deepened darkess in the unfamiliar room. He waited for the waking pareidolia to subside, for the face to resolve itself into the edge of a lampshade or his coat hanging on the chair. It didn't. "Well done, Mr Gradley," it said. Edward jerked upright, hands searching for the piece of mirror and finding nothing. "I think the Bagman's losing his touch," Marshall continued, "I gave him your spoor from the fake comb but you managed to shake him somehow. Like you'd dropped off the face of the earth. It took him a full day to pick your scent up again." As his eyes readjusted to the darkness, Edward saw to his horror that the massive man was there, kneeling behind Marshall with its hessian forehead almost touching the floor in an attitude of prostration. The wardrobe had been flung aside like a toothpick, and now rested across the window, blocking the light from the street. "Now, Mr Gradley. You have some things that belong to me. I'd like you to return them now." Marshall's voice was like a universe of knives behind a silk curtain. "What things would those be, exactly?" Edward said, groggily. With any luck Marshall thought he was just being insolent. "A certain codex, Mr Gradley. And a certain antique comb. One stolen from my premises, the other still owed to me after you delivered a clumsy forgery. You have quite a way of repaying my trust." "I ran into someone who was very interested in you," Edward said—"I wonder if you've heard of them. They call themselves," he struggled to remember what Death had said, "the SCP Foundation." He was gratified by the look of recognition, rage and was that?—yes!—the minutest trace of fear, in Marshall's expression. "Really," he said, taking a step back and placing his hand on the monstrous man's head—reassuring, Edward realised, but also seeking reassurance himself in the creature's strength. "What did they say, I wonder?" "Well," said Edward, carefully, "I seem to have given them the impression that I've deserted MC&D and am going to deliver them the items you mention. Sorry for the stunt with the codex; I had to take it so they would see you trying to find me and think I was on the level." "What's this?" Marshall seemed startled. "I'll get them back to you, just as soon as I can go back to where I'm keeping them." "And where is that, exactly? I'm sure our friend here is more than a match for any //agents//," he spat the word as though it was hateful to him—"of the Foundation who might be watching it." "And then they would know that it was a hoax and I never intended to hand them over. No, just give me a couple of days to work this out. I'll be in the confidence of the Foundation and you'll have your things back." "And I would have a man in Cooper Drake and the Foundation," mused Marshall, hungrily. "I suppose this is an attempt to make yourself indispensable?" "I know what you did to David. What you had Alexandra do," said Edward, allowing a tendril of anger to shine through. Marshall scoffed: "I barely hinted at it. Your friend filled in all the blanks herself. She—if I can use the word—was quite eager at the prospect. I presume from the commotion around her residence that you evened the score in your acquisition of the comb." Edward's heart sank. "I know MacIntyre's your man. He outlasted David—I'm not about to let him outlast me. If you kill me, you lose the codex, and the comb, and an inside track on the Foundation." Marshall scowled, and snapped his fingers. The Bagman rose to his full height, arms thicker than Marshall's torso. Edward closed his eyes. "You have two days to do what you need to do. At the end of that time I expect my property returned to me—genuine, undamaged. Do you understand?" When he opened his eyes Marshall and the creature were gone. The door hung on one hinge, the lock torn from its moorings. Edward looked at the collapsing wardrobe, tiny fragments of mirrordust coating the bed and floor. Travelodge weren't going to be happy. ---- Edward had hoped that he had misunderstood Marshall when he had mentioned Lady Penelope's house. He had ridden over to Swindon on the bus—Carter's stay of execution apparently not extending to the return of the Porsche—half-expecting to see the Four Horsemen sitting in the seats. When he got there he saw the whole house had been taped off—two police cars had drawn up at the front together with a dark, understated vehicle he assumed belonged to the coroner. "What's going on?" he asked the stony-faced policeman at the front gate. "Is Alexandra okay?" He had some vague thought that he might be invited inside, but the policeman just shook his head. "Do you know the Lady Penelope, sir?" he asked. Edward stammered out an affirmative. "Think you'd better go home, sir. You'll probably read about it soon enough." There would be no hope of gaining access and retrieving the comb, Edward realised, and he cursed himself for not having had the guts to take it and keep it somewhere safer. He turned on his heel and left, just as another policeman said: "Hold on, wasn't you at the Went suicide? Here, Travers, get his number." But another bus had already drawn up at the stop and Edward moved as swiftly has he could towards it, not caring much which direction it took him. By the time the police had decided he was a person of interest the driver had already pulled away and they made no attempt to halt it. He was almost out of trump cards, he thought. Almost. He got out his phone. One bar of charge left. He made two calls; the first to Death, the second to Maria. Both started the same way: "I'm sorry. I need one more favour." The one to Maria Beaumont ended "I love you. Goodbye." ---- Edward took the elevator up to the trading floor at Cooper Drake. The security staff and the pretty secretary with glasses had looked askance at him; Maria's grandfather's suit was fine enough but he had slept in it two nights running and he had been expelled from the Travelodge without even the luxury of a shower. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass ceiling as he rose through it—hollow-eyed and unshaven, his mother's dark brown, almost black hair contrasting with his father's Yorkshire complexion, giving him the appearance of a week's worth of beard. He didn't look like he belonged here anymore. When he reached the top floor his team caught sight of him and hollered enthusiastically, one shouting that Oxford Fullerene had gone up almost twenty percent in value since Edward bought in. It all seemed like distant memories—a lifetime ago. Liz's eyes went wide when she saw him and she started walking in the opposite direction. As she passed him, she said "Seven years." and he nodded. MacIntyre came out of his office to see what was happening and strode over, bristling. "Where the hell have you been, Gradley? Part of having responsibility for a team means being here to oversee them. As it is they've been running your bloody portfolio. Partners at Cooper Drake are held to a higher standard!" Edward leaned in, smiled. "Like making millions off stock tips from an international money launderer. Or having people underneath you murdered so no-one gets too big for their boots." He had the satisfaction of seeing MacIntyre wilt; someone had left him in the dryer too long and the starched fabric he was made out of had gone limp. Edward continued, in a louder tone. "I'm going to make myself a cup of coffee and then I'm going to have a sit down. You can wait for the main event." He didn't have to wait long. Edward didn't even bother to turn on his computer, instead sitting with his shredded boots up on the desk while he sipped his first cup of coffee in days that didn't taste like something had died in it. His team had realised something was about to happen and had quietened down. Myers and Reagan, it seemed, sensed what was coming better than MacIntyre and had made hurried excuses and left the building. "Gradley." The voice was at normal modulation but somehow filled the air, deafening the admittedly somewhat muted buzz of the floor. Edward swivelled his chair and saw the tall blond man enter, wearing a red and black evening jacket and with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose. In the doorway behind him he could see a massive, dark shape. "Jesus Christ Edward," said MacIntyre, rising from the table at which he had been sitting head bowed and fingers tapping. "You brought him here. You fucking brought Marshall here. What the fuck have you done?" "I'm here to get what's mine, Mr Gradley," said Marshall, gliding over the floor. The other stockbrokers looked on, bemused by the apparent reckoning taking place. "You're going to be disappointed then, Jeremy," shrugged Edward. "I don't have either the codex or the comb anymore. Nor would I be inclined to return them to you if I did." Marshall's mouth twitched upwards but his composure remained intact. "I thought so. You're a thief, Gradley. At least your father paid his way. Who did you sell them to? The Foundation? The Global Occult Coalition? GRU? Or am I going to hear that you gave my property to those ragbag conspiracy theorists? Oh yes, I know about them. They're flies, Mr Gradley." "None of the above," said Edward, and he saw Marshall detect the sincerity in his voice. "What?" "You heard me. I'm not going to enlighten you—you're the only Saturday morning cartoon villain in the room, you can handle the monologues." "Do you actually think you can walk away?" challenged Marshall. "How far up does this go, Mr MacIntyre? Did you sanction this betrayal?" MacIntyre blanched even further, shaking his head and sinking to his knees. "I do. I'm going to walk out of this building and disappear. Somewhere you'll never find me." Edward was fighting every instinct he had to put his hand in his pocket. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing. "We can follow you anywhere." "You know that's not true." Marshall shook his head. "I'll have everyone close to you taken and brought to me. Your mother, Beatrycze Wozny—perhaps you thought I didn't know where she lives. And the Beaumont woman—ah, I see that touches a nerve. Is it love?" Edward remembered the turn of phrase and looked at MacIntyre, still kneeling aghast on the floor. You're his creature, Edward thought, bought and paid for. You even think like him. You didn't go to the clubhouse, maybe didn't even care about the objects. You just wanted the secrets to allow you to keep rolling your life up into that one big futile bet. And now you can see it coming apart. Marshall can't, not yet, but you can. Edward answered, calmly. "The best protection I can give those I care for is to tell you right now—I'll never come back. I don't even think I would be told if something happened to them. But even if I were, I wouldn't come back." "A selfish little bastard to the end, then," said Marshall, still sneering, but some of the wind knocked out of his sails. "You think you wouldn't return for my blood if I captured and killed your mother? You have no idea about the human psyche, do you, you little ape? Men aren't in control of their drives, they are controlled by them. The success of Marshall, Carter & Dark is testimony to the fact that choices make men, not the other way around. If I were to take lovely Maria and have her despoiled…" "You know what I think?" said Edward. "I think you don't kill, or despoil, or maim, or kidnap—unless it profits you. The fact of the matter is, if I don't care what you do to my mother, to Maria, they are safe. So go ahead—except you can't, because it would mean nothing. I tried to explain to David—the ideal of capitalism. Everyone working in their self-interest—and only in their self-interest—is the optimum solution to the societal puzzle. I still believe that; I've just learned to expand my definition of self-interest." He raised his voice. "I won't help you launder drugs and arms dealers' money. I won't help you steal antiques and sell them to dictators. I won't do those things because it is in my self-interest to live in a stable, lawful society, where I can trade in fair competition with others." Edward's team had risen to their feet and began to slink away; other traders similarly moved towards the door, where the shadow moved and vanished. "No-one's going to believe anything you say," stammered MacIntyre. "Remember Went," he said, in a pleading voice. "He died with his reputation ruined; even his family think of him as a disgrace. Nothing could be traced to other members." "You're finished," added Marshall, with gleeful finality. "Yes, I am." "W-what?" It was MacIntyre's turn to look bewildered. "Oh, what the hell. There's nothing you can do to stop it now. As we speak, police have been called to the scene of an apparent suicide in the toilets of a small diner on Farringdon High Street. The body will be identified from documentation in its pockets as Edward Gradley. Sound familiar? There'll even be a note in the pocket. Just like David Went. Except it'll say something like: > I am writing this letter because I suspect I will not live to see tomorrow. I have uncovered a massive insider trading ring within investment banking firm Cooper Drake originating in the gentleman's club Marshall, Carter & Dark, which I believe to be a front for the fencing of stolen goods and liaison with organised crime. I have found letters from my colleague and friend David Went indicating that he discovered the same criminal activity—I now believe he was killed to prevent him blowing the whistle on this activity and evidence of personal ethical violations planted to discredit him. I have been followed by men I believe to be in the employ of MC&D; I fear I am to be subject to the same treatment as David. I have left documentation detailing Cooper Drake's involvement with Marshall, Carter & Dark with a close friend—should anything happen to me, these documents will be released to the police. "That's not an empty bluff, by the way. All the trades in Mr Marshall's book have been conscientiously documented; I just took the liberty of replacing my name with yours, Raymond. I'm sure Marshall, Carter & Dark can buy immunity from prosecution, but I wonder if that extends to Cooper Drake? I rather doubt anyone is going to believe your version of events after they see the quite impeccably forged emails from David Went to me dated from before his suicide detailing the death threats you made to him. Seems to me that your usefulness to Mr Marshall here is at an end." MacIntyre put his hands over his face. "Get out," he whispered to the last traders gathered in a thin circle around the three. "You're abandoning your life," said Marshall, nonplussed. "Yes. Don't worry," said Edward, "I've lined up a new one." "Where are you going to run?" Marshall was twitching now, something in his eyes that spoke of incipient madness. "There's no-one on Earth who can protect you. You've got nothing left to trade!" "Not quite." Marshall stood for a moment, still erect next to the pitiful figure of Raymond MacIntyre, who had curled up on the floor, ridiculous gelled hair cracking as he pushed it against Marshall's slim, glossy brown shoes. Marshall looked down and his face twisted into a mask of disgust before kicking MacIntyre, hard. "You still think I'm going to explain, don't you?" Edward met the blond man's gaze and held it until Jeremy Marshall at last rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and screamed: "Run, then! See what good it does you!" Edward turned and walked down the fire escape. With almost boyish glee he pushed hard on the door bar until the glass beam shattered and the sound of the fire alarm filled the building, and continued down. ---- Marshall left the wreck that had been Raymond MacIntyre on the trading floor and paced over to the fire escape. He wanted to call the Bagman, tell him to kill everyone in the building, but he knew it would be a pointless and expensive act of pique. There was nowhere the Gradley boy could go—as soon as he left the building the Bagman would pick up his scent. Whether it was at Heathrow, or Grand Cayman, or the highest mountain of the Andes, there was nowhere he could hide. And yet, in the dark, non-Euclidean corners of his mind, there was doubt—some part of him saw the black pawn take the white knight, revealing the final check, the black king exposed to attack from … what was it? A rook? A castle. The call came a couple of minutes too late. "Erm, sir? I'm not sure how to tell you this..." ---- > Document 1552-12 > > Re: Sagittarius-cruft (maybe) > Death_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT > > If anyone wants to see a piece of glass containing by preternatural means live footage of a dog (English bulldog) you should be at the Cooper Drake offices, 48 Gray's Inn Road, around midday today. You'll want to speak to Edward Gradley, who can also tell you some interesting things about what certain ex-BBC news presenters got up to in the Bahamas. > > Oh, and by the way, if you're listening in, Professor Gelding, he remembers everything. You might want to look into that. > > Reply \| Options > > . > > Re: Sagittarius-cruft (maybe) > War_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT > > Just incredible, really. > Reply \| Options > > . > > Re: Sagittarius-cruft (maybe) > Pestilence_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT > > Just incredible, really. > > I wish to state for the record that none of us have actually seen this thing. > Reply \| Options > > . > > Re: Sagittarius-cruft (definitely) > Famine_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT > > Just incredible, really. > > I've seen it. The Sagittarians sent me photos of it inside a dream. > Reply \| Options > > . > > Re: Sagittarius-cruft (just no) > Death_4H ██ Jan 20██, ██:██ GMT > > > I've seen it. The Sagittarians sent me photos of it inside a dream. > > OK, now you're just [EXPLETIVE REDACTED] with us. > > Reply \| Options ---- Edward Gradley walked out of the offices of Cooper Drake just as the clouds cracked open, casting direct sunlight on the ground for the first time in months. The shadow watched from the lobby as he strolled through the carpark. He took his phone out of his pocket and threw it into the landscaped edging, followed by his wallet. The unmarked van had been waiting for him in the overflow area and pulled up. The dark-jumpered man who got out opened the back of the van and looked at him. Edward reached into his pocket and withdrew something small, shining in the light. "You can see this?" he asked, a final note of apprehension entering his voice. "You can see the dog?" The agent nodded, swallowing, then averted his eyes, flipping over a small lockbox. "Yessir I can see it. Please put it into the box. I've seen what happens when people look at that stuff too long." Edward carefully placed the glass shard at the bottom of the box, where the bulldog panted enthusiastically and looked hopeful, though that might have been because someone had entered the room behind it with a bright pink chewtoy. He shut the lid. "We investigated the Pall Mall lead," he said. "Your information led to the capture of numerous MC&D assets and the near-total disruption of their UK distribution network. They moved most of the items, but that's par for the course. How do you feel about the idea of saving the world on a regular basis?" "I think," said Edward, "that sounds like it's something that would fall within the scope of my enlightened self-interest. Plus, I've got nothing else to do. I'm about to become legally dead." "Join the club," said the agent. The shadow watched as Edward hopped up on the running board and Mobile Task Force Epsilon-Nine ''The Nation's Job Creators" rolled away. ---- Edward Gradley disappeared from the world on a sunny January afternoon. The coroner called to O'Reilly's Grill and Diner pronounced him dead at twelve fifty-eight, and his remaining family was notified, though his mother seemed less upset than one might have expected. The coroner transported his body to the morgue at St Pancras and was vaguely surprised to find one more free tray than he remembered. Indeed, something about Edward's face seemed awfully familiar, though he could be certain he wasn't one of his previous guests—all the bodies were accounted for on their online admin area. If he had bothered to look, he would have found absolutely no trace of remote access, though the nurse might have remembered the serious-looking young man with the gray hair who had flashed an official-looking Special Branch badge and taken a body awaiting post-mortem for 'priority forensic analysis'. The following morning Maria Beaumont brought a stack of documents into Camden Police Station and Edward's death was officially announced as a murder investigation. It took the lawyer in the black suit three weeks at five thousand and fifty pounds an hour to secure the dismissal of all charges against Marshall, Carter & Dark and the re-expungement of all mention of the club from Scotland Yard's records. Raymond MacIntyre and several other partners were arrested and charged with Market Abuse under the Financial Services and Markets Act 2000, money laundering under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002 and two counts of conspiracy to commit murder. David Went was posthumously cleared of all charges. Elizabeth Keating, as the most senior partner not under investigation, was made acting principal in an extraordinary meeting of the board of directors. The trial continues. ---- [[=]] << [[[acquisitions2 \| Act II - "You are invited"]]] \| [[[acquisitions-hub \| HUB]]] \| Act III - "Rainy in London" >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-09-01T19:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "corporate", "crime-fiction", "fantasy", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act III - SCP Foundation	142	[ "acquisitions3#toc0", "acquisitions3#toc1", "acquisitions3#toc2", "acquisitions2", "acquisitions-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "acquisitions-hub" ]	[]	14189221	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/acquisitions3
adana-protocol	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Heimdall Contingency 045- ADANA</strong></p> <p><strong>Abstract:</strong>- At present, the majority of Heimdall contingencies are oriented towards a military invasion. While this is not an empty threat, the possibility of other methods of conquest should still be taken into place. In the case of an ADANA scenario, this is an economic victory. Any HE that poses a threat to earth can be assumed to possess technology significantly in advance of ours. The dissemation of this technology would almost certainly make the majority, if not all, of human technology worthless, rendering humanity dependent on the HEs and causing a <em>de facto</em> occupation.</p> <p><strong>Scenario:</strong> There are two main methods a HE species could use to cause an ADANA scenario</p> <p>1. Overt- the public revelation of the invaders' existence, and a direct offering of alien technology.<br/> 2. Covert- Secret contact with, and delivery of technology to, select human agencies</p> <p>In both cases, advanced technology would be offered, far in advance of humans. Three likely areas this technology would involve include medical (a vital technology, and likely to ensure positive feelings towards the invaders from the general public), industrial (again, vital, highly marketable, and gains indirect control over human manufacturing and other areas), and military technology (useful for ensuring survival and victory of human subjects, provides intimidation and deterrence for attacks), although for obvious reasons, this list is neither exhaustive nor confirmed.</p> <p>Once technology has been disseminated, either directly or through proxies, it would rapidly (estimates show at best █ years, more likely █ to ██ months) out-compete and replace all modern technology in these areas. Assuming the HEs do not give humans the ability to construct these technologies, they could easily force the implementation of laws or other activities using the threat of their removal, or the promise (fulfilled or unfulfilled) of additional gifts. Alternately or in addition, technologies such as remote control could give HEs direct control of means of production, allowing near complete economic domination. It seems likely additional technology will be given to ensure further dependency. After an estimated █ years, all technology will be based on the alien models, giving them almost complete control over the human race.</p> <p><strong>Protocol:</strong> In the event of an overt ADANA scenario, the Veil Protocol will rapidly become ineffectual (although it will still be kept in place in relation to anomalous items). In this scenario, the best method is to turn human opinion against the technology. This can be done by spreading information about potential harmful effects of the technology (real or otherwise), and/or to encourage xenophobic opinions towards the aliens, leading to a reduced usage of their technologies. Attempting to enforce legal restrictions on the alien technology is also to be implemented in all sympathetic legislatures. This is unlikely to end the scenario, but is likely to delay complete technological dependency. This time is to be used to obtain and reverse-engineer alien technology, allowing us to create it on our own and breaking dependency. In the event the technology is too advanced to do this, or reverse engineering fails for other reasons, the abduction and interrogation of HEs or human proxies is authorised (it is assumed, given the HE's ability to communicate and understand human reasoning, that they share sufficient mental similarities to humans to be usefully interrogated), although efforts must be made to prevent a direct hostile event. Once the technology is reverse engineered, the dissemination of this technology at minimal prices, utilising the previous xenophobic ideas, is to be immediately carried out. If reverse engineering fails completely, hostile action may be used with a unanimous vote by the council.</p> <p>In a covert ADANA scenario, the Veil Protocol may still be possible-if so, it is to be implemented. In either case, the organisation or organisations that hold alien technology are to be destroyed by any means possible. In the case of businesses, full economic warfare by all SCP fronts is to be initiated, including industrial espionage and sabotage. Attempts at legal attacks and/or public slander will also be utilised. National bodies will be removed from power-in the case of smaller nations, assassinations and attempts at sparking rebellions or coups are to be performed. In larger nations, the use of scandals, public opinion, and possible assassination will be used to spark the removal of current government, and hopefully HE proxies. If this proves ineffectual, similar methods to smaller countries will be utilised. Secret organizations are to be publicly revealed, if necessary at the cost of the Foundation's own secrecy. The use of public and legal opposition is to be used to destroy the organizations. The reverse engineering of technology is still to take place. This may lead to an overt ADANA scenario, or a direct invasion—please report to the protocols for those scenarios in this case.</p> <p>In all cases except where the continued survival of the Foundation or the success of the ADANA contingency is at risk, the Foundation will not utilize alien technology before reverse engineering, and will not use it as a mass technology. The estimated threat of an ADANA scenario is a 92% risk of full conquest. With Foundation protocols, it is reduced to an estimated 46%.</p> <p>Likely warning signs of an ADANA scenario include the following. If large numbers happen in a short period of time, the council is to meet to determine the possibility of an ADANA scenario.</p> <ul> <li>Increased UFO sightings and other standard signs of increased extraterrestrial activity,</li> <li>The disappearance of technological devices (Attempts to test human advancement and suitability for conquest)</li> <li>Strange riots, behavior, or other psychological incidents (Attempts to test human responsiveness before invasion)</li> <li>Sabotage of human industrial progress (Attempt to increase human level of dependency)</li> <li>Sudden, inexplicable advances in technology (May show a covert ADANA scenario taking place—investigate and, if necessary, implement protocol)</li> </ul> <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="/adana-protocol">ADANA Protocol</a>" by Urbanmyth, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/adana-protocol">https://scpwiki.com/adana-protocol</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]] [[/>]] Heimdall Contingency 045- ADANA Abstract:- At present, the majority of Heimdall contingencies are oriented towards a military invasion. While this is not an empty threat, the possibility of other methods of conquest should still be taken into place. In the case of an ADANA scenario, this is an economic victory. Any HE that poses a threat to earth can be assumed to possess technology significantly in advance of ours. The dissemation of this technology would almost certainly make the majority, if not all, of human technology worthless, rendering humanity dependent on the HEs and causing a //de facto// occupation. Scenario: There are two main methods a HE species could use to cause an ADANA scenario 1. Overt- the public revelation of the invaders' existence, and a direct offering of alien technology. 2. Covert- Secret contact with, and delivery of technology to, select human agencies In both cases, advanced technology would be offered, far in advance of humans. Three likely areas this technology would involve include medical (a vital technology, and likely to ensure positive feelings towards the invaders from the general public), industrial (again, vital, highly marketable, and gains indirect control over human manufacturing and other areas), and military technology (useful for ensuring survival and victory of human subjects, provides intimidation and deterrence for attacks), although for obvious reasons, this list is neither exhaustive nor confirmed. Once technology has been disseminated, either directly or through proxies, it would rapidly (estimates show at best █ years, more likely █ to ██ months) out-compete and replace all modern technology in these areas. Assuming the HEs do not give humans the ability to construct these technologies, they could easily force the implementation of laws or other activities using the threat of their removal, or the promise (fulfilled or unfulfilled) of additional gifts. Alternately or in addition, technologies such as remote control could give HEs direct control of means of production, allowing near complete economic domination. It seems likely additional technology will be given to ensure further dependency. After an estimated █ years, all technology will be based on the alien models, giving them almost complete control over the human race. Protocol: In the event of an overt ADANA scenario, the Veil Protocol will rapidly become ineffectual (although it will still be kept in place in relation to anomalous items). In this scenario, the best method is to turn human opinion against the technology. This can be done by spreading information about potential harmful effects of the technology (real or otherwise), and/or to encourage xenophobic opinions towards the aliens, leading to a reduced usage of their technologies. Attempting to enforce legal restrictions on the alien technology is also to be implemented in all sympathetic legislatures. This is unlikely to end the scenario, but is likely to delay complete technological dependency. This time is to be used to obtain and reverse-engineer alien technology, allowing us to create it on our own and breaking dependency. In the event the technology is too advanced to do this, or reverse engineering fails for other reasons, the abduction and interrogation of HEs or human proxies is authorised (it is assumed, given the HE's ability to communicate and understand human reasoning, that they share sufficient mental similarities to humans to be usefully interrogated), although efforts must be made to prevent a direct hostile event. Once the technology is reverse engineered, the dissemination of this technology at minimal prices, utilising the previous xenophobic ideas, is to be immediately carried out. If reverse engineering fails completely, hostile action may be used with a unanimous vote by the council. In a covert ADANA scenario, the Veil Protocol may still be possible-if so, it is to be implemented. In either case, the organisation or organisations that hold alien technology are to be destroyed by any means possible. In the case of businesses, full economic warfare by all SCP fronts is to be initiated, including industrial espionage and sabotage. Attempts at legal attacks and/or public slander will also be utilised. National bodies will be removed from power-in the case of smaller nations, assassinations and attempts at sparking rebellions or coups are to be performed. In larger nations, the use of scandals, public opinion, and possible assassination will be used to spark the removal of current government, and hopefully HE proxies. If this proves ineffectual, similar methods to smaller countries will be utilised. Secret organizations are to be publicly revealed, if necessary at the cost of the Foundation's own secrecy. The use of public and legal opposition is to be used to destroy the organizations. The reverse engineering of technology is still to take place. This may lead to an overt ADANA scenario, or a direct invasion--please report to the protocols for those scenarios in this case. In all cases except where the continued survival of the Foundation or the success of the ADANA contingency is at risk, the Foundation will not utilize alien technology before reverse engineering, and will not use it as a mass technology. The estimated threat of an ADANA scenario is a 92% risk of full conquest. With Foundation protocols, it is reduced to an estimated 46%. Likely warning signs of an ADANA scenario include the following. If large numbers happen in a short period of time, the council is to meet to determine the possibility of an ADANA scenario. * Increased UFO sightings and other standard signs of increased extraterrestrial activity, * The disappearance of technological devices (Attempts to test human advancement and suitability for conquest) * Strange riots, behavior, or other psychological incidents (Attempts to test human responsiveness before invasion) * Sabotage of human industrial progress (Attempt to increase human level of dependency) * Sudden, inexplicable advances in technology (May show a covert ADANA scenario taking place--investigate and, if necessary, implement protocol) @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-22T10:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "heimdall", "science-fiction", "spy-fiction", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	ADANA Protocol - SCP Foundation	121	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "project-heimdall", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13611154	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/adana-protocol
addressing-the-second	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Lord Hubris sits opposite Lord Wisdom. He is of the type Kahtar, and his symbol is the crown. To his right is the unknowable, which is invisible and colorless to only him, as he refuses to look upon it. To his left is the courageous, which is always a thorn in his side, as he refuses to concern himself with it. Betwixt he and the wise are the needy and unworthy, and he spits upon them with his belly's acid, because he believes he is above them.</p> <p>The Daevites tell us that he will never die, for their book's end does not include him. Believe or disbelieve them as you wish.</p> <p>Lord Hubris is of great cunning, it is said that with enough time he could always sway the council of equity into his favour. His strength is like that of a hundred men, but he never need exercise it, for his voice is his greatest weapon. He appeals to the hearts of man, so that in the depth of battle they will switch to his side. The face of Lord Hubris is unassailable, for to look into his eyes and hear his voice sways his enemy's allegiance.</p> <p>Lord Hubris is deceptive and manipulative, and only Lord Wisdom is perfectly immune to his tricks. Despite that he is always able to be on the side of the betrayer, and that he is always able to persuade the doubts of the knowledgeable, he is unable to change the opinion of the wise.</p> <p>Lord Hubris is of great endurance, it is said that if he can be cut in twain, his headless half will come alive to struggle with him. When in combat, even as his mortal foes strike blades into his flesh, he shrugs them off and speaks to them. Even when there are those who are particularly stubborn, the swathes of his claws will steal their fates away from them. Lord Hubris boasts that of all Espy that are able, none can beat him in battle, as he will outlast them always.</p> <p>His opposition to the wise is unending and unyielding, for he believes the Daeva that he will live forever. He believes he can sully Lord Wisdom's reputation such that the other ten members of the council turn against Lord Wisdom, and grant Lord Hubris his victory.</p> <p>Starel laments.</p> <p>Lord Hubris has the face of a ghost, but made with stone. It is like the whiteness of salt, but as hard as rock. He does not speak from his mouth, for his words pierce into the minds of those he is speaking to. It is said that the only times Lord Hubris changes his expression are in the memories of those who have spoken to him.</p> <p>The neck of Lord Hubris is long and sinewy, so that his face may always look into the face of that which he is speaking to. Lord Hubris sheds blasphemies from his skin like sweat, and so to keep his face far from his body muffles the whispers of disgust. His talons are innumerable and smeared with the flesh of those who did not follow him, as he is a wrathful lord. His spit is black blood, and those who touch it are burned by it, and when enraged the drool of Lord Hubris is said to come alive, and form words in the drops it leaves on the ground.</p> <p>Our Elders Twilight have told us that Lord Hubris has existed always, but has not always been as he is today. In a time long before ours he was instead two things, but have since become one. A visage made of <a href="/scp-035">poor-slain</a>, worn by the ancient <a href="/scp-682">Tarask</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="/addressing-the-second">Addressing the Second</a>" by GrandEnder, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/addressing-the-second">https://scpwiki.com/addressing-the-second</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]] [[/>]] Lord Hubris sits opposite Lord Wisdom. He is of the type Kahtar, and his symbol is the crown. To his right is the unknowable, which is invisible and colorless to only him, as he refuses to look upon it. To his left is the courageous, which is always a thorn in his side, as he refuses to concern himself with it. Betwixt he and the wise are the needy and unworthy, and he spits upon them with his belly's acid, because he believes he is above them. The Daevites tell us that he will never die, for their book's end does not include him. Believe or disbelieve them as you wish. Lord Hubris is of great cunning, it is said that with enough time he could always sway the council of equity into his favour. His strength is like that of a hundred men, but he never need exercise it, for his voice is his greatest weapon. He appeals to the hearts of man, so that in the depth of battle they will switch to his side. The face of Lord Hubris is unassailable, for to look into his eyes and hear his voice sways his enemy's allegiance. Lord Hubris is deceptive and manipulative, and only Lord Wisdom is perfectly immune to his tricks. Despite that he is always able to be on the side of the betrayer, and that he is always able to persuade the doubts of the knowledgeable, he is unable to change the opinion of the wise. Lord Hubris is of great endurance, it is said that if he can be cut in twain, his headless half will come alive to struggle with him. When in combat, even as his mortal foes strike blades into his flesh, he shrugs them off and speaks to them. Even when there are those who are particularly stubborn, the swathes of his claws will steal their fates away from them. Lord Hubris boasts that of all Espy that are able, none can beat him in battle, as he will outlast them always. His opposition to the wise is unending and unyielding, for he believes the Daeva that he will live forever. He believes he can sully Lord Wisdom's reputation such that the other ten members of the council turn against Lord Wisdom, and grant Lord Hubris his victory. Starel laments. Lord Hubris has the face of a ghost, but made with stone. It is like the whiteness of salt, but as hard as rock. He does not speak from his mouth, for his words pierce into the minds of those he is speaking to. It is said that the only times Lord Hubris changes his expression are in the memories of those who have spoken to him. The neck of Lord Hubris is long and sinewy, so that his face may always look into the face of that which he is speaking to. Lord Hubris sheds blasphemies from his skin like sweat, and so to keep his face far from his body muffles the whispers of disgust. His talons are innumerable and smeared with the flesh of those who did not follow him, as he is a wrathful lord. His spit is black blood, and those who touch it are burned by it, and when enraged the drool of Lord Hubris is said to come alive, and form words in the drops it leaves on the ground. Our Elders Twilight have told us that Lord Hubris has existed always, but has not always been as he is today. In a time long before ours he was instead two things, but have since become one. A visage made of [[[scp-035\|poor-slain]]], worn by the ancient [[[scp-682\|Tarask]]]. [[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>]]	2012-10-28T04:29:00	[ "_licensebox", "bellerverse", "daevite", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "possessive-mask", "post-apocalyptic", "tale" ]	Addressing the Second - SCP Foundation	139	[ "scp-035", "scp-682", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "discovering-scp-hub", "bellerverse" ]	[]	14819206	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/addressing-the-second
after-destruction	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>Document 144b-O5-EO was discovered in █████, ████████ on ██/██/████, following an experiment with SCP-███ to investigate nearby ██████████████. Refer to Document 144a-O5-EO for full recovery report.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Hello world. Goodbye world.</p> <p>I'm writing this now, before it's too late. Turns out a good, thick layer of SCP-███ (and a few other precautions) can slow down… Whatever they're doing to us. It's already hard to remember, though, but putting this on paper helps a bit. Keeps me from losing my train of thought again. It's a little like being detailed on SCP-… Well, I don't remember which one it was, but you know. That one you can't remember. I think.</p> <p>It started about two years ago, in the fall. We thought it was the GOC, maybe even those stupid CI bastards making a move on us. The damn skips were going missing left and right all of a sudden, and it was scaring hell out of O5, because people barely remembered we'd had 'em a few weeks after they'd disappear. There was a bunch of new regs we had to follow, stuff to help catch benders and detect reality shifts I guess, but nothing came up.</p> <p>But then someone remembered 1050 and its damn predictions. About six months back, we'd damn near shit ourselves worrying about the arrival of "the Destroyers", but gradually stopped worrying about it after that mess over in Uganda, figured that was what the prediction was about. Heck, we even patted ourselves on the back about how we'd contained it with "acceptable losses" and kept it from getting near XK.</p> <p>Turns out we were wrong. Uganda had nothing to do with the event timer, as far as I can guess. We let our guard down… And then it all started. Or stopped. Or whatever.</p> <p>If you ask me what the Destroyers are, let me just tell you: I have no idea. Maybe I did a few months ago. Maybe I didn't. But all those nightmare stories on SCP-████… Those weren't about the Destroyers. Not really, anyway. It was just memories and fragments of whatever was before. Stories about black claws, dark souls from beyond the cosmos and fire and blood? We hear those every day over lunch in the cafeteria about what we did on our morning shifts. That doesn't scare anyone very much, not at the Foundation.</p> <p>No, whatever the Destroyers are, they're a lot worse than that, in the same way that having your soul stolen by Cthulhu is worse than dying. Death is a little scary, but compared to a timeless eternity in a mad hellscape, I'd pick death every time.</p> <p>I'm not sure what the right words are for what happened to us, but I remember once in my one semester of community college, some professor was talking about Jung's archetypes. He didn't say too much about them, but it got me interested enough to check a few books out of the library. I guess I've still got them somewhere, because I dropped out a week later and never bothered to return them. Anyway, I had plenty of time to read them on my way to Argentina in the Marine Corps, so I did. Turns out that we've all got these shapes in our head of the way things are, like creation myths, your mom and dad as these wise and magical figures, heroes and villains… And the Shadow. Those things always scared the hell out of me, in a way, because it sounded too much like the skips that I deal with; these weird things that sound like they were dredged out of the dark places in our minds, the "collective unconscious" as Jung called it.</p> <p>And the Shadow. Man, let me tell you, I'm not afraid to say that that one always kind of freaked me out. It's like Jung just waved his hand and said "Okay, and here's all the bad stuff. It's meaninglessness, emptiness and seeing it makes you want to be dead, because it's better than being alive in the shadows.". Damn if that doesn't sound like what I'm seeing out there.</p> <p>Let me also just say, I really believe in what we're doing in the Foundation. I like even more that, outside of preventing the Apocalypse, we sometimes manage to improve the world a little bit with some of the technology, medicine and ideas we derive from studying these fucking insane things. I don't know how much of this is true, but some of the senior lab rats have told me that we've leaked tech to tons of industries, and that we're probably fifty years ahead of where we'd be without the skips. It's nice knowing that we've improved the world in so many ways, you know? Makes it a little easier to get through a day of D-Class testing, and makes you feel a bit like the skips are just parts of something larger, part of the magic (Heh, the docs would kill me if they heard me use that word) that makes the world go 'round.</p> <p>But these things, whatever they are, they're the opposite of that. They're the end of the magic, the dying of the soul or whatever really makes us human. You want to know what they look like? Just look in the eyes of an Auschwitz survivor, or a kid that watched his parents hacked to death in the Rwandan genocide. Those are eyes with something just …gone… from them.</p> <p>And now that's what the world is. We're all still here, and the world's still spinning, but something's missing. We are, for one. Most of the Foundation has just up and disappeared, day by day, rooms and sites and people just not here anymore. I saw Dr. █ ████ at the bar the other day in ██████, but he's apparently a mid-level university professor now, and he had no idea who I was. Looked dead inside, too, like the only thing he was worried about was tenure and bills, not like the man I'd known and looked up to, and occasionally stole my sandwiches from the breakroom fridge.</p> <p>So here we are. Only a few pieces of Site ██ are left, and only a couple of the skips. Oh, and -███ is here, but he's different, too. He's dying, and I think when he's gone, the rest of the site will be, too. I think he's protecting us, but it's killing him. That's something I was thinking about, that the reality benders are like… Not exactly the opposite of the Destroyers, but like the shadows cast from their light, I guess? But anyway, I'm in the room here with him, watching him sleep. His breathing doesn't sound good, and I don't think I've got long to finish this.</p> <p>So let me just say this, before I do something crazy to try and preserve this letter. The Destroyers don't care about us, about humanity. They care about what we could become. They don't kill us, but they take away what it means to be alive. The stories are gone now; you know all the hollow shit on the radio, on TV, in the movies? That's all we've got left. Dead stories. I tried to remember what music sounded like before they came, what it was like to go to a show on Saturday night on the silver screen. It's like only seeing in black and white when you remember color. It's like going tone-deaf after hearing Beethoven. All the life and the soul are gone, all the magic is washed out, and I don't think they're done yet. They came to a world full of amazing, thriving humanity, and they're going to leave behind a bunch of scared, over-evolved monkeys. It's going to be the Dark Ages all over again, and after I seal this thing up with -00█, I'm going to finish my bottle of whiskey and put a bullet in my head. I can't live like this, living in the Shadow of what we used to be. Goodbye.</p> <p>-Agent █████</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="/after-destruction">After Destruction</a>" by NovaeDeArx, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/after-destruction">https://scpwiki.com/after-destruction</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]] [[/>]] //Document 144b-O5-EO was discovered in █████, ████████ on ██/██/████, following an experiment with SCP-███ to investigate nearby ██████████████. Refer to Document 144a-O5-EO for full recovery report.// ---- Hello world. Goodbye world. I'm writing this now, before it's too late. Turns out a good, thick layer of SCP-███ (and a few other precautions) can slow down… Whatever they're doing to us. It's already hard to remember, though, but putting this on paper helps a bit. Keeps me from losing my train of thought again. It's a little like being detailed on SCP-… Well, I don't remember which one it was, but you know. That one you can't remember. I think. It started about two years ago, in the fall. We thought it was the GOC, maybe even those stupid CI bastards making a move on us. The damn skips were going missing left and right all of a sudden, and it was scaring hell out of O5, because people barely remembered we'd had 'em a few weeks after they'd disappear. There was a bunch of new regs we had to follow, stuff to help catch benders and detect reality shifts I guess, but nothing came up. But then someone remembered 1050 and its damn predictions. About six months back, we'd damn near shit ourselves worrying about the arrival of "the Destroyers", but gradually stopped worrying about it after that mess over in Uganda, figured that was what the prediction was about. Heck, we even patted ourselves on the back about how we'd contained it with "acceptable losses" and kept it from getting near XK. Turns out we were wrong. Uganda had nothing to do with the event timer, as far as I can guess. We let our guard down… And then it all started. Or stopped. Or whatever. If you ask me what the Destroyers are, let me just tell you: I have no idea. Maybe I did a few months ago. Maybe I didn't. But all those nightmare stories on SCP-████… Those weren't about the Destroyers. Not really, anyway. It was just memories and fragments of whatever was before. Stories about black claws, dark souls from beyond the cosmos and fire and blood? We hear those every day over lunch in the cafeteria about what we did on our morning shifts. That doesn't scare anyone very much, not at the Foundation. No, whatever the Destroyers are, they're a lot worse than that, in the same way that having your soul stolen by Cthulhu is worse than dying. Death is a little scary, but compared to a timeless eternity in a mad hellscape, I'd pick death every time. I'm not sure what the right words are for what happened to us, but I remember once in my one semester of community college, some professor was talking about Jung's archetypes. He didn't say too much about them, but it got me interested enough to check a few books out of the library. I guess I've still got them somewhere, because I dropped out a week later and never bothered to return them. Anyway, I had plenty of time to read them on my way to Argentina in the Marine Corps, so I did. Turns out that we've all got these shapes in our head of the way things are, like creation myths, your mom and dad as these wise and magical figures, heroes and villains… And the Shadow. Those things always scared the hell out of me, in a way, because it sounded too much like the skips that I deal with; these weird things that sound like they were dredged out of the dark places in our minds, the "collective unconscious" as Jung called it. And the Shadow. Man, let me tell you, I'm not afraid to say that that one always kind of freaked me out. It's like Jung just waved his hand and said "Okay, and here's all the bad stuff. It's meaninglessness, emptiness and seeing it makes you want to be dead, because it's better than being alive in the shadows.". Damn if that doesn't sound like what I'm seeing out there. Let me also just say, I really believe in what we're doing in the Foundation. I like even more that, outside of preventing the Apocalypse, we sometimes manage to improve the world a little bit with some of the technology, medicine and ideas we derive from studying these fucking insane things. I don't know how much of this is true, but some of the senior lab rats have told me that we've leaked tech to tons of industries, and that we're probably fifty years ahead of where we'd be without the skips. It's nice knowing that we've improved the world in so many ways, you know? Makes it a little easier to get through a day of D-Class testing, and makes you feel a bit like the skips are just parts of something larger, part of the magic (Heh, the docs would kill me if they heard me use that word) that makes the world go 'round. But these things, whatever they are, they're the opposite of that. They're the end of the magic, the dying of the soul or whatever really makes us human. You want to know what they look like? Just look in the eyes of an Auschwitz survivor, or a kid that watched his parents hacked to death in the Rwandan genocide. Those are eyes with something just …gone… from them. And now that's what the world is. We're all still here, and the world's still spinning, but something's missing. We are, for one. Most of the Foundation has just up and disappeared, day by day, rooms and sites and people just not here anymore. I saw Dr. █ ████ at the bar the other day in ██████, but he's apparently a mid-level university professor now, and he had no idea who I was. Looked dead inside, too, like the only thing he was worried about was tenure and bills, not like the man I'd known and looked up to, and occasionally stole my sandwiches from the breakroom fridge. So here we are. Only a few pieces of Site ██ are left, and only a couple of the skips. Oh, and -███ is here, but he's different, too. He's dying, and I think when he's gone, the rest of the site will be, too. I think he's protecting us, but it's killing him. That's something I was thinking about, that the reality benders are like… Not exactly the opposite of the Destroyers, but like the shadows cast from their light, I guess? But anyway, I'm in the room here with him, watching him sleep. His breathing doesn't sound good, and I don't think I've got long to finish this. So let me just say this, before I do something crazy to try and preserve this letter. The Destroyers don't care about us, about humanity. They care about what we could become. They don't kill us, but they take away what it means to be alive. The stories are gone now; you know all the hollow shit on the radio, on TV, in the movies? That's all we've got left. Dead stories. I tried to remember what music sounded like before they came, what it was like to go to a show on Saturday night on the silver screen. It's like only seeing in black and white when you remember color. It's like going tone-deaf after hearing Beethoven. All the life and the soul are gone, all the magic is washed out, and I don't think they're done yet. They came to a world full of amazing, thriving humanity, and they're going to leave behind a bunch of scared, over-evolved monkeys. It's going to be the Dark Ages all over again, and after I seal this thing up with -00█, I'm going to finish my bottle of whiskey and put a bullet in my head. I can't live like this, living in the Shadow of what we used to be. Goodbye. -Agent █████ [[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>]]	2012-07-09T04:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	After Destruction - SCP Foundation	40	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13732733	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/after-destruction
an-audience	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The walk always took half an hour. Half an hour there, half an hour back, from the outside. But it always felt longer when he actually walked the tunnel. It felt like time was being stretched out, that his quiet footsteps would softly echo for endless miles.</p> <p>Tonight was a long, long walk. He could feel the weight of the earth pushing down on his shoulders. The air in the tunnel was cold, the smooth concrete walls frigid to the touch. The only thing to pierce the darkness was the bright cone of his flashlight.</p> <p>This was a very old place. Very old indeed. It didn’t look it. To the eyes it was just a maintenance tunnel, bare concrete, an occasional exposed pipe. There was time stored up in these stones, soaked up like a sponge, filling the place as it slowly oozed out of the cracks in the walls and rust on the pipes.</p> <p>His flashlight bobbed. He kept walking. Time passed.</p> <p>Then, finally, already, the arch, where there would have been a door. There was no door anymore. The words carved on the lintel had been worn down long ago. Words had little power here. He stepped through.</p> <p>He reached the hall, though he only knew it from the breeze, and the feeling of the walls dropping away into the shadows. There was only darkness there. He kept walking. His footsteps did not echo.</p> <p>Shapes stirred in his peripheral vision. Ghostly lights flickered to life. A graveyard of broken and cracked computer monitors shed their sickly light. Nothing was ever displayed. All around him he could see the dim outlines of scrap wires and old circuit boards and junked towers. He could hear rustling and laughter from the shadows, occasionally see the glowing reflection of an eye. And then there was the throne.</p> <p>The great seat amidst the rusting, decaying garbage was occupied. As it always was. The form of the king was tall, thin, shapeless and still shaped, somewhat like a man, wearing a pale face and dark clothes. A courtesy. The king wore no crown. The king had no need for one.</p> <p>Around the throne sat the king’s attendants, waiting at attention, their faceless faces smiling for eternity. They turned to watch the man as he approached the throne, their empty eyes looking as one gaze.</p> <p>The man stopped. He bowed, and then righted himself.</p> <p>The king bent down, extending a hand of long, bony fingers. The shadows around it crept and grew like the roots of some gnarled, ancient tree.</p> <p>The man took a paper bag from his coat pocket. From it, he counted out twenty-one pebbles into the king’s bony hand. The king’s hand closed and the king sat straight again.</p> <p>The man was free to leave now. He did. The walk back felt shorter this time. He shrugged off the thought.</p> <p>Twenty-one pebbles for twenty-one children who would be gone by the morning. Maybe not this morning, maybe not next, but some morning. Twenty-one children, delivered every year. That was the deal that had been kept for a long, long time.</p> <p>Deals have to be kept.</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="/an-audience">An Audience</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/an-audience">https://scpwiki.com/an-audience</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 walk always took half an hour. Half an hour there, half an hour back, from the outside. But it always felt longer when he actually walked the tunnel. It felt like time was being stretched out, that his quiet footsteps would softly echo for endless miles. Tonight was a long, long walk. He could feel the weight of the earth pushing down on his shoulders. The air in the tunnel was cold, the smooth concrete walls frigid to the touch. The only thing to pierce the darkness was the bright cone of his flashlight. This was a very old place. Very old indeed. It didn’t look it. To the eyes it was just a maintenance tunnel, bare concrete, an occasional exposed pipe. There was time stored up in these stones, soaked up like a sponge, filling the place as it slowly oozed out of the cracks in the walls and rust on the pipes. His flashlight bobbed. He kept walking. Time passed. Then, finally, already, the arch, where there would have been a door. There was no door anymore. The words carved on the lintel had been worn down long ago. Words had little power here. He stepped through. He reached the hall, though he only knew it from the breeze, and the feeling of the walls dropping away into the shadows. There was only darkness there. He kept walking. His footsteps did not echo. Shapes stirred in his peripheral vision. Ghostly lights flickered to life. A graveyard of broken and cracked computer monitors shed their sickly light. Nothing was ever displayed. All around him he could see the dim outlines of scrap wires and old circuit boards and junked towers. He could hear rustling and laughter from the shadows, occasionally see the glowing reflection of an eye. And then there was the throne. The great seat amidst the rusting, decaying garbage was occupied. As it always was. The form of the king was tall, thin, shapeless and still shaped, somewhat like a man, wearing a pale face and dark clothes. A courtesy. The king wore no crown. The king had no need for one. Around the throne sat the king’s attendants, waiting at attention, their faceless faces smiling for eternity. They turned to watch the man as he approached the throne, their empty eyes looking as one gaze. The man stopped. He bowed, and then righted himself. The king bent down, extending a hand of long, bony fingers. The shadows around it crept and grew like the roots of some gnarled, ancient tree. The man took a paper bag from his coat pocket. From it, he counted out twenty-one pebbles into the king’s bony hand. The king’s hand closed and the king sat straight again. The man was free to leave now. He did. The walk back felt shorter this time. He shrugged off the thought. Twenty-one pebbles for twenty-one children who would be gone by the morning. Maybe not this morning, maybe not next, but some morning. Twenty-one children, delivered every year. That was the deal that had been kept for a long, long time. Deals have to be kept. [[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>]]	2012-01-17T02:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "fantasy", "tale" ]	An Audience - SCP Foundation	27	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012" ]	[]	12528936	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/an-audience
an-excerpt-from-goodbye-ghost	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Act 2, Scene 2:</p> <p>James: <em>(Crying)</em> But can't they help you in some way?</p> <p>Butt ghost: There is no cure for butt cancer.</p> <p>J: But what will I do without you?</p> <p>BG: James, you've never needed me in the first place</p> <p>J: What do you mean?</p> <p>BG: Inside of you lies the power, not me. I'm only a spirit that haunts the posteriors of mammals.</p> <p>J: I can't let you go.</p> <p>BG: You already have. <em>(Gestures to the framed photo of James with his arm wrapped around a yield sign.)</em></p> <p>J: It's not what you think!</p> <p>BG: No, it's what I know.</p> <p>J: But butt ghost…</p> <p>BG: Shh, don't speak. You've broken my heart enough already.</p> <p>J: I can't let you go.</p> <p>BG: You had no trouble letting your <em>other women</em> go!</p> <p>J: That was years ago, Butt Ghost!</p> <p>BG: A butt ghost never forgets.</p> <p>J: You forgot me once.</p> <p>BG: I had to go soul-searching, James.</p> <p>J: And what did you find?</p> <p>BG: I found my spirit place. The air was still and the water was cool. I felt a presence. I turned to look, but no one was there. I was alone. The moon overhead gazed down at my prone body. I felt nothing and everything at once. And that's when I realized, my people need me.</p> <p>J: Ankle ghost will be fine.</p> <p>BG: It's not just Ankle Ghost anymore, James, it's the world.</p> <p>J: What does that even mean?</p> <p>BG: They're revoking ghost licenses everywhere now.</p> <p>J: No!</p> <p>BG: It's true.</p> <p>J: But what about your estranged relationship with your brother?</p> <p>BG: Ghost Butt will either have to get out of my way, or join me.</p> <p>J: How?</p> <p>BG: James, you know me too well to question my ability in dealing with these issues.</p> <p>J: Very well. I can only hope you don't fail.</p> <p>BG: Failure is not an option.</p> <p>J: Good luck.</p> <p>BG: Thank you.</p> <p>J: Here take this. (Passes plunger)</p> <p>BG: I will not let you down.</p> <p>J: Goodbye, Butt Ghost. <em>(Salutes)</em></p> <p>BG: Goodbye, James. <em>(Flushes)</em></p> <hr/> <p><em>Something even the loneliest man can relate to, Goodbye Ghost brings us to realize our own mortality and the importance of our relationship with our friends, regardless of corporeality.</em> - Foundation Tribune</p> <p><em>Play of the year. Period.</em> - CI Review</p> <p><em>Guaranteed to make you both laugh and cry, the Butt Ghost's performance is the best of the the year, if not the century.</em> - Time-anomaly Magazine</p> <p><em>What the FUCK is this shit?</em> - O5-7</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="/an-excerpt-from-goodbye-ghost">An Excerpt from Goodbye Ghost</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/an-excerpt-from-goodbye-ghost">https://scpwiki.com/an-excerpt-from-goodbye-ghost</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]] [[/>]] Act 2, Scene 2: James: //(Crying)// But can't they help you in some way? Butt ghost: There is no cure for butt cancer. J: But what will I do without you? BG: James, you've never needed me in the first place J: What do you mean? BG: Inside of you lies the power, not me. I'm only a spirit that haunts the posteriors of mammals. J: I can't let you go. BG: You already have. //(Gestures to the framed photo of James with his arm wrapped around a yield sign.)// J: It's not what you think! BG: No, it's what I know. J: But butt ghost... BG: Shh, don't speak. You've broken my heart enough already. J: I can't let you go. BG: You had no trouble letting your //other women// go! J: That was years ago, Butt Ghost! BG: A butt ghost never forgets. J: You forgot me once. BG: I had to go soul-searching, James. J: And what did you find? BG: I found my spirit place. The air was still and the water was cool. I felt a presence. I turned to look, but no one was there. I was alone. The moon overhead gazed down at my prone body. I felt nothing and everything at once. And that's when I realized, my people need me. J: Ankle ghost will be fine. BG: It's not just Ankle Ghost anymore, James, it's the world. J: What does that even mean? BG: They're revoking ghost licenses everywhere now. J: No! BG: It's true. J: But what about your estranged relationship with your brother? BG: Ghost Butt will either have to get out of my way, or join me. J: How? BG: James, you know me too well to question my ability in dealing with these issues. J: Very well. I can only hope you don't fail. BG: Failure is not an option. J: Good luck. BG: Thank you. J: Here take this. (Passes plunger) BG: I will not let you down. J: Goodbye, Butt Ghost. //(Salutes)// BG: Goodbye, James. //(Flushes)// ------ //Something even the loneliest man can relate to, Goodbye Ghost brings us to realize our own mortality and the importance of our relationship with our friends, regardless of corporeality.// - Foundation Tribune //Play of the year. Period.// - CI Review //Guaranteed to make you both laugh and cry, the Butt Ghost's performance is the best of the the year, if not the century.// - Time-anomaly Magazine //What the FUCK is this shit?// - O5-7 [[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>]]	2012-11-12T00:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "ghost", "tale" ]	An Excerpt from Goodbye Ghost - SCP Foundation	140	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "joke-scps-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	14979306	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/an-excerpt-from-goodbye-ghost
anachronisms	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Research Assistant Richard Moss ran. He could safely say that he had never been this afraid in his entire life. The events of last twenty minutes buzzed in his head like bees. Explosion. Sirens. Security breach. Attackers. What was a Chaos Insurgency? Gunshots. Deaths. Lockdown offline. Running. More explosions. More bullets.</p> <p>There was some bizarre form of music filling his ears. Everything seemed to fall into a rhythm: his breathing, the thudding of his heart, the pumping of adrenaline, the scream of the emergency alarms. The bullets were behind him now. For how long, he didn’t know. Not long enough. He barely knew how he ended up running down this hall, or what he had done to acquire the item now tucked under his arm like a football.</p> <p>He skidded to a halt, nearly tripping over his own feet with his momentum. This was the chamber he wanted. Panting, he scanned his ID card. Under normal circumstances, this would have been useless during a security breach. The uninvited guests had provided an unexpected blessing in taking out the lockdown procedures.</p> <p>The door slid open with a hiss. Richard jumped into the room.</p> <p>“Lord Blackwood!”</p> <p>The slug turned the nub of its head towards Richard.</p> <p>“Oh, good morning. While you obviously know of me, I don’t recall having ever met… what’s wrong?”</p> <p>“Sorry sir. Can’t chat. Security breach. Need your help.”</p> <p>“Calm yourself and catch your breath, man.”</p> <p>Richard paused for a moment. His panting slowed.</p> <p>“The site has been breached and there are enemies on their way here. I don’t know if we can hold them off ourselves, so I’m letting you out and hoping. There’s a key card in my pocket that can get you into your vault: stairs down the hall to the right, three floors down, chamber sixteen…” his voice trailed off as he strained to hear the dim scream from up the hallway. “Shit! You know Latin, right?”</p> <p>“Why yes, I began studying it as a boy back in primary school. What does that have to do with an attack of any sort?”</p> <p>“Just trust me: you’re going to be using it soon.”</p> <p>Richard lifted the tarnished helmet out from under his arm and placed it on his head.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Publius Carthephilus Aetius began to regain consciousness. Death was much like sleep, he had decided: deep and dreamless. The blackness faded away at the edges of his mind. Heat and sensation and hearing gradually flowed into his perception. Without time, the process took both years and mere moments. The final push was like falling from a great height as the blurred colors and sensations whirled around him in a last mad maelstrom before snapping sharply into focus.</p> <p>He was standing in a small, plain room. The only things of note were a small desk, a filing cabinet, and a glass tank filled with water, some tropical corals, and a brightly colored slug. Beyond the room he could hear a loud, repeated screeching noise. He looked down at his new body. Gangly. Thin. The usual orange jumpsuit had been switched out for the long white coat he had seen the doctors wear.</p> <p>“Are you all right?”</p> <p>It was an older man’s voice, though he did not recognize the language. Publius glanced around the room. There was no one else there, same as before.</p> <p>“Who’s there?”</p> <p>“So you’re why he said I’d need Latin.” It was the same voice, this time in very formal, accented Latin, coming from the glass tank.</p> <p>“Who are you? Where are you hiding?”</p> <p>“I’m not hiding anywhere, my good man. But that isn’t the time for that: we must get out of here quickly. There are enemies coming this way.”</p> <p>“Wait, what? Who? Who is attacking?”</p> <p>“I don’t know, but I intend to find out and stop them, whoever they are. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”</p> <p>There was an awkward pause as Publius looked at the slug. Seeing no other reasonable option, Publius removed the lid of the tank, reached inside, and picked up the slug. He placed it in the breast pocket of the lab coat, where it poked its head out of the opening. Publius stepped outside into the corridor, wincing at the alarm sirens.</p> <p>“To your right, and then down the stairs, and we can… oh, lovely.”</p> <p>There was a shout from three figures to their left, perhaps thirty feet away. There were two men and one woman: The woman was shaved bald, a skull tattooed on her face and a machete in each hand. One man was bleeding from a small circular wound in his shoulder, yet still held a butcher’s cleaver in his good hand. The other was completely naked, with tangled hair down to his waist and smeared with blood red war paint, armed with a makeshift spear.</p> <p>Publius’ mind sprung into action, analyzing the situation in an instant. Three enemies, all armed, one wounded, against one unarmed man and likewise unarmed slug. Judging by their looks, crude weapons, and slack postures, they lacked any sort of professional training or discipline. These were simple thugs. Still dangerous, of course, and more so than what they would have been with this unfit body.</p> <p>The naked one attacked first. Publius sidestepped the spear thrust, shedding the doctor’s coat and the slug as he stole the weapon from the man’s hands: the attacker’s momentum sent him sprawling to the floor. Publius swung the spear around and hit him hard on the head with the haft, knocking him unconscious.</p> <p>He was barely able to dodge out of the way of the woman’s first machete swing. In his peripheral vision he could see the wounded man running away, back to find reinforcements, no doubt. That was a problem for later.</p> <p>The woman was a better fighter than the spearman, to be sure: she kept herself moving, preventing Publius from slipping around behind her. He dodged her swings by uncomfortably small amounts, waiting for a opening. His spear was no use at this distance, he needed some way to get space between them, but she had good reach…</p> <p><em>There</em>. An opening. She had swung too wide, too hard. Publius leapt back and threw the spear.</p> <p>It struck home, its jagged scrap metal point puncturing the woman’s neck. She managed a moment of bloody gurgling before falling dead.</p> <p>Publius pulled the spear from her corpse, wiping the blood on her clothing and picking up one of her machetes. With it, he walked over to the unconscious naked man and hacked off his head. He left the labcoat where it lay, instead picking the slug out of the pocket and placing it on his shoulder.</p> <p>“Nicely done. Now quickly, back down the hall.”</p> <p>Publius ran as directed, despite his complete disorientation. He would trust the slug for now: it knew more than he did about this place, though he knew next to nothing to begin with.</p> <p>“Oh, where are my manners?” the slug said from his shoulder. “I am Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, a servant of her majesty, queen Victoria of England.”</p> <p>The name was barbaric, and his queen and country meant nothing to Publius. Nonetheless, it was only proper to introduce himself to the slug that spoke.</p> <p>“My name is Publius Carthephilus Aetius, a soldier under Gaius Marius in the war against Jugurtha and a… reluctant survivor.”</p> <p>“Ah… that explains matters. Bound to the helmet, I suppose. You’re quite a long way and time from home, my friend. But, we can’t let that get us down. Your body’s prior owner told me where my collection was being stored, and so that is our goal. There is superior weaponry there.”</p> <p>Publius glanced down at Blackwood.</p> <p>“You do realize that you’re a slug, correct?”</p> <p>“Oh yes, very funny. I’ve heard that one before, I’m afraid.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>Hazzard Jack beat a man’s head in with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. He loved the feel of the pulp between his tattooed fingers. The rest of the gang was likewise enjoying themselves: there was nothing like some rape, arson and pillaging to start the day.</p> <p>He took a deep breath of the smoky air before splattering himself with the man’s blood. The fun was running dry here. Time to move on.</p> <p>Those fools in the Foundation. They thought they could protect the world, keep it spinning, keep its destiny locked up and “secured”. The concept was childish, really. Entropy always won, and Hazzard Jack liked winning.</p> <p>Fuck bitches, kill bitches, raise some hell and spread some chaos. That was his motto.</p> <p>Wait…what was this? Running from a fight? Some coward had run back. He only had a bullet to the shoulder, that was nothing. He said something about a man in a helmet down a couple levels, someone tough.</p> <p>Hazzard Jack would see about that.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“Exactly how is this supposed to work?”</p> <p>“You use a keyhole. It is a key, after all.”</p> <p>Publius looked at the keycard. It was not like any key he was familiar with, though of course everything in this place was alien and unknown to him. He had decided that writing it all off as magical would be the best option for the time being.</p> <p>“I can’t find any keyhole.”</p> <p>“Still disoriented, I see. It’s right there, next to your hand.”</p> <p>The “keyhole” was a smooth black box with a slit in it, positioned on the wall at chest height next to the door. Publius looked at the card again. Everything he had seen so far seemed to have a parallel to the world he knew, just magical, for lack of a better term. This must be much the same. He inserted the card into the slot, and the door slid open, revealing the vault beyond. Emergency lighting kept the room dim: the stuffed and mounted animals seemed ready to leap at them from the shadows.</p> <p>“Now then, I have some dueling swords which would interest you, but what we are really looking for are my particle destabilizers. They will be long metal tubes, hollow, with a wooden attachment on the end opposite the hole.” Blackwood said. “With two pairs of eyes we should be able to find them easily enough.”</p> <p>It was a stroke of good fortune that the room was well organized: animal specimens here, plant specimens there, artifacts separated by area and time period. The muskets were quickly found within a glass display case, next to the sword rack and other, more mundane, firearms. Publius opened the case, took one of the guns of the shelf and inspected it. In his mind it seemed like some sort of club, but why would they bother adding a metal handle, much less a hollow one? He looked to Blackwood for an explanation.</p> <p>“Oh, yes, you wouldn’t know how to use this. Don’t worry: it is quite easy. Simply point the end with the hole at the enemy and pull the trigger located there, and you should be…Oh dear, they haven’t even set up the aether collectors. They’re all about as useless as sticks at the moment, until we find the reserves…aha! Those glass balls over there, if you take those and insert them to those brass slots on the side of the tube…”</p> <p>The instructions were simple enough, and Publius had finished within a few minutes. He hefted the gun, finding a good way to hold it as Blackwood had told him. The wooden part fit against his shoulder</p> <p>“Well done. That should last for a few shots at…”</p> <p>The room shook as the door and most of the adjoining wall exploded. Publius dove to the floor, showered with dust and rubble. Over the ringing in his ears he could dimly make out some footsteps and foreign conversation.</p> <p>“Are you all right?” Blackwood said quietly.</p> <p>“I… I think so.”</p> <p>“This will be dangerous, but I have to ask you to stand up. We do have an advantage. Just trust me."</p> <p>Publius sucked in a breath, braced himself, and stood up, gun in his hands. His vision swam, but he could make out eight rather barbaric individuals in the room similar to the three before that he had fought, all still bearing a wicked assortment of tattoos, piercings and homemade weapons.</p> <p>“Well lookie here!” One particularly brutal-looking raider walked towards the pair, swinging a wooden bat wrapped in barbed wire back and forth. “It’s helmet-man! It’s like it’s fucking Halloween or something!” The rest of the gang laughed.</p> <p>“What’s he saying?” Publius whispered out of the corner of his mouth.</p> <p>“Just insults, ignore them.” Blackwood focused on the hooligan in question. “It would be in your best interest to lay down your weapons, sir. We’re willing to avoid violence if you are.”</p> <p>“Is that so? How about I tear you a new asshole instead?” The man shouted, leaping at the two. Publius swung the musket at the attacker, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. A bright beam of red light sprang from the barrel, illuminating the chamber. And hitting the man directly in the chest. His body went rigid, limbs bent at angles they were not meant to go, his skin and clothing charring black and peeling away like an onion. The light faded. The ash drifted to the floor.</p> <p>Publius looked at the gun in shock, then at the pile of dust, then at the gun again, and then at the slack-jawed insurgents. He grinned.</p> <p>“<em>Velim caput tuum devellere deinde in confinium gulae cacare</em>.”</p> <p>Lord Blackwood shook his head as best as a sea slug could.</p> <p>“My God, man. That’s just foul.”</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="/anachronisms">Anachronisms</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/anachronisms">https://scpwiki.com/anachronisms</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]] [[/>]] Research Assistant Richard Moss ran. He could safely say that he had never been this afraid in his entire life. The events of last twenty minutes buzzed in his head like bees. Explosion. Sirens. Security breach. Attackers. What was a Chaos Insurgency? Gunshots. Deaths. Lockdown offline. Running. More explosions. More bullets. There was some bizarre form of music filling his ears. Everything seemed to fall into a rhythm: his breathing, the thudding of his heart, the pumping of adrenaline, the scream of the emergency alarms. The bullets were behind him now. For how long, he didn’t know. Not long enough. He barely knew how he ended up running down this hall, or what he had done to acquire the item now tucked under his arm like a football. He skidded to a halt, nearly tripping over his own feet with his momentum. This was the chamber he wanted. Panting, he scanned his ID card. Under normal circumstances, this would have been useless during a security breach. The uninvited guests had provided an unexpected blessing in taking out the lockdown procedures. The door slid open with a hiss. Richard jumped into the room. “Lord Blackwood!” The slug turned the nub of its head towards Richard. “Oh, good morning. While you obviously know of me, I don’t recall having ever met… what’s wrong?” “Sorry sir. Can’t chat. Security breach. Need your help.” “Calm yourself and catch your breath, man.” Richard paused for a moment. His panting slowed. “The site has been breached and there are enemies on their way here. I don’t know if we can hold them off ourselves, so I’m letting you out and hoping. There’s a key card in my pocket that can get you into your vault: stairs down the hall to the right, three floors down, chamber sixteen…” his voice trailed off as he strained to hear the dim scream from up the hallway. “Shit! You know Latin, right?” “Why yes, I began studying it as a boy back in primary school. What does that have to do with an attack of any sort?” “Just trust me: you’re going to be using it soon.” Richard lifted the tarnished helmet out from under his arm and placed it on his head. -- Publius Carthephilus Aetius began to regain consciousness. Death was much like sleep, he had decided: deep and dreamless. The blackness faded away at the edges of his mind. Heat and sensation and hearing gradually flowed into his perception. Without time, the process took both years and mere moments. The final push was like falling from a great height as the blurred colors and sensations whirled around him in a last mad maelstrom before snapping sharply into focus. He was standing in a small, plain room. The only things of note were a small desk, a filing cabinet, and a glass tank filled with water, some tropical corals, and a brightly colored slug. Beyond the room he could hear a loud, repeated screeching noise. He looked down at his new body. Gangly. Thin. The usual orange jumpsuit had been switched out for the long white coat he had seen the doctors wear. “Are you all right?” It was an older man’s voice, though he did not recognize the language. Publius glanced around the room. There was no one else there, same as before. “Who’s there?” “So you’re why he said I’d need Latin.” It was the same voice, this time in very formal, accented Latin, coming from the glass tank. “Who are you? Where are you hiding?” “I’m not hiding anywhere, my good man. But that isn’t the time for that: we must get out of here quickly. There are enemies coming this way.” “Wait, what? Who? Who is attacking?” “I don’t know, but I intend to find out and stop them, whoever they are. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.” There was an awkward pause as Publius looked at the slug. Seeing no other reasonable option, Publius removed the lid of the tank, reached inside, and picked up the slug. He placed it in the breast pocket of the lab coat, where it poked its head out of the opening. Publius stepped outside into the corridor, wincing at the alarm sirens. “To your right, and then down the stairs, and we can... oh, lovely.” There was a shout from three figures to their left, perhaps thirty feet away. There were two men and one woman: The woman was shaved bald, a skull tattooed on her face and a machete in each hand. One man was bleeding from a small circular wound in his shoulder, yet still held a butcher’s cleaver in his good hand. The other was completely naked, with tangled hair down to his waist and smeared with blood red war paint, armed with a makeshift spear. Publius’ mind sprung into action, analyzing the situation in an instant. Three enemies, all armed, one wounded, against one unarmed man and likewise unarmed slug. Judging by their looks, crude weapons, and slack postures, they lacked any sort of professional training or discipline. These were simple thugs. Still dangerous, of course, and more so than what they would have been with this unfit body. The naked one attacked first. Publius sidestepped the spear thrust, shedding the doctor’s coat and the slug as he stole the weapon from the man’s hands: the attacker’s momentum sent him sprawling to the floor. Publius swung the spear around and hit him hard on the head with the haft, knocking him unconscious. He was barely able to dodge out of the way of the woman’s first machete swing. In his peripheral vision he could see the wounded man running away, back to find reinforcements, no doubt. That was a problem for later. The woman was a better fighter than the spearman, to be sure: she kept herself moving, preventing Publius from slipping around behind her. He dodged her swings by uncomfortably small amounts, waiting for a opening. His spear was no use at this distance, he needed some way to get space between them, but she had good reach… //There//. An opening. She had swung too wide, too hard. Publius leapt back and threw the spear. It struck home, its jagged scrap metal point puncturing the woman’s neck. She managed a moment of bloody gurgling before falling dead. Publius pulled the spear from her corpse, wiping the blood on her clothing and picking up one of her machetes. With it, he walked over to the unconscious naked man and hacked off his head. He left the labcoat where it lay, instead picking the slug out of the pocket and placing it on his shoulder. “Nicely done. Now quickly, back down the hall.” Publius ran as directed, despite his complete disorientation. He would trust the slug for now: it knew more than he did about this place, though he knew next to nothing to begin with. “Oh, where are my manners?” the slug said from his shoulder. “I am Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, a servant of her majesty, queen Victoria of England.” The name was barbaric, and his queen and country meant nothing to Publius. Nonetheless, it was only proper to introduce himself to the slug that spoke. “My name is Publius Carthephilus Aetius, a soldier under Gaius Marius in the war against Jugurtha and a… reluctant survivor.” “Ah… that explains matters. Bound to the helmet, I suppose. You’re quite a long way and time from home, my friend. But, we can’t let that get us down. Your body’s prior owner told me where my collection was being stored, and so that is our goal. There is superior weaponry there.” Publius glanced down at Blackwood. “You do realize that you’re a slug, correct?” “Oh yes, very funny. I’ve heard that one before, I’m afraid.” -- Hazzard Jack beat a man’s head in with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. He loved the feel of the pulp between his tattooed fingers. The rest of the gang was likewise enjoying themselves: there was nothing like some rape, arson and pillaging to start the day. He took a deep breath of the smoky air before splattering himself with the man’s blood. The fun was running dry here. Time to move on. Those fools in the Foundation. They thought they could protect the world, keep it spinning, keep its destiny locked up and “secured”. The concept was childish, really. Entropy always won, and Hazzard Jack liked winning. Fuck bitches, kill bitches, raise some hell and spread some chaos. That was his motto. Wait…what was this? Running from a fight? Some coward had run back. He only had a bullet to the shoulder, that was nothing. He said something about a man in a helmet down a couple levels, someone tough. Hazzard Jack would see about that. -- “Exactly how is this supposed to work?” “You use a keyhole. It is a key, after all.” Publius looked at the keycard. It was not like any key he was familiar with, though of course everything in this place was alien and unknown to him. He had decided that writing it all off as magical would be the best option for the time being. “I can’t find any keyhole.” “Still disoriented, I see. It’s right there, next to your hand.” The “keyhole” was a smooth black box with a slit in it, positioned on the wall at chest height next to the door. Publius looked at the card again. Everything he had seen so far seemed to have a parallel to the world he knew, just magical, for lack of a better term. This must be much the same. He inserted the card into the slot, and the door slid open, revealing the vault beyond. Emergency lighting kept the room dim: the stuffed and mounted animals seemed ready to leap at them from the shadows. “Now then, I have some dueling swords which would interest you, but what we are really looking for are my particle destabilizers. They will be long metal tubes, hollow, with a wooden attachment on the end opposite the hole.” Blackwood said. “With two pairs of eyes we should be able to find them easily enough.” It was a stroke of good fortune that the room was well organized: animal specimens here, plant specimens there, artifacts separated by area and time period. The muskets were quickly found within a glass display case, next to the sword rack and other, more mundane, firearms. Publius opened the case, took one of the guns of the shelf and inspected it. In his mind it seemed like some sort of club, but why would they bother adding a metal handle, much less a hollow one? He looked to Blackwood for an explanation. “Oh, yes, you wouldn’t know how to use this. Don’t worry: it is quite easy. Simply point the end with the hole at the enemy and pull the trigger located there, and you should be…Oh dear, they haven’t even set up the aether collectors. They’re all about as useless as sticks at the moment, until we find the reserves…aha! Those glass balls over there, if you take those and insert them to those brass slots on the side of the tube…” The instructions were simple enough, and Publius had finished within a few minutes. He hefted the gun, finding a good way to hold it as Blackwood had told him. The wooden part fit against his shoulder “Well done. That should last for a few shots at...” The room shook as the door and most of the adjoining wall exploded. Publius dove to the floor, showered with dust and rubble. Over the ringing in his ears he could dimly make out some footsteps and foreign conversation. “Are you all right?” Blackwood said quietly. “I… I think so.” “This will be dangerous, but I have to ask you to stand up. We do have an advantage. Just trust me." Publius sucked in a breath, braced himself, and stood up, gun in his hands. His vision swam, but he could make out eight rather barbaric individuals in the room similar to the three before that he had fought, all still bearing a wicked assortment of tattoos, piercings and homemade weapons. “Well lookie here!” One particularly brutal-looking raider walked towards the pair, swinging a wooden bat wrapped in barbed wire back and forth. “It’s helmet-man! It’s like it’s fucking Halloween or something!” The rest of the gang laughed. “What’s he saying?” Publius whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Just insults, ignore them.” Blackwood focused on the hooligan in question. “It would be in your best interest to lay down your weapons, sir. We’re willing to avoid violence if you are.” “Is that so? How about I tear you a new asshole instead?” The man shouted, leaping at the two. Publius swung the musket at the attacker, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. A bright beam of red light sprang from the barrel, illuminating the chamber. And hitting the man directly in the chest. His body went rigid, limbs bent at angles they were not meant to go, his skin and clothing charring black and peeling away like an onion. The light faded. The ash drifted to the floor. Publius looked at the gun in shock, then at the pile of dust, then at the gun again, and then at the slack-jawed insurgents. He grinned. “//Velim caput tuum devellere deinde in confinium gulae cacare//.” Lord Blackwood shook his head as best as a sea slug could. “My God, man. That’s just foul.” [[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>]]	2012-06-19T14:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "blackwood", "chaos-insurgency", "tale" ]	Anachronisms - SCP Foundation	124	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	13590025	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/anachronisms
and-i-feel-fine	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Dr. Margaret Reese was awakened by the sound of Joey Tempest's voice. Rubbing her face and standing up from her desk, she sighed at the loudspeaker outside of her office. Someone had decided to blast "The Final Countdown" by Europe on a loop, and it looked like administration either was having trouble shutting down the system, or just didn't care. "At least it isn't R.E.M.," she sighed. She looked at her clock and sighed; 9:00 on 12/20/12.</p> <p>She got up and shut her door, before settling back in her chair and looking outside; still no snow, despite being only five days to Christmas. That was weather in a nexus for you. In the spring it would rain Komodo dragon blood, in the summer the little league field would spontaneously combust, and in the fall… you got eggs. But come winter, not a damn snowflake in sight.</p> <p>There was a knock at her door. "Come in."</p> <p>Dr. Johnathan West entered the room, carrying a pair of foam coffee cups; the smell of hot chocolate wafted from them. He gave Dr. Reese a soft smile. "I thought you might like something to drink; you've been working non-stop. Everything all right?"</p> <p>Margaret Reese shrugged, rubbing her face and taking one of the cocoas. "One of the O5's is being paranoid about the 2012 thing. You know which one, I'd assume."</p> <p>West nodded, rubbing his head. "Anomalous Objects has been working on 120 potential XK-Class scenarios involving E-Class objects for the past three months; the thing back in October was just a nice distraction."</p> <p>Reese snorted. "Biology and its various subdepartments are tackling at least 400, and that's just at this site… theology's got the biggest workload, though, poor bastards. I heard Father Reynolds joke about joining the Horizon Initiative if he has to look at another false apocalypse thing."</p> <p>West looked incredulously at Margaret. "I no longer feel bad for Tristan Bailey. He was whining about having to visit fifteen universes to negotiate evacuation plans."</p> <p>"Meanwhile," Dr. Reese said, "Theology's got to deal with cross-referencing Meso-American calendars with Biblical visions of the apocalypse, as well as the works of Nostradamus, various prophecies of dubious content… oh, and they also have to forget how to speak Hebrew, apparently. Just in case."</p> <p>West rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, regardless, Happy Solstice… if we live to see it."</p> <p>"Same to you, John."</p> <hr/> <p>"Dawn of Second Day… 48 hours remain…" Researcher Chris Hastings snickered under his breath, and drew odd looks from the rest of the staff in the break room. "What? The world's supposed end tomorrow. It seemed pertinent…" Hastings brushed his black, disorderly hair out of his eyes, while Agent Nicholas Ewell simply shook his head.</p> <p>"Get real, Hastings. Just because the Foundation's scrambling all of its resources trying to find an XK-Class scenario doesn't mean it's gonna happen." Ewell slathered some cream cheese on his bagel, wondering if he should try some of the fat-free stuff instead; he was starting to get, as Jackie from humanoid studies put it, "love handles".</p> <p>"I know, Nick. I'm jokin'- the stuff that's supposed to happen is <em>way</em> too far-fetched for this or any universe." Hastings put several packets of sugar in his coffee; he always thought the artificial sweetener was worse for you than the real stuff. "You hear about the one with the raspberry jam covering the western hemisphere?"</p> <p>"I thought it was boysenberry… whatever the hell that is." Ewell looked at his watch. "Speaking of berries, isn't the botany department starting those tests on E-672?"<br/> Hastings blinked. "That's today?" He slapped his forehead. "Crap, Partridge is gonna have my ass!" Hastings quickly chugged his coffee, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his briefcase, and ran for the door.</p> <hr/> <p>"Well, it's official. The world is going to end because of Gangnam Style!"</p> <p>Akio Naguri blinked at Ryan Melbourne's outburst, looking up from his guide to memetic hazards and a book on the Aztec Calendar. "What are you talking about?" Ryan beckoned Naguri over to his cubicle across the aisle from him; on his computer screen was a rather disturbing <a href="https://cdn.idigitaltimes.com/sites/idigitaltimes.com/files/2014/08/28/2012/12/03/3712-apocalypse-2012-december-21-gangnam-style-psy-nostradamus-theory-date.jpg">image</a>.</p> <p>"…the hell is this?"</p> <p>"Nostradamus meets PSY, apparently." Melbourne frowned. "Some people on the internet have been joking that Gangnam Style is a sign of the apocalypse, but this…"</p> <p>Naguri rubbed his face and sighed. "Is it bad that, compared to the other shit we're seeing today, this almost makes sense?"</p> <hr/> <p>S & C Plastics went to sleep.</p> <p>At least, most of the site did. A few were still up, trying to figure out what, if any, potential XK-Class scenarios would play out tomorrow. Over 6000 had already been ruled out by the Foundation as a whole, most of them religious; all procedures were still in effect, and not a single Keter skip was out of place.</p> <p>At 23:50, Chris Hastings was observing E-672, a cluster of mistletoe growing on a yew tree within Greenhouse 3, in back of the S & C Plastics building. He yawned broadly, and looked at his watch. "10 minutes to the end of the world…" He touched the bark of the tree, looking up at the mistletoe. "You aren't going to force me to kiss anyone, are you?" E-672 didn't respond because, of course, it was a plant. He looked at the placard on the tree underneath, essentially a tl;dr of its file.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>E-672</strong></p> <ul> <li>Specimen of <em>Viscum album</em></li> <li>Anomalous behavior first exhibited in 1632</li> <li>Long-living- single strand has survived for over 350 years</li> <li>Shows physical activity only on winter solstice</li> <li>Berries can be consumed safely, despite the toxicity of a normal <em>Viscum album</em> specimen.</li> </ul> </blockquote> <p>Chris had never tried the berries. They were supposed to be very good.</p> <p>The day's battery of tests had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, other than a resistance to fire. The whole of the site was too focused on potential XK-Class disasters to be worried about a simple bit of mistletoe. "You don't care about the Mayan calendar. About any of this. Tomorrow will just be another day for you." He looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. "Nothing's gonna happen."</p> <p>Midnight came, and as it turns out, Christopher Hastings was right. E-672 showed no anomalous activity, other than a slight rustling of the leaves and low-level luminescence. Shaking his head, Researcher Hastings took some notes, stepped out of the hothouse…</p> <p>…and into the first snowfall of the year.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\|<a href="/the-s-c-plastics-hub">Hub</a>\|</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> <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="/and-i-feel-fine">And I Feel Fine</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-i-feel-fine">https://scpwiki.com/and-i-feel-fine</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. Margaret Reese was awakened by the sound of Joey Tempest's voice. Rubbing her face and standing up from her desk, she sighed at the loudspeaker outside of her office. Someone had decided to blast "The Final Countdown" by Europe on a loop, and it looked like administration either was having trouble shutting down the system, or just didn't care. "At least it isn't R.E.M.," she sighed. She looked at her clock and sighed; 9:00 on 12/20/12. She got up and shut her door, before settling back in her chair and looking outside; still no snow, despite being only five days to Christmas. That was weather in a nexus for you. In the spring it would rain Komodo dragon blood, in the summer the little league field would spontaneously combust, and in the fall… you got eggs. But come winter, not a damn snowflake in sight. There was a knock at her door. "Come in." Dr. Johnathan West entered the room, carrying a pair of foam coffee cups; the smell of hot chocolate wafted from them. He gave Dr. Reese a soft smile. "I thought you might like something to drink; you've been working non-stop. Everything all right?" Margaret Reese shrugged, rubbing her face and taking one of the cocoas. "One of the O5's is being paranoid about the 2012 thing. You know which one, I'd assume." West nodded, rubbing his head. "Anomalous Objects has been working on 120 potential XK-Class scenarios involving E-Class objects for the past three months; the thing back in October was just a nice distraction." Reese snorted. "Biology and its various subdepartments are tackling at least 400, and that's just at this site… theology's got the biggest workload, though, poor bastards. I heard Father Reynolds joke about joining the Horizon Initiative if he has to look at another false apocalypse thing." West looked incredulously at Margaret. "I no longer feel bad for Tristan Bailey. He was whining about having to visit fifteen universes to negotiate evacuation plans." "Meanwhile," Dr. Reese said, "Theology's got to deal with cross-referencing Meso-American calendars with Biblical visions of the apocalypse, as well as the works of Nostradamus, various prophecies of dubious content… oh, and they also have to forget how to speak Hebrew, apparently. Just in case." West rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, regardless, Happy Solstice… if we live to see it." "Same to you, John." ------ "Dawn of Second Day… 48 hours remain..." Researcher Chris Hastings snickered under his breath, and drew odd looks from the rest of the staff in the break room. "What? The world's supposed end tomorrow. It seemed pertinent…" Hastings brushed his black, disorderly hair out of his eyes, while Agent Nicholas Ewell simply shook his head. "Get real, Hastings. Just because the Foundation's scrambling all of its resources trying to find an XK-Class scenario doesn't mean it's gonna happen." Ewell slathered some cream cheese on his bagel, wondering if he should try some of the fat-free stuff instead; he was starting to get, as Jackie from humanoid studies put it, "love handles". "I know, Nick. I'm jokin'- the stuff that's supposed to happen is //way// too far-fetched for this or any universe." Hastings put several packets of sugar in his coffee; he always thought the artificial sweetener was worse for you than the real stuff. "You hear about the one with the raspberry jam covering the western hemisphere?" "I thought it was boysenberry… whatever the hell that is." Ewell looked at his watch. "Speaking of berries, isn't the botany department starting those tests on E-672?" Hastings blinked. "That's today?" He slapped his forehead. "Crap, Partridge is gonna have my ass!" Hastings quickly chugged his coffee, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his briefcase, and ran for the door. ------ "Well, it's official. The world is going to end because of Gangnam Style!" Akio Naguri blinked at Ryan Melbourne's outburst, looking up from his guide to memetic hazards and a book on the Aztec Calendar. "What are you talking about?" Ryan beckoned Naguri over to his cubicle across the aisle from him; on his computer screen was a rather disturbing [https://cdn.idigitaltimes.com/sites/idigitaltimes.com/files/2014/08/28/2012/12/03/3712-apocalypse-2012-december-21-gangnam-style-psy-nostradamus-theory-date.jpg image]. "…the hell is this?" "Nostradamus meets PSY, apparently." Melbourne frowned. "Some people on the internet have been joking that Gangnam Style is a sign of the apocalypse, but this…" Naguri rubbed his face and sighed. "Is it bad that, compared to the other shit we're seeing today, this almost makes sense?" ------ S & C Plastics went to sleep. At least, most of the site did. A few were still up, trying to figure out what, if any, potential XK-Class scenarios would play out tomorrow. Over 6000 had already been ruled out by the Foundation as a whole, most of them religious; all procedures were still in effect, and not a single Keter skip was out of place. At 23:50, Chris Hastings was observing E-672, a cluster of mistletoe growing on a yew tree within Greenhouse 3, in back of the S & C Plastics building. He yawned broadly, and looked at his watch. "10 minutes to the end of the world…" He touched the bark of the tree, looking up at the mistletoe. "You aren't going to force me to kiss anyone, are you?" E-672 didn't respond because, of course, it was a plant. He looked at the placard on the tree underneath, essentially a tl;dr of its file. > E-672 > > * Specimen of //Viscum album// > * Anomalous behavior first exhibited in 1632 > * Long-living- single strand has survived for over 350 years > * Shows physical activity only on winter solstice > * Berries can be consumed safely, despite the toxicity of a normal //Viscum album// specimen. Chris had never tried the berries. They were supposed to be very good. The day's battery of tests had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, other than a resistance to fire. The whole of the site was too focused on potential XK-Class disasters to be worried about a simple bit of mistletoe. "You don't care about the Mayan calendar. About any of this. Tomorrow will just be another day for you." He looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. "Nothing's gonna happen." Midnight came, and as it turns out, Christopher Hastings was right. E-672 showed no anomalous activity, other than a slight rustling of the leaves and low-level luminescence. Shaking his head, Researcher Hastings took some notes, stepped out of the hothouse… …and into the first snowfall of the year. [[=]] \|[[[the-s-c-plastics-hub\|Hub]]]\| [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-12-22T04:40:00	[ "_licensebox", "apocalyptic", "christmas", "s&c-plastics", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	And I Feel Fine - SCP Foundation	124	[ "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15617128	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-i-feel-fine
and-so-it-is-now	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>April 30, 1998</strong></p> <p>Able’s fists were clenched hard enough to draw blood from his palms. He couldn’t hear beyond the tomb, but he knew there were people outside.</p> <p>He had to kill them. His body felt ready to snap from tension. It was ready to kill, needing to kill as mortal bodies needed to eat and breathe. The urge gnawed at his gut, worse than the hunger of a starving man.</p> <p>Of late, he had managed to resist for a few minutes each time he was summoned to speak with his brother, but now with freedom so close…</p> <p>He would wait until his body tore itself apart if need be.</p> <p>—</p> <p>In total, the ritual called for eight greater seals of protection, twenty-four minor seals of protection, three Wards of Rath-Ba, and a Matrix of Sav connecting a nodal system of forty-four augmented summoner’s circles. The tomb sat in the center of the design, its own sides coated in more crimson runes. The Directors watched from their safe room several hundred feet above. With a button press they could activate Ukelele: with another, they could simply flood and collapse the chamber.</p> <p>The blood had been easy enough to come by: a mandatory blood drive easily replaced the ritual slaughter of several hundred slaves. More difficult was constructing the actual ritual: it had been cobbled together from fragments of ancient texts and reverse-engineered spell rites millennia old. Enough material had been found in the last four months to triple the number of Daevite artifacts in storage, and that didn’t include those items yet to be cataloged, propelling knowledge of the Daevas forward near as far as the Rosetta Stone propelled understanding of the Egyptians.</p> <p>The chanting began. A full tenth of the Coalition’s practicing occultists stood in their circles, swaying along with the undulating, intermeshing words. The tone was haunting, almost melancholy, though tinged with an uglier undercurrent.</p> <p>Agent Alto Clef stood in his own protective circle, twenty feet in front of the door. His knowledge of Daevic was limited to scraps of the lower tongue, and he knew little of magic. He focused on the door. When it opened, he would be the one to deal with Able, for better or for worse.</p> <p>The chanting picked up its pace, the words spilling forth with greater power and urgency. A glow filled the chamber, shadows flickering wild and rampant against the walls in a wild dance. Wind whistled in unmoving air, building up to a roar that filled the cavern. The intensity crescendoed into a maddening height, burning and swirling and crashing, and then it stopped. The chant, the glow, and the wind ended as one, like an extinguished candle.</p> <p>It was done.</p> <p>—</p> <p>It was done.</p> <p>The urge was gone. The knot in his stomach untied, the tension in his muscles loosened. He felt weak, weaker than he had been for a very long time. Confusion roiled in his mind: everything was coming back to him, and it was unfamiliar. Cold, hunger, fear…Had he spent so much time a tool that he had forgotten what it was like to be a man?</p> <p>Perhaps. If it was so, he would learn again.</p> <p>Able stood up, and for the first time in over ten thousand years his steps were unsteady.</p> <p>He pushed open the door of his tomb for the last time.</p> <p>—</p> <p>The door of the tomb swung open. Able stepped out, tottering and wobbling like a paralytic learning to walk again. He reached the border of the first ward and stopped.</p> <p>Clef stepped out of his own circle and walked towards the Neolithic man.</p> <p>[Looks like we did it.]</p> <p>Able nodded. He swung his arm sharply, as if swinging a knife. No weapon appeared in his hand.</p> <p>[Yes. We did.]</p> <p>Able smiled, turned to the men and women standing at the margins of the circle, and spread his arms in triumph.</p> <p>[Know this, tribe of Clef! Before you stands a man freed! By all the gods of the River and the Mountain be blessed, and know that I am your kin from this day forward!]</p> <p>—</p> <p>O5 SPECIAL ORDER 1998-04-30</p> <p>In accordance with the original agreement of Project Greenhouse, Agent Alto Clef and all materials related therein is to return to the Foundation on May the second, 1998. In addition, the remains of LTE-9927, custody of KTE-9927-Prime, and custody of KTE-0706 are likewise handed over to Foundation jurisdiction for further study and containment.</p> <p>BY THE ORDER OF</p> <p>05-1<br/> 05-2<br/> 05-3<br/> Foundation A4 Advisory Board</p> <p>European Field Operations Director LaForte<br/> European General Operations Director Fontaine<br/> United Kingdom General Operations Director Cast<br/> United Kingdom Assistant Director Burr<br/> American General Operations Director Henderson<br/> American Assistant Director Zane</p> <p>—</p> <p>“Zane, I don’t care what the records say. <em>I never signed that order.</em>”</p> <p>—</p> <p>O5 GENERAL ORDER 1998-04-20</p> <p>Due to recent events involving a change of species, Dr. Adam Crow has been relieved of his position as Administrator. A new Administrator will be appointed by the O5 Board.</p> <p>BY ORDER OF:</p> <p>05-1<br/> 05-2<br/> 05-3</p> <p>—</p> <p>Dr. Gerry sat meditating by the Clockwork, letting the metronomic ticking and clicking fill his ears and clear his mind. Thoughts settled into place in time with the music. He was part of the Machine, the Machine was part of him, as Crom and Nala and Grape were of the Machine. Man did not create the Machine: man created machines so that the Machine might inhabit them. The computers he had created with the Clockwork were mere vessels for fragments of the Machine.</p> <p>A true vessel, proper for the Machine in its fullness and perfection of Logic and Reason, would come in time.</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="/and-so-it-is-now">And So It Is Now</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-so-it-is-now">https://scpwiki.com/and-so-it-is-now</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]] [[/>]] April 30, 1998 Able’s fists were clenched hard enough to draw blood from his palms. He couldn’t hear beyond the tomb, but he knew there were people outside. He had to kill them. His body felt ready to snap from tension. It was ready to kill, needing to kill as mortal bodies needed to eat and breathe. The urge gnawed at his gut, worse than the hunger of a starving man. Of late, he had managed to resist for a few minutes each time he was summoned to speak with his brother, but now with freedom so close… He would wait until his body tore itself apart if need be. -- In total, the ritual called for eight greater seals of protection, twenty-four minor seals of protection, three Wards of Rath-Ba, and a Matrix of Sav connecting a nodal system of forty-four augmented summoner’s circles. The tomb sat in the center of the design, its own sides coated in more crimson runes. The Directors watched from their safe room several hundred feet above. With a button press they could activate Ukelele: with another, they could simply flood and collapse the chamber. The blood had been easy enough to come by: a mandatory blood drive easily replaced the ritual slaughter of several hundred slaves. More difficult was constructing the actual ritual: it had been cobbled together from fragments of ancient texts and reverse-engineered spell rites millennia old. Enough material had been found in the last four months to triple the number of Daevite artifacts in storage, and that didn’t include those items yet to be cataloged, propelling knowledge of the Daevas forward near as far as the Rosetta Stone propelled understanding of the Egyptians. The chanting began. A full tenth of the Coalition’s practicing occultists stood in their circles, swaying along with the undulating, intermeshing words. The tone was haunting, almost melancholy, though tinged with an uglier undercurrent. Agent Alto Clef stood in his own protective circle, twenty feet in front of the door. His knowledge of Daevic was limited to scraps of the lower tongue, and he knew little of magic. He focused on the door. When it opened, he would be the one to deal with Able, for better or for worse. The chanting picked up its pace, the words spilling forth with greater power and urgency. A glow filled the chamber, shadows flickering wild and rampant against the walls in a wild dance. Wind whistled in unmoving air, building up to a roar that filled the cavern. The intensity crescendoed into a maddening height, burning and swirling and crashing, and then it stopped. The chant, the glow, and the wind ended as one, like an extinguished candle. It was done. -- It was done. The urge was gone. The knot in his stomach untied, the tension in his muscles loosened. He felt weak, weaker than he had been for a very long time. Confusion roiled in his mind: everything was coming back to him, and it was unfamiliar. Cold, hunger, fear…Had he spent so much time a tool that he had forgotten what it was like to be a man? Perhaps. If it was so, he would learn again. Able stood up, and for the first time in over ten thousand years his steps were unsteady. He pushed open the door of his tomb for the last time. -- The door of the tomb swung open. Able stepped out, tottering and wobbling like a paralytic learning to walk again. He reached the border of the first ward and stopped. Clef stepped out of his own circle and walked towards the Neolithic man. [Looks like we did it.] Able nodded. He swung his arm sharply, as if swinging a knife. No weapon appeared in his hand. [Yes. We did.] Able smiled, turned to the men and women standing at the margins of the circle, and spread his arms in triumph. [Know this, tribe of Clef! Before you stands a man freed! By all the gods of the River and the Mountain be blessed, and know that I am your kin from this day forward!] -- O5 SPECIAL ORDER 1998-04-30 In accordance with the original agreement of Project Greenhouse, Agent Alto Clef and all materials related therein is to return to the Foundation on May the second, 1998. In addition, the remains of LTE-9927, custody of KTE-9927-Prime, and custody of KTE-0706 are likewise handed over to Foundation jurisdiction for further study and containment. BY THE ORDER OF 05-1 05-2 05-3 Foundation A4 Advisory Board European Field Operations Director LaForte European General Operations Director Fontaine United Kingdom General Operations Director Cast United Kingdom Assistant Director Burr American General Operations Director Henderson American Assistant Director Zane -- “Zane, I don’t care what the records say. //I never signed that order.//” -- O5 GENERAL ORDER 1998-04-20 Due to recent events involving a change of species, Dr. Adam Crow has been relieved of his position as Administrator. A new Administrator will be appointed by the O5 Board. BY ORDER OF: 05-1 05-2 05-3 -- Dr. Gerry sat meditating by the Clockwork, letting the metronomic ticking and clicking fill his ears and clear his mind. Thoughts settled into place in time with the music. He was part of the Machine, the Machine was part of him, as Crom and Nala and Grape were of the Machine. Man did not create the Machine: man created machines so that the Machine might inhabit them. The computers he had created with the Clockwork were mere vessels for fragments of the Machine. A true vessel, proper for the Machine in its fullness and perfection of Logic and Reason, would come in time. [[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>]]	2012-09-09T19:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "bureaucracy", "classical-revival", "daevite", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "fantasy", "global-occult-coalition", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	And So It Is Now - SCP Foundation	78	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	14255202	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-so-it-is-now
and-so-on-and-so-forth	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>March 15, 1994</strong></p> <p>Francis tapped his pen against his chin, surveying the great sheet of paper pinned to the wall. He had been here longer than he thought: great swathes of it were covered in lines of his writing. He selected a reasonably-sized blank space and began to print in thin, neat letters.</p> <p>[Next question: how do you perceive what I am writing?]</p> <p>The drawing of a girl picked up a drawing of a piece of chalk and wrote on the drawing of a blackboard next to her.</p> <p>[I hear it.]</p> <p>[But you can’t see us.]</p> <p>[No.]</p> <p>[Do people sound different to you?]</p> <p>She erased the board to make more room.</p> <p>[A bit. Sometimes a lot. Some people mumble, and some people sound really uptight and draw out their words. You sound normal. I can tell the difference, but it’s subtle.]</p> <p><em>Hmm…probably dependent on handwriting.</em></p> <p>Francis scratched some more notes down on his own tablet before writing once more on the larger sheet.</p> <p>[Thank you. That’ll be all for today, Cassie. I’ll send up some new pictures for your wall this afternoon.]</p> <p>[Wait! Could you stay? I’d like to keep talking.]</p> <p>[I’m sorry: I have work to do. Agatha or Simon will be around sometime after lunch, I promise.]</p> <p>[Oh. Okay. Goodbye.]</p> <p>[Goodbye.]</p> <p>Francis watched the sketched girl begin to doodle forlornly on blackboard for a few moments before he stood up from his chair and left the room. He signed out on the time sheet hanging next to the door. A little hollow hole sank in his gut, as it always did after visiting with Cassie. Simon had “officially” confirmed that she was depressed, but that was obvious to anyone who spoke with her. It was like visiting your great-grandmother in the nursing home. All she wanted was someone to talk to, to break the monotony.</p> <p>The staff did what they could for her, but with juggling recruitment, management, studying other items, and maintaining the façade as they stealthily wrapped up their outside lives…</p> <p>Oh well. Off to the next job.</p> <p>Francis’ footsteps echoed in the empty hallway for a minute or so, before they were drowned out by a blaring alarm klaxon and the amplified voice of Dr. Crow’s over the intercom speaker.</p> <p>“Attention all personnel. A security breach has been detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated. Please proceed to your designated safe zones.”</p> <p>Tower three. He was in tower three. He was in a locked tower with the lizard. Alone.</p> <p>Francis automatically ran his left thumb over the smooth scarred depression in his right.</p> <p><em>Son of a fuck.</em></p> <p>—</p> <p>“So. Dmitri. Where’d you find these pieces of work?” John motioned to the four men sitting around the conference table, his toothpick held between his first two fingers. Fucking administration and their no-smoking policy.</p> <p>Strelkinov pointed to each in turn.</p> <p>“Vasili is good friend from army days. Boleslav, he kill Afghans with bare hands. Live in mountains alone after war. Stanimir work for the KGB. Very classified work. Listed as KIA. Matvey, he is mafia.”</p> <p>John raised an eyebrow.</p> <p>“Not even going to ask. They’re your problem. Any of them speak English?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“<em>Your</em> problem then, <em>you</em> give them the spiel.” John walked off towards the door. “I gotta take a piss.”</p> <p>“Ah. Okay. Mm-<em>hmm</em>. [Hello, gentlemen…]</p> <p>—</p> <p>John pissed like a racehorse. Too much coffee. Fucking no-smoking policy. Toothpicks, gum, coffee, nothing worked. He needed tobacco, dammit. He was jumpy, rattled, razzled, and supremely agitated. No smokes in four days. No <em>sun</em> in four days.</p> <p><em>Easy, John. Relax. Just fucking relax…</em></p> <p>The recruits. He focused on the new recruits. That was his job anyway. With these four, it brought the total number of security staff to sixteen. The others were a scattering of mercenaries, ex-cons, homeless vets, several other Russians, and one retired state trooper. Crow had been steadfast that they get a reliable security staff up and running as fast as possible, and John agreed. What irked him was that he and Dmitri were in charge of all of it, and it was not easy. Dmitri may have been able to pull old war buddies out of his hat like rabbits, but it wasn’t like they could just put out personal ads for this shit.</p> <p>Still better than working for the CIA, though.</p> <p>The stream finally trickled off. He had just zipped up as the alarms went off: his coffee and withdrawal-wrecked nerves shot him a good two feet in the air. He barely had time to land before the bathroom door was kicked open and he felt a large hand grab him by the collar and drag him backwards.</p> <p>“We are having an emergency! We must be fast!” Dmitri pulled him out into the hall and threw him upright. John wobbled to a stable pose as Dr. Crow's voice came over the intercom.</p> <p>“Attention all personnel. Security breach detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated.”</p> <p>“Shit on a biscuit!” John spat out his toothpick.</p> <p>“That will not help us.”</p> <p>“<em>Goddammit Dmitri you know what I meant!</em>”</p> <p>—</p> <p>Francis was alone, and he was very scared. He held his mop in a vice-like grip, creeping with his back flat against the wall, and trying to control his breathing, as he had been doing for the last half hour.</p> <p>He was terrified of 682. He would admit that. The last time he had worked with it, it fit in his palm and took a chunk out of his thumb. It wasn’t so small and cute now.</p> <p>“Come on out, little guy. I’ve got a mop with your name on it. A nice dirty mop. I’ll mop you good. Beware my mop, boy. Respect the mop.”</p> <p>Nothing beyond an empty hallway responded to his whispered bravado. Nothing at all.</p> <p><em>Wait.</em></p> <p>He leapt into the middle of the hallway, whipping out with the mop and hitting nothing. There was still nothing there.</p> <p>Still nothing there.</p> <p>There was a vent, though.</p> <p>Something hit Francis in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Now there was something there. It was right there, actually. Right on top of him.</p> <p>The lizard was about the size of a large cat, and held itself in much the same way: hunched and bunched up, ready to lash out, tail flicking back and forth. Its hide was knobbly and thick, a dull greenish yellow-brown with faded dark spots. The teeth were crooked, like the jaw wasn’t fit for them, but they were sharp. Very sharp. Francis could feel its breath on his face. It glared at him with yellow eyes that looked thoroughly evil. Francis shut his own eyes tight. It looked like it had been <em>smiling</em>.</p> <p>This was it. This was mauling time. He was going to get mauled. He clenched everything he could clench and readied himself for the pain</p> <p>The weight lifted from his chest. Snarls broke out once more, this time a few feet above him.</p> <p>“Mr. Wojciechoski.”</p> <p>Francis opened his eyes. Dr. Gerry stood over him, wearing a stained apron of thick leather and matching gloves that went up to his elbows. He held 682 by the scruff of the neck in one hand. It had stopped struggling, and the cause was clear: a frighteningly large hypodermic needle held in Gerry’s other hand.</p> <p>“This will suffice for the moment. I will place it in the backup containment unit before it adapts to the drug.”</p> <p>Gerry turned and began to walk off, carrying the unconscious lizard as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.</p> <p>“Now then, I believe you are still scheduled for overseeing experiments this morning. Good day to you, Mr. Wojciechoski.”</p> <p>Francis fell back on the floor and began to laugh. He had been there the whole time. Of course he had.</p> <p><em>Of course</em> he had.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“I’m sorry you weren’t able to see your new recruits in action, Dmitri.”</p> <p>“Win some, lose some.”</p> <p>“That said, I’ll be revising 682’s containment procedures to include a permanent guard station. It’s become far more adaptive than I had originally foreseen, and I don’t want it getting out again.”</p> <p>“Very well. I go speak with them.”</p> <p>…<br/> …<br/> …</p> <p>“Two decades of work and the only variant of the prion that works leaves us with a psychopathic gecko. It's a pity Sanderson isn't here, Connor. He'd be calling this a massive success. I miss his enthusiasm.”</p> <p>“His absence is regrettable.”</p> <p>“And will continue to be, because he's been in the ground for twelve years. He would have loved to see this. Probably would have put a collar on it and called it Leeroy or something.”</p> <p>“As you say.”</p> <p>“…You really are a bore nowadays, Connor. Has anyone told you that?”</p> <p>“Regularly.”</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="/and-so-on-and-so-forth">And So On And So Forth</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-so-on-and-so-forth">https://scpwiki.com/and-so-on-and-so-forth</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]] [[/>]] March 15, 1994 Francis tapped his pen against his chin, surveying the great sheet of paper pinned to the wall. He had been here longer than he thought: great swathes of it were covered in lines of his writing. He selected a reasonably-sized blank space and began to print in thin, neat letters. [Next question: how do you perceive what I am writing?] The drawing of a girl picked up a drawing of a piece of chalk and wrote on the drawing of a blackboard next to her. [I hear it.] [But you can’t see us.] [No.] [Do people sound different to you?] She erased the board to make more room. [A bit. Sometimes a lot. Some people mumble, and some people sound really uptight and draw out their words. You sound normal. I can tell the difference, but it’s subtle.] //Hmm…probably dependent on handwriting.// Francis scratched some more notes down on his own tablet before writing once more on the larger sheet. [Thank you. That’ll be all for today, Cassie. I’ll send up some new pictures for your wall this afternoon.] [Wait! Could you stay? I’d like to keep talking.] [I’m sorry: I have work to do. Agatha or Simon will be around sometime after lunch, I promise.] [Oh. Okay. Goodbye.] [Goodbye.] Francis watched the sketched girl begin to doodle forlornly on blackboard for a few moments before he stood up from his chair and left the room. He signed out on the time sheet hanging next to the door. A little hollow hole sank in his gut, as it always did after visiting with Cassie. Simon had “officially” confirmed that she was depressed, but that was obvious to anyone who spoke with her. It was like visiting your great-grandmother in the nursing home. All she wanted was someone to talk to, to break the monotony. The staff did what they could for her, but with juggling recruitment, management, studying other items, and maintaining the façade as they stealthily wrapped up their outside lives… Oh well. Off to the next job. Francis’ footsteps echoed in the empty hallway for a minute or so, before they were drowned out by a blaring alarm klaxon and the amplified voice of Dr. Crow’s over the intercom speaker. “Attention all personnel. A security breach has been detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated. Please proceed to your designated safe zones.” Tower three. He was in tower three. He was in a locked tower with the lizard. Alone. Francis automatically ran his left thumb over the smooth scarred depression in his right. //Son of a fuck.// -- “So. Dmitri. Where’d you find these pieces of work?” John motioned to the four men sitting around the conference table, his toothpick held between his first two fingers. Fucking administration and their no-smoking policy. Strelkinov pointed to each in turn. “Vasili is good friend from army days. Boleslav, he kill Afghans with bare hands. Live in mountains alone after war. Stanimir work for the KGB. Very classified work. Listed as KIA. Matvey, he is mafia.” John raised an eyebrow. “Not even going to ask. They’re your problem. Any of them speak English?” “No.” “//Your// problem then, //you// give them the spiel.” John walked off towards the door. “I gotta take a piss.” “Ah. Okay. Mm-//hmm//. [Hello, gentlemen…] -- John pissed like a racehorse. Too much coffee. Fucking no-smoking policy. Toothpicks, gum, coffee, nothing worked. He needed tobacco, dammit. He was jumpy, rattled, razzled, and supremely agitated. No smokes in four days. No //sun// in four days. //Easy, John. Relax. Just fucking relax…// The recruits. He focused on the new recruits. That was his job anyway. With these four, it brought the total number of security staff to sixteen. The others were a scattering of mercenaries, ex-cons, homeless vets, several other Russians, and one retired state trooper. Crow had been steadfast that they get a reliable security staff up and running as fast as possible, and John agreed. What irked him was that he and Dmitri were in charge of all of it, and it was not easy. Dmitri may have been able to pull old war buddies out of his hat like rabbits, but it wasn’t like they could just put out personal ads for this shit. Still better than working for the CIA, though. The stream finally trickled off. He had just zipped up as the alarms went off: his coffee and withdrawal-wrecked nerves shot him a good two feet in the air. He barely had time to land before the bathroom door was kicked open and he felt a large hand grab him by the collar and drag him backwards. “We are having an emergency! We must be fast!” Dmitri pulled him out into the hall and threw him upright. John wobbled to a stable pose as Dr. Crow's voice came over the intercom. “Attention all personnel. Security breach detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated.” “Shit on a biscuit!” John spat out his toothpick. “That will not help us.” “//Goddammit Dmitri you know what I meant!//” -- Francis was alone, and he was very scared. He held his mop in a vice-like grip, creeping with his back flat against the wall, and trying to control his breathing, as he had been doing for the last half hour. He was terrified of 682. He would admit that. The last time he had worked with it, it fit in his palm and took a chunk out of his thumb. It wasn’t so small and cute now. “Come on out, little guy. I’ve got a mop with your name on it. A nice dirty mop. I’ll mop you good. Beware my mop, boy. Respect the mop.” Nothing beyond an empty hallway responded to his whispered bravado. Nothing at all. //Wait.// He leapt into the middle of the hallway, whipping out with the mop and hitting nothing. There was still nothing there. Still nothing there. There was a vent, though. Something hit Francis in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Now there was something there. It was right there, actually. Right on top of him. The lizard was about the size of a large cat, and held itself in much the same way: hunched and bunched up, ready to lash out, tail flicking back and forth. Its hide was knobbly and thick, a dull greenish yellow-brown with faded dark spots. The teeth were crooked, like the jaw wasn’t fit for them, but they were sharp. Very sharp. Francis could feel its breath on his face. It glared at him with yellow eyes that looked thoroughly evil. Francis shut his own eyes tight. It looked like it had been //smiling//. This was it. This was mauling time. He was going to get mauled. He clenched everything he could clench and readied himself for the pain The weight lifted from his chest. Snarls broke out once more, this time a few feet above him. “Mr. Wojciechoski.” Francis opened his eyes. Dr. Gerry stood over him, wearing a stained apron of thick leather and matching gloves that went up to his elbows. He held 682 by the scruff of the neck in one hand. It had stopped struggling, and the cause was clear: a frighteningly large hypodermic needle held in Gerry’s other hand. “This will suffice for the moment. I will place it in the backup containment unit before it adapts to the drug.” Gerry turned and began to walk off, carrying the unconscious lizard as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. “Now then, I believe you are still scheduled for overseeing experiments this morning. Good day to you, Mr. Wojciechoski.” Francis fell back on the floor and began to laugh. He had been there the whole time. Of course he had. //Of course// he had. -- “I’m sorry you weren’t able to see your new recruits in action, Dmitri.” “Win some, lose some.” “That said, I’ll be revising 682’s containment procedures to include a permanent guard station. It’s become far more adaptive than I had originally foreseen, and I don’t want it getting out again.” “Very well. I go speak with them.” … … … “Two decades of work and the only variant of the prion that works leaves us with a psychopathic gecko. It's a pity Sanderson isn't here, Connor. He'd be calling this a massive success. I miss his enthusiasm.” “His absence is regrettable.” “And will continue to be, because he's been in the ground for twelve years. He would have loved to see this. Probably would have put a collar on it and called it Leeroy or something.” “As you say.” “...You really are a bore nowadays, Connor. Has anyone told you that?” “Regularly.” [[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>]]	2012-07-25T02:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "agent-strelnikov", "agent-yoric", "breakout", "classical-revival", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	And So On And So Forth - SCP Foundation	102	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	13877156	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-so-on-and-so-forth
and-then-i-died2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>Below are the previous entries for <a href="/and-then-i-died3">the game</a>. Read and enjoy! The answer are in links at the end of each one.</em></p> </blockquote> Welcome to <em>And Then I Died…</em>, an SCP collective writing game! Useful information is held behind a collapsible tab right here: <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Click Here to Learn The Rules of the Game</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Click Here to Make This Go Away</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>This is pretty simple. The idea of this game is to compose an encounter with an SCP without overtly revealing what SCP it actually is. The rules are basic, and as follows:</p> <p>1. Whoever guessed the last one correctly (information about guessing at the bottom) has to write the next one. If you don't want to write, then don't guess. Feel free to sit back, relax, and say "Oh! I got it right!" when you do.</p> <p>2. If you're writing the new one, try to keep it under 500 words. This is a game, not a novel. Also, try to get it written within a day or two (a week at the longest), so the game can keep moving forward. If you fail to write your entry quickly enough, a judge will step in and write it for you.</p> <p>3. While not required, a few red herrings are definitely encouraged, so long as the final solution is the most likely/most obvious answer. Having someone die from exposure to <a href="/scp-008">SCP-008</a> while <a href="/scp-682">SCP-682</a> eats their torso and they're fired from the Sun Launcher… Not gonna work.</p> <p>4. Try to make it… well… not obvious, but… guessable. Going for something needlessly obtuse will make the game no fun for anyone.</p> <p>5. The character "speaking" (and this is the most important rule) <em>must</em> die at the end. It might not be from the SCP in question, so long as their exposure caused it somehow.</p> <p>6. If no one guesses your SCP, then congrats! After a week or so, let everyone know how clever you were, and write another one.</p> <p>7. If you're the author, make sure you send a message to <a href="http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/451071">TroyL</a>, or <a href="http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/481882">Dexanote</a> to let them know the answer. Troy, Ragz and Dex will be recusing themselves from making any further guesses to function in this capacity. Winners will be posted in the discussion thread for this page, so keep your eyes open! Maybe you won!</p> <p>If there are any questions, or a need for clarification, please notify the game judging people things, TroyL, or Dexanote, in the chat. Thanks, and have a good time reading and guessing!</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>Looking for the old entries? Click <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-then-i-died">right here</a> for some excellent reads! Answers are included at the end of each entry.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round One: TroyL</strong></p> <p>I laughed when they told me about the faeries that would occasionally appear around the room, especially since I'd not really been around and SCP like this one before. Heh. To think, I was going to be working at Site-19. It was going to fun! So much fun!</p> <p>I yawned and looked around the room, scratching my neck and peering over at the sensors, watching the blips and swatting away the little, winged nuisances. Mostly things I could ignore…</p> <p>After a moment, though, one of the blips goes too high. The machine lets out a soft alarm, and with a sigh, I push myself up and open the observation door, walking over to the bed and glancing down at the sleeping form there. Nothing that I can see, but to be safe…</p> <p>I grab the syringe (there are always a full stash of everything I might need right next to the bed) and slide it into the IV, depressing it and tossing it into the bin. I walk back and look down at her, smiling, then…</p> <p>Her lips are moving. I can almost make out what they're saying? Avoid Cameras? Abba Concierto? Abra Ka-</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-239">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Two: Scantron</strong></p> <p>Oh, oh man. I can't believe that worked. Do you think they even saw anyone take their tickets? Probably not. Shit, stop giggling man! You're sounding like your girlfriend. Let's just hope… aw, fuck. Nosebleed seats. Eh, it's not like it's setting us back anything.</p> <p>…fuck. <strong>Fuck.</strong> The fuck was that shit? We aren't paying this guy ten mil a year to hit easy pop-ups. I don't even know <em>what</em>'s going on. You think maybe they could have spared a few funds from the renovation to get some decent fucking players, right? I mean, we have enough medieval stuff in that one guy in left field, the one with the mustache.</p> <p>Just… well, hey, it's most of the way over. We're not losing <em>too</em> badly, right? And their relief pitcher, what's his name, he's kinda shitty, so we have a shot. Oh, look, s'pose we should stand up and sing along. I always loved this song…</p> <p>Fuck, this is tingly, I don't kn-</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-298">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Three: Vlemich</strong></p> <p>Damn this heat! This isn't what I signed up for at all. I can't believe they sent us down to this God-forsaken land. I'm getting sick of the Austrians all over the place. It would be nice just to see a few more Englishmen around here to make things feel more like home. Oh well, just another day of watching over platoons. At least I managed to land an easy gig! All I have to do is sit up on this rooftop, out of sight, out of mind for all these damn gun toting soldiers.</p> <p>Finally some action! And lucky me, all I have to do is sit up here and start picking off any threats I find. Look at those boys go! Those new guns are really clearing the way for our boys! For the Queen!</p> <p>Each man is moving professionally, coordinated through the small village. These small militia might not be well equipped, but orders from the top are to put them down before they can gain enough support and man power to become a threat. I guess I can respect nipping it in the bud, but it's almost too easy. Just look how securely those Tommys are getting through this little place! Alright, time to buckle down and keep an eye out for them….</p> <p>WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON? Damnit, this is turning bad quick! I can't even see any return fire! One, two… five men down already at this one stupid little hut! What the fuck! Damnit, I can't see anything! Shit, shit, SHIT! Where are they? GOD DAMNIT the whole damned platoon is going down! Son of a bitch! Ah fuck, somebody is coming out of the hut… Line up the sights… I don't know how you took out a whole platoon but you're about to go down mother fucker. He is looking around at the dead bodies now. All I need is a clean shot at his head. He comes out into the open; heart is racing; sights are lined up; a clean shot to the head, wait, what's wrong with his face? No matter; I slowly squeeze the trigger.</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-073">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Four: anqxyr</strong></p> <p>I am running, running faster than I've ever run before. Tunnels of the sewer around me are lightness, all alike, and some part of me worries for a moment that I will get lost here. I can hear the blood pulsing, pounding in my ears, and feel the presence of the beast behind me, chasing me.</p> <p>The beast came for us when we were resting, eating. It killed three, maybe four, before the rest came to their senses and started to run. To be honest, we expected it to happen, eventually. There were debates, and proposals of traps and early warning system, build from scraps and garbage. But none of it matters now.</p> <p>I can see the outline of another tunnel ahead of me. I dive into the opening and continue to run for half a minute more, then stop. I can see every detail of every brick in the wall before me, edges sharp, gleaming in the dark, as if they are laughing at me. Dead end. I turn around, mortified.</p> <p>The beast enters the tunnel, blocking the only way out. I look in its eyes. They are focused on me, not blinking, and I see the hunger and the fire of hunt in them. Before I can do anything, it comes to me, at me. For a brief moment I think about a life I had before, normal life, with joy and purpose, not filled with fear and disgust, not focused on mere survival. Then the beast closes its jaws on my throat. I try to scream in pain and terror, but all that comes out is a high-pitched squeak.</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-731">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Five: Uncandescent</strong></p> <p>“I’m disappointed in you Richie.” His voice wavered and bubbled on the edge of my consciousness. The world was spinning, tilting every which way. I was going to be sick.</p> <p>“Very disappointed.”</p> <p>A burst of pain, terrible pain, right in the back of my head. Am I dead? Dying?</p> <p>No, still alive, still breathing.</p> <p>It shouldn’t hurt to breathe.</p> <p>“I thought we were friends, you and I.”</p> <p>Stay conscious. Focus on something, anything, anything other than the pain. It’s dark, but—there, on the ground, in red, it’s—</p> <p>Another wave of nausea. It was a tooth. My tooth.</p> <p>“But then you went and stabbed me in the back. Is that how you treat your friends, Richie?”</p> <p>“I… I didn’t…”</p> <p>This wasn’t fair. They’d hit me too much, too long. Words were hard now.</p> <p>“What? You didn’t what? C’mon, spit it out!” A slap on the back, hard. Blood flew from my mouth. The ropes dug into my arms.</p> <p>“I didn’t mean to…” It came out blubbery, but I was beyond caring.</p> <p>“You didn’t mean to spend my money?” He reached forward and grabbed my shoulders. “You didn’t mean to splurge it all on a fancy new car?” A heavy smack and suddenly my cheek was pressed against the floor.</p> <p>Suddenly something broke inside. Hot streaks trailed down my cheeks, and this time it wasn’t blood.</p> <p>“Please… Please just… just stop.” I begged.</p> <p>“No. You know what Richie, I’m not gonna stop. You’ve fucked up one too many times.” A click cut through the ringing in my ears. “No more excuses.”</p> <p>“No!” I yelled. “I can pay you back! I know people! I have something that can stop this!”</p> <p>“You’re right. Life insurance.”</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-661">Unsolved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Six: Uncandescent</strong></p> <p>It’s true what they say, you know. You never appreciate what you have until it’s gone.</p> <p>Like the sun. No one ever stops and goes “Gee, I’m sure glad that the sun is there!” It’s always going to be there. And if you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it a million times. It gets you nice and toasty on warm summer days, but for the rest of the time there’s central heating. And central heating doesn’t shine in your eyes, or make your skin flake off, or hang you with the big C. But now… now I regret every second I didn’t spend just standing outside, just soaking it all up. Maybe then I’d have some extra for times like this.</p> <p>And people. Never thought I’d give a crap about people. Always in your face with their whining and their problems and their baggage and exactly everything about themselves that you couldn’t care less about. Right now, I’d give my left arm just to see someone’s face. I don’t even care if they’re deaf and mute, I just want to know that someone else exists. I just want to… I guess I just want to know that the world really happened. That I didn’t just make it all up, you know?</p> <p>No, that’s stupid. I’m the stupid one here, really. Traipsing around, looking for adventure, and I wind up—</p> <p>OW! Wow! Did I mention antibiotics yet? Because I really miss antibiotics. Wowee, antibiotics. I haven’t been able to look at my leg in—days, maybe? I don’t know. No sun, no time, no goddamn difference. The color makes me sick, and I don’t think I have anything left to puke up. And on top of that—</p> <p>Sorry, I… I tripped. You have to really watch your feet, cause…</p> <p>I… don’t think I’m gonna make it.</p> <p>Actually… I know I’m not gonna make it.</p> <p>I think I might have always known.</p> <p>Is it wrong that I feel better now?</p> <p>Cause I do. I feel like… like I could snatch up every criminal on the planet. And map out the insides of every abandoned building in the world. It’ll take a while, but I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time, you know? Where I’m going, I mean. I wonder what it’ll be like. At least I know it can’t be worse than here…</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-201">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Seven: Scantron</strong></p> <p>You know, once you get used to the stench, this place is pretty great. Functional heating, still has electricity, full fridge and pantry. I'm almost thinking "What's the catch?", you know, seeing as how nobody's moved in yet. I'm not normally accustomed to living arrangements this nice, given my lifestyle… stayed up all night playing video games to celebrate the find. Neighbors are probably wondering why the lights are still on… I should really go to bed. Ah, here's the bedroom.</p> <p>Hm. Now, that would be the smell, wouldn't it. Let me just… yeah, he's dead. Well. I'll just look for any… yeah, they're dead too. I wonder what killed 'em… they're so pale. I should probably leave now, no good just standing around.</p> <p>Ow! Fuck! Why can't I walk? I… ugh, thirsty…</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-625">Unsolved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Eight: Scantron</strong></p> <p>I yawn and look out at the road in front of me… the yellow dividing lines come into existence in my headlights, rush past me, and dissolve into the darkness. I yawn again. My eyelids slip closed and then snap back open. "Hey Jo?" No response. I prod her.</p> <p>She stirs, then stretches a bit in the seat beside me. A sleepy "Yeah hon?" escapes her mouth.</p> <p>"Could we, uh…" I yawn even harder and blink my eyes. "Could you get me s'more coffee?"</p> <p>She curls up back into a ball in the passenger seat. She mutters, "We don't have any more… you drank it. We should just pull over for the night."</p> <p>My eyelids are so heavy. I drift out of my lane a little, but I swerve back in and blink rapidly to wake myself up. "No, no, we have to get to your parents' house by six."</p> <p>"Mm-hmm…" She's back to sleep already. Lucky her… I would have her take my place, but she had the last shift. It's my turn right now.</p> <p>I refocus my attention on the road in front of me. I let out a massive yawn, my mouth going wide enough to strain the jaw. I massage my chin as I talk out loud to myself. "There's no-one else on this road right now… it's supposed to be straight. I could rest my eyes a bit…" I stroke Jo's hair a bit and close my eyes-</p> <p>I wake up with a start, finding my weight pressed on my right leg, my foot squeezing the gas pedal. Jo is screaming. The radio is screaming. In my groggy panic, I just floor it harder…</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-973">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Nine: Grug16</strong><br/> "Come on, Brad," I said. "Why do you have to be such a freakin' chicken?"</p> <p>The other guys laughed. It was clear nobody liked my younger brother. Who would? The little guy never leaves the house. He says he's scared of “Monsters” and “Bad Guys”. He watches too many cartoons. Still, I had to take him with me. If a little mischief night fun isn't going to make him man up, nothing else will.</p> <p>So we strolled down Fairside Road. Most of the houses had their decorations up already, shriveled ghosts and plastic witches everywhere. They looked really freaky in the darkness. Brad stayed close to me as Mickey, Jun, and Rob hovered around and tossed insults.</p> <p>“Snot nose”<br/> “Fatass”<br/> “Nerd virgin.”</p> <p>“Stop it!” yelled Brad.</p> <p>“Alright, guys. Let's get that house first,” I said, trying to distract them. Old Lady Carter's place. I figured she'd be too deaf to notice us until we were done. Mickey pulled out the four dozen eggs he brought, handing three cartons to Jun while he opened the last. After tossing a few, I remembered Brad was with us. I held out an egg in my hand. “Come on, Brad. Think of it like a… a magic spell.” I put on my best big bro face for him. After a second of hesitation, he nods, and took the egg. He wound up and threw.</p> <p>A single window pane broke clear of the frame, and we heard the wonderful sound of dishes and silverware falling over inside. That's a lot of payoff for one egg. Brad looked at me in disbelief, and then smiled. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” I said. The other guys started clapping. I was more proud of him than I had been in a long time. Then the clapping abruptly stopped, and the screaming started.</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-330">Solved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Round Ten: GideonSmith08</strong></p> <p>“Shit, shit, shit, shit…”</p> <p>Knocking a neglected glass of mystery juice over, I pulled Jeremy in close, soaking myself in his tears and in the unknown fluid. Earthquakes, while pretty common, are always a constant fear. But I guess that’s to be expected in LA; an occasional test of acuity at 9 PM to “shake up” life a little, pardon the pun, isn’t THAT bad.</p> <p>Holding him close, my unconditioned paternal instincts kicked in. The last decade’s been… shit: Faulty brakes took my parents, the Big C took my Katherine, the land-lord’s taking our shitty home in a few weeks, and even Mother Nature’s against us today. But, staying true to all of those damned Full House episodes and Disney films I think we used to watch, I guess I’m just giving giving the kid someone to depend on, y’know?</p> <p>“Shhhhh… That’s it. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”</p> <p>My sleeve acting as a crude replacement for the tissue boxes on the table above us, I started to believe that I got pretty good at this crap. And as if I was a damned psychic or whatever, staying under the desk seemed like the best idea, considering the possibility of an aftershock. A few seconds later, the satisfaction of my precise judgement made the shaking room a little brighter.</p> <p>Not wanting to be too righteous, I thought back to the familiar faces…</p> <p>I don’t know how they put up with my shit over the years, but I supposed this fucking family was… mine now. I clung to Jason… Shit, I mean Jeremy- a little tighter, nuzzling my face against his messy, grey hair.</p> <p>I don’t know if it was fear or a deep rejection of my new responsibility, but the cold, awkward unfamiliarity felt… almost right.</p> <p>And then I died.</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-929">Unsolved</a></strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Final Round: TroyL</strong></p> <p>It's with a sigh that I lean back in my chair… Finally, it's over. All this 'And Then I Died…' nonsense is through. Too many people didn't seem to care, and the ones who seemed to care guessed too quickly to get it right… Oh well. These things happen. Maybe I'll start it up again one day…</p> <p>I stand up and walk out to my car, feeling a few drops of rain hit my neck as I climb inside it, closing the door and shivering as I make the slow drive home. The heater feels good, at least. I turn on the radio, listening with a chuckle to Garrison Keillor. He looks <em>nothing</em> like he sounds, being far smoother and more elegant than his rough voice would suggest, but that's fine, after all.</p> <p>I finally arrive home, walking inside and dropping my keys, wallet, phone, and scancard on the table, sighing and walking over to my home computer, sitting down and checking IRC to see if I had any pressing messages. Finding that the most exciting thing going on was another newbie getting kicked from #site19, I stand and make myself some dinner: egg whites and toast. It's a little dry, but palatable enough. Good food for a dieter.</p> <p>After dinner, I catch half an episode of House, then change into my workout clothes and head to the gym. I'm there for maybe an hour, just doing chest and back, and then a quick run. The light rain hasn't let up, but I rather enjoy running in the rain, if I'm honest. It's nice and cool, and I feel clean when I get done.</p> <p>The trip home is uneventful as I scribble my time, "8 mins 47 sec", down in my workout book. I'm just a little pleased with myself for keeping my mine under nine minutes, something I wouldn't have even thought about a few months ago. When I head back into my house, I make more eggs, then sit down and screw around in some of the chat rooms, trolling Ragazzo and Echo just for kicks, then getting into a retarded argument over something similarly retarded. It's a nice enough evening, all things considered.</p> <p>I take a shower finally, then dry off and head to bed naked. Laying down on the new mattress, I can't help but wonder if I'm really getting anything done with my life… But, of course, it doesn't matter.</p> <p>Because then I died.</p> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Click Here to Learn How to Guess</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Click Here to Make This Go Away</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>To guess, send a PM to one of the three judges by clicking their name here: <a href="http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/451071">TroyL</a>, <a href="http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/508888">Ragazzo</a>, or <a href="http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/481882">Dexanote</a>. Alternatively, you can enter the <strong>#site19</strong> chat and send a PM to one of the three judges: TroyL (alias MechaTroy), Ragazzo, or Dexanote (alias ProfChainsawFace, Chainshank, or anything with Dexa in his name). They'll let you know if you've guessed correctly. Generally, you only get one guess, so make sure you think you're right before you take a swing at it! If you win, then congrats! You get to write the next one. Have fun!</p> </div> </div> </div> <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="/and-then-i-died2">And Then I Died...</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-then-i-died2">https://scpwiki.com/and-then-i-died2</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>	> //Below are the previous entries for [[[and-then-i-died3\|the game]]]. Read and enjoy! The answer are in links at the end of each one.// Welcome to //And Then I Died...//, an SCP collective writing game! Useful information is held behind a collapsible tab right here: [[collapsible show="Click Here to Learn The Rules of the Game" hide="Click Here to Make This Go Away"]] This is pretty simple. The idea of this game is to compose an encounter with an SCP without overtly revealing what SCP it actually is. The rules are basic, and as follows: 1. Whoever guessed the last one correctly (information about guessing at the bottom) has to write the next one. If you don't want to write, then don't guess. Feel free to sit back, relax, and say "Oh! I got it right!" when you do. 2. If you're writing the new one, try to keep it under 500 words. This is a game, not a novel. Also, try to get it written within a day or two (a week at the longest), so the game can keep moving forward. If you fail to write your entry quickly enough, a judge will step in and write it for you. 3. While not required, a few red herrings are definitely encouraged, so long as the final solution is the most likely/most obvious answer. Having someone die from exposure to [[[SCP-008]]] while [[[SCP-682]]] eats their torso and they're fired from the Sun Launcher... Not gonna work. 4. Try to make it... well... not obvious, but... guessable. Going for something needlessly obtuse will make the game no fun for anyone. 5. The character "speaking" (and this is the most important rule) //must// die at the end. It might not be from the SCP in question, so long as their exposure caused it somehow. 6. If no one guesses your SCP, then congrats! After a week or so, let everyone know how clever you were, and write another one. 7. If you're the author, make sure you send a message to [http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/451071 TroyL], or [http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/481882 Dexanote] to let them know the answer. Troy, Ragz and Dex will be recusing themselves from making any further guesses to function in this capacity. Winners will be posted in the discussion thread for this page, so keep your eyes open! Maybe you won! If there are any questions, or a need for clarification, please notify the game judging people things, TroyL, or Dexanote, in the chat. Thanks, and have a good time reading and guessing! [[/collapsible]] Looking for the old entries? Click [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-then-i-died right here] for some excellent reads! Answers are included at the end of each entry. ----- Round One: TroyL I laughed when they told me about the faeries that would occasionally appear around the room, especially since I'd not really been around and SCP like this one before. Heh. To think, I was going to be working at Site-19. It was going to fun! So much fun! I yawned and looked around the room, scratching my neck and peering over at the sensors, watching the blips and swatting away the little, winged nuisances. Mostly things I could ignore... After a moment, though, one of the blips goes too high. The machine lets out a soft alarm, and with a sigh, I push myself up and open the observation door, walking over to the bed and glancing down at the sleeping form there. Nothing that I can see, but to be safe... I grab the syringe (there are always a full stash of everything I might need right next to the bed) and slide it into the IV, depressing it and tossing it into the bin. I walk back and look down at her, smiling, then... Her lips are moving. I can almost make out what they're saying? Avoid Cameras? Abba Concierto? Abra Ka- And then I died. [[[scp-239\|Solved]]] ----- Round Two: Scantron Oh, oh man. I can't believe that worked. Do you think they even saw anyone take their tickets? Probably not. Shit, stop giggling man! You're sounding like your girlfriend. Let's just hope... aw, fuck. Nosebleed seats. Eh, it's not like it's setting us back anything. ...fuck. Fuck. The fuck was that shit? We aren't paying this guy ten mil a year to hit easy pop-ups. I don't even know //what//'s going on. You think maybe they could have spared a few funds from the renovation to get some decent fucking players, right? I mean, we have enough medieval stuff in that one guy in left field, the one with the mustache. Just... well, hey, it's most of the way over. We're not losing //too// badly, right? And their relief pitcher, what's his name, he's kinda shitty, so we have a shot. Oh, look, s'pose we should stand up and sing along. I always loved this song... Fuck, this is tingly, I don't kn- And then I died. [[[scp-298\|Solved]]] ----- Round Three: Vlemich Damn this heat! This isn't what I signed up for at all. I can't believe they sent us down to this God-forsaken land. I'm getting sick of the Austrians all over the place. It would be nice just to see a few more Englishmen around here to make things feel more like home. Oh well, just another day of watching over platoons. At least I managed to land an easy gig! All I have to do is sit up on this rooftop, out of sight, out of mind for all these damn gun toting soldiers. Finally some action! And lucky me, all I have to do is sit up here and start picking off any threats I find. Look at those boys go! Those new guns are really clearing the way for our boys! For the Queen! Each man is moving professionally, coordinated through the small village. These small militia might not be well equipped, but orders from the top are to put them down before they can gain enough support and man power to become a threat. I guess I can respect nipping it in the bud, but it's almost too easy. Just look how securely those Tommys are getting through this little place! Alright, time to buckle down and keep an eye out for them…. WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON? Damnit, this is turning bad quick! I can't even see any return fire! One, two… five men down already at this one stupid little hut! What the fuck! Damnit, I can't see anything! Shit, shit, SHIT! Where are they? GOD DAMNIT the whole damned platoon is going down! Son of a bitch! Ah fuck, somebody is coming out of the hut… Line up the sights… I don't know how you took out a whole platoon but you're about to go down mother fucker. He is looking around at the dead bodies now. All I need is a clean shot at his head. He comes out into the open; heart is racing; sights are lined up; a clean shot to the head, wait, what's wrong with his face? No matter; I slowly squeeze the trigger. And then I died. [[[scp-073\|Solved]]] ----- Round Four: anqxyr I am running, running faster than I've ever run before. Tunnels of the sewer around me are lightness, all alike, and some part of me worries for a moment that I will get lost here. I can hear the blood pulsing, pounding in my ears, and feel the presence of the beast behind me, chasing me. The beast came for us when we were resting, eating. It killed three, maybe four, before the rest came to their senses and started to run. To be honest, we expected it to happen, eventually. There were debates, and proposals of traps and early warning system, build from scraps and garbage. But none of it matters now. I can see the outline of another tunnel ahead of me. I dive into the opening and continue to run for half a minute more, then stop. I can see every detail of every brick in the wall before me, edges sharp, gleaming in the dark, as if they are laughing at me. Dead end. I turn around, mortified. The beast enters the tunnel, blocking the only way out. I look in its eyes. They are focused on me, not blinking, and I see the hunger and the fire of hunt in them. Before I can do anything, it comes to me, at me. For a brief moment I think about a life I had before, normal life, with joy and purpose, not filled with fear and disgust, not focused on mere survival. Then the beast closes its jaws on my throat. I try to scream in pain and terror, but all that comes out is a high-pitched squeak. And then I died. [[[scp-731\|Solved]]] ----- Round Five: Uncandescent “I’m disappointed in you Richie.” His voice wavered and bubbled on the edge of my consciousness. The world was spinning, tilting every which way. I was going to be sick. “Very disappointed.” A burst of pain, terrible pain, right in the back of my head. Am I dead? Dying? No, still alive, still breathing. It shouldn’t hurt to breathe. “I thought we were friends, you and I.” Stay conscious. Focus on something, anything, anything other than the pain. It’s dark, but—there, on the ground, in red, it’s— Another wave of nausea. It was a tooth. My tooth. “But then you went and stabbed me in the back. Is that how you treat your friends, Richie?” “I… I didn’t…” This wasn’t fair. They’d hit me too much, too long. Words were hard now. “What? You didn’t what? C’mon, spit it out!” A slap on the back, hard. Blood flew from my mouth. The ropes dug into my arms. “I didn’t mean to…” It came out blubbery, but I was beyond caring. “You didn’t mean to spend my money?” He reached forward and grabbed my shoulders. “You didn’t mean to splurge it all on a fancy new car?” A heavy smack and suddenly my cheek was pressed against the floor. Suddenly something broke inside. Hot streaks trailed down my cheeks, and this time it wasn’t blood. “Please… Please just… just stop.” I begged. “No. You know what Richie, I’m not gonna stop. You’ve fucked up one too many times.” A click cut through the ringing in my ears. “No more excuses.” “No!” I yelled. “I can pay you back! I know people! I have something that can stop this!” “You’re right. Life insurance.” And then I died. [[[scp-661\|Unsolved]]] ----- Round Six: Uncandescent It’s true what they say, you know. You never appreciate what you have until it’s gone. Like the sun. No one ever stops and goes “Gee, I’m sure glad that the sun is there!” It’s always going to be there. And if you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it a million times. It gets you nice and toasty on warm summer days, but for the rest of the time there’s central heating. And central heating doesn’t shine in your eyes, or make your skin flake off, or hang you with the big C. But now… now I regret every second I didn’t spend just standing outside, just soaking it all up. Maybe then I’d have some extra for times like this. And people. Never thought I’d give a crap about people. Always in your face with their whining and their problems and their baggage and exactly everything about themselves that you couldn’t care less about. Right now, I’d give my left arm just to see someone’s face. I don’t even care if they’re deaf and mute, I just want to know that someone else exists. I just want to… I guess I just want to know that the world really happened. That I didn’t just make it all up, you know? No, that’s stupid. I’m the stupid one here, really. Traipsing around, looking for adventure, and I wind up— OW! Wow! Did I mention antibiotics yet? Because I really miss antibiotics. Wowee, antibiotics. I haven’t been able to look at my leg in—days, maybe? I don’t know. No sun, no time, no goddamn difference. The color makes me sick, and I don’t think I have anything left to puke up. And on top of that— Sorry, I… I tripped. You have to really watch your feet, cause… I… don’t think I’m gonna make it. Actually… I know I’m not gonna make it. I think I might have always known. Is it wrong that I feel better now? Cause I do. I feel like… like I could snatch up every criminal on the planet. And map out the insides of every abandoned building in the world. It’ll take a while, but I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time, you know? Where I’m going, I mean. I wonder what it’ll be like. At least I know it can’t be worse than here… And then I died. [[[scp-201\|Solved]]] ---- Round Seven: Scantron You know, once you get used to the stench, this place is pretty great. Functional heating, still has electricity, full fridge and pantry. I'm almost thinking "What's the catch?", you know, seeing as how nobody's moved in yet. I'm not normally accustomed to living arrangements this nice, given my lifestyle... stayed up all night playing video games to celebrate the find. Neighbors are probably wondering why the lights are still on... I should really go to bed. Ah, here's the bedroom. Hm. Now, that would be the smell, wouldn't it. Let me just... yeah, he's dead. Well. I'll just look for any... yeah, they're dead too. I wonder what killed 'em... they're so pale. I should probably leave now, no good just standing around. Ow! Fuck! Why can't I walk? I... ugh, thirsty... And then I died. [[[scp-625\|Unsolved]]] ------ Round Eight: Scantron I yawn and look out at the road in front of me... the yellow dividing lines come into existence in my headlights, rush past me, and dissolve into the darkness. I yawn again. My eyelids slip closed and then snap back open. "Hey Jo?" No response. I prod her. She stirs, then stretches a bit in the seat beside me. A sleepy "Yeah hon?" escapes her mouth. "Could we, uh..." I yawn even harder and blink my eyes. "Could you get me s'more coffee?" She curls up back into a ball in the passenger seat. She mutters, "We don't have any more... you drank it. We should just pull over for the night." My eyelids are so heavy. I drift out of my lane a little, but I swerve back in and blink rapidly to wake myself up. "No, no, we have to get to your parents' house by six." "Mm-hmm..." She's back to sleep already. Lucky her... I would have her take my place, but she had the last shift. It's my turn right now. I refocus my attention on the road in front of me. I let out a massive yawn, my mouth going wide enough to strain the jaw. I massage my chin as I talk out loud to myself. "There's no-one else on this road right now... it's supposed to be straight. I could rest my eyes a bit..." I stroke Jo's hair a bit and close my eyes- I wake up with a start, finding my weight pressed on my right leg, my foot squeezing the gas pedal. Jo is screaming. The radio is screaming. In my groggy panic, I just floor it harder... And then I died. [[[scp-973\|Solved]]] ------ Round Nine: Grug16 "Come on, Brad," I said. "Why do you have to be such a freakin' chicken?" The other guys laughed. It was clear nobody liked my younger brother. Who would? The little guy never leaves the house. He says he's scared of “Monsters” and “Bad Guys”. He watches too many cartoons. Still, I had to take him with me. If a little mischief night fun isn't going to make him man up, nothing else will. So we strolled down Fairside Road. Most of the houses had their decorations up already, shriveled ghosts and plastic witches everywhere. They looked really freaky in the darkness. Brad stayed close to me as Mickey, Jun, and Rob hovered around and tossed insults. “Snot nose” “Fatass” “Nerd virgin.” “Stop it!” yelled Brad. “Alright, guys. Let's get that house first,” I said, trying to distract them. Old Lady Carter's place. I figured she'd be too deaf to notice us until we were done. Mickey pulled out the four dozen eggs he brought, handing three cartons to Jun while he opened the last. After tossing a few, I remembered Brad was with us. I held out an egg in my hand. “Come on, Brad. Think of it like a... a magic spell.” I put on my best big bro face for him. After a second of hesitation, he nods, and took the egg. He wound up and threw. A single window pane broke clear of the frame, and we heard the wonderful sound of dishes and silverware falling over inside. That's a lot of payoff for one egg. Brad looked at me in disbelief, and then smiled. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” I said. The other guys started clapping. I was more proud of him than I had been in a long time. Then the clapping abruptly stopped, and the screaming started. And then I died. [[[SCP-330\|Solved]]] ----- Round Ten: GideonSmith08 “Shit, shit, shit, shit…” Knocking a neglected glass of mystery juice over, I pulled Jeremy in close, soaking myself in his tears and in the unknown fluid. Earthquakes, while pretty common, are always a constant fear. But I guess that’s to be expected in LA; an occasional test of acuity at 9 PM to “shake up” life a little, pardon the pun, isn’t THAT bad. Holding him close, my unconditioned paternal instincts kicked in. The last decade’s been… shit: Faulty brakes took my parents, the Big C took my Katherine, the land-lord’s taking our shitty home in a few weeks, and even Mother Nature’s against us today. But, staying true to all of those damned Full House episodes and Disney films I think we used to watch, I guess I’m just giving giving the kid someone to depend on, y’know? “Shhhhh… That’s it. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” My sleeve acting as a crude replacement for the tissue boxes on the table above us, I started to believe that I got pretty good at this crap. And as if I was a damned psychic or whatever, staying under the desk seemed like the best idea, considering the possibility of an aftershock. A few seconds later, the satisfaction of my precise judgement made the shaking room a little brighter. Not wanting to be too righteous, I thought back to the familiar faces… I don’t know how they put up with my shit over the years, but I supposed this fucking family was… mine now. I clung to Jason… Shit, I mean Jeremy- a little tighter, nuzzling my face against his messy, grey hair. I don’t know if it was fear or a deep rejection of my new responsibility, but the cold, awkward unfamiliarity felt… almost right. And then I died. [[[SCP-929\|Unsolved]]] ------ Final Round: TroyL It's with a sigh that I lean back in my chair... Finally, it's over. All this 'And Then I Died...' nonsense is through. Too many people didn't seem to care, and the ones who seemed to care guessed too quickly to get it right... Oh well. These things happen. Maybe I'll start it up again one day... I stand up and walk out to my car, feeling a few drops of rain hit my neck as I climb inside it, closing the door and shivering as I make the slow drive home. The heater feels good, at least. I turn on the radio, listening with a chuckle to Garrison Keillor. He looks //nothing// like he sounds, being far smoother and more elegant than his rough voice would suggest, but that's fine, after all. I finally arrive home, walking inside and dropping my keys, wallet, phone, and scancard on the table, sighing and walking over to my home computer, sitting down and checking IRC to see if I had any pressing messages. Finding that the most exciting thing going on was another newbie getting kicked from #site19, I stand and make myself some dinner: egg whites and toast. It's a little dry, but palatable enough. Good food for a dieter. After dinner, I catch half an episode of House, then change into my workout clothes and head to the gym. I'm there for maybe an hour, just doing chest and back, and then a quick run. The light rain hasn't let up, but I rather enjoy running in the rain, if I'm honest. It's nice and cool, and I feel clean when I get done. The trip home is uneventful as I scribble my time, "8 mins 47 sec", down in my workout book. I'm just a little pleased with myself for keeping my mine under nine minutes, something I wouldn't have even thought about a few months ago. When I head back into my house, I make more eggs, then sit down and screw around in some of the chat rooms, trolling Ragazzo and Echo just for kicks, then getting into a retarded argument over something similarly retarded. It's a nice enough evening, all things considered. I take a shower finally, then dry off and head to bed naked. Laying down on the new mattress, I can't help but wonder if I'm really getting anything done with my life... But, of course, it doesn't matter. Because then I died. ------ [[collapsible show="Click Here to Learn How to Guess" hide="Click Here to Make This Go Away"]] To guess, send a PM to one of the three judges by clicking their name here: [http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/451071 TroyL], [http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/508888 Ragazzo], or [http://www.wikidot.com/account/messages#/new/481882 Dexanote]. Alternatively, you can enter the #site19 chat and send a PM to one of the three judges: TroyL (alias MechaTroy), Ragazzo, or Dexanote (alias ProfChainsawFace, Chainshank, or anything with Dexa in his name). They'll let you know if you've guessed correctly. Generally, you only get one guess, so make sure you think you're right before you take a swing at it! If you win, then congrats! You get to write the next one. Have fun! [[/collapsible]] @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-01-25T18:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "cain", "collaboration", "tale" ]	And Then I Died... - SCP Foundation	0	[ "and-then-i-died3", "scp-008", "scp-682", "and-then-i-died", "scp-239", "scp-298", "scp-073", "scp-731", "scp-661", "scp-201", "scp-625", "scp-973", "scp-330", "scp-929", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12604813	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-then-i-died2
anomalous-incidents	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Boyd kicked his heels onto the mahogany desk, a copper penny in his hand. "Call it."</p> <p>"…tails." Fish shifted uncomfortably, reclining in the opposite chair.</p> <p>"…Nope. What is that, seventieth time in a row?" Boyd grinned, holding the penny so it glinted in the light. "I do believe that I like this one. D'ya think they'll let us keep it? Or hold onto it for a while?"</p> <p>"Well… we probably shouldn't… might get in trouble."</p> <p>"Ah Fish, you're no fun at all."</p> <blockquote> <p>Item Description: A penny which, when flipped, will always land "heads up".<br/> Date of Recovery: ██-██-████<br/> Location of Recovery: ████, ███████<br/> Current Status: Melted down.<br/> <em>Notes: Can’t believe that none of the researchers kept this to win bets with.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>"…uh, Dr. Roget?" Research Assistant Dwyer poked his head into the office. "I got those reports finished…Hello?" Finding himself alone, he slipped into the office and sat in the chair.</p> <p>He thumb-twiddled, glancing around as the clock ticked. His eyes fell upon some stuff on the desk. He smiled. <em>I love bobbleheads</em> He picked it up and, with a flick-</p> <p>A janitor swept the hall outside, whistling a tune to himself. He noticed the door to Dr. Roget's office ajar, and with a grumble of curiosity, peeked his head through the crack. Research Assistant Dwyer, a man in his late 20's, was sprawled out on the floor, his neck at a rather unpleasant angle.</p> <p>The janitor groans with a roll of his eyes. <em>Not another one.</em> He set his broom aside, heading into the office and grabbing the foot of the now deceased researcher. With a grunt of effort, he gave the leg a quick tug, moving it toward the door.</p> <p>Dr. Roget had been walking back to his office after a particularly tasty casserole. He hummed to himself as he turned to corner, and saw the janitor lugging something out of his office. "Hey, what's that there?"</p> <p>"Another dead kid." The janitor gave the leg another jerk, pulling the body out of the office. "You need to start lockin' your door."</p> <p>Dr. Roget groaned. "I always forget to put that damned thing away when I'm out of the office. When will these punk kids learn to not touch other people's shit? It only leads to tragedy."</p> <p>"Start hidin' it or somethin'." The janitor grabbed his broom and started dragging Dwyer's corpse down the hall. "'cause I'm not cleanin' up the next one."</p> <blockquote> <p>Item Description: A ██████-brand bobblehead that, when bobbled, causes the user's head to bobble with it. Can create neck injuries if bobbled too hard.<br/> Date of Recovery: ██-██-19██<br/> Location of recovery: Seattle, Washington<br/> Current Status: <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">On Dr. Roget's office desk</span> In Dr. Roget's office safe.</p> </blockquote> <p>The maintenance shed was extremely humid, and Agent Boyd was grumbling as she dug through piles of tools. She stood up and wiped her brow."It should <em>not</em> be this difficult to find a damned hammer."</p> <p>"Let's just say we couldn't find it and leave." Agent Valint grinned as she leaned against the shed door, making no attempt to help.</p> <p>"We already did that, they won't buy it a second time." Boyd stooped down and began to dig through a pile of rakes. <em>Why do they have so many damn rakes…</em></p> <p>Valint rolls her eyes. "You know you'd think they'd just do it themselves, and I doubt it's in the rake pile."</p> <p>Boyd tossed a particularly rusty rake to the side. "You never know, with the way they keep shop around here they could be anywhere….ah!" She pulled a hammer from a shelf, kicking up a cloud of dust. "Hammer is located!"</p> <p>Valint sighed. "Right…. it would be on the shelf." <em>Can't they ever organize this damn place for once?</em></p> <p>She stood up, contemplating the hammer in his hand. "Alright… I kinda want to hit some stuff now. To make sure it works."</p> <p>Valint shrugged. "Whatever, not like we have anything better to do."</p> <p>"Do we have any planks… or nails…" She dove back into the stuff, soon returning with a wooden plank and a rusty nail. Boyd offered the nail, plank and hammer to Valint. "You want to do the honors?"</p> <p>"Sure, why the hell not." Valint lined up the nail and hammer, took a swing… and a miss.</p> <p>"Nice one."</p> <p>Valint frowns. "What the fuck?" She swung again, with the result being a second miss.</p> <p>Boyd sniggered. "Having problems?"</p> <p>"Fucking hell, you do it." She shoved the hammer at Boyd.</p> <p>"Alright, let me show you how its done." She swung with all her might, directly onto her thumb.</p> <p><em>Twitch</em></p> <p>"<strong>FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU</strong>"</p> <blockquote> <p>Item Description: Hammer which will consistently miss the nail intended as its target when used by humans. Use of machinery or robots to guide the hammer results in normal function.<br/> Date of Recovery: ██-██-████<br/> Location of Recovery:██████, ██████<br/> Current Status: Identified by agents working in Site 19's maintenance shed, currently in storage.</p> </blockquote> <p>"Well then." Agent Ekblad removed his hat, squinting at the skylight. "I do believe that is Love-Love."</p> <blockquote> <p>Item Description: A white table-tennis ball produced by the DHS company, marked as "Four Star". Note that DHS is only known to manufacture balls up to "Three Star" grade. In addition to showing an unusually efficient bounciness, it launches with extreme velocity when in contact with DHS-made table tennis bat rubber.<br/> Date of Recovery █-█-████<br/> Location of Recovery: Site-██, Recreation Room<br/> Current Status: Item's anomalous properties were discovered when Agent Ekblad used it in a friendly match against Researcher ███. Item flew through open skylight, current location unknown.</p> </blockquote> <p>"I don't even get this one." Agent Boyd held the wig gingerly, at a fair distance from her body. "I mean really, what's the point of having a wig that only works if you already have hair?"</p> <p>Fish stared forlornly at the tufts of hair littering the floor. "… You didn't have to cut <em>my</em> hair to find out."</p> <p>"Well, you say that, but in all fairness it would've taken at least 20 minutes to find a bald guy to test this with. Much quicker this way." Boyd stretched the wig onto Fish's now smooth cranium.</p> <p>Fish looked up. "What'd it do?"</p> <p>"…. Huh. Can't say I expected that."</p> <blockquote> <p>Item Description: A wig that mimics the hairstyle of its wearer. When worn by bald persons, it transforms into a rubber swimming cap.<br/> Date of Recovery: █/██/████<br/> Location of Recovery: ███████████ shop in Omsk.<br/> Current Status: Incinerated.</p> </blockquote> <p>"C'mon, you can scrub better than that." Agent Boyd grinned, walking around her crouched partner. "No pain no gain, am I right?"</p> <p>"We've been… working… for hours… I don't think… this is going to work." Fish panted, scrubbing the almost-squeaky clean polo shirt over a washpan with all the force his wiry body could muster.</p> <p>"You do make a valid point. Perhaps we could try a more efficient method of cleaning."</p> <p>Fish sat back, wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. "Like… what?"</p> <p>"Hmmm…"</p> <blockquote> <p>Item Description: A [REDACTED] brand polo shirt, with a large mustard stain on the front. The stain proved to be impossible to remove.<br/> Date of Recovery: ██/██/1999<br/> Location of Recovery: ████████, GA, USA.<br/> Current Status: Destroyed during a vigorous attempt to clean it.</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="/anomalous-incidents">Anomalous Incidents</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/anomalous-incidents">https://scpwiki.com/anomalous-incidents</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]] [[/>]] Boyd kicked his heels onto the mahogany desk, a copper penny in his hand. "Call it." "...tails." Fish shifted uncomfortably, reclining in the opposite chair. "...Nope. What is that, seventieth time in a row?" Boyd grinned, holding the penny so it glinted in the light. "I do believe that I like this one. D'ya think they'll let us keep it? Or hold onto it for a while?" "Well... we probably shouldn't... might get in trouble." "Ah Fish, you're no fun at all." > Item Description: A penny which, when flipped, will always land "heads up". > Date of Recovery: ██-██-████ > Location of Recovery: ████, ███████ > Current Status: Melted down. > //Notes: Can’t believe that none of the researchers kept this to win bets with.// "…uh, Dr. Roget?" Research Assistant Dwyer poked his head into the office. "I got those reports finished…Hello?" Finding himself alone, he slipped into the office and sat in the chair. He thumb-twiddled, glancing around as the clock ticked. His eyes fell upon some stuff on the desk. He smiled. //I love bobbleheads// He picked it up and, with a flick- A janitor swept the hall outside, whistling a tune to himself. He noticed the door to Dr. Roget's office ajar, and with a grumble of curiosity, peeked his head through the crack. Research Assistant Dwyer, a man in his late 20's, was sprawled out on the floor, his neck at a rather unpleasant angle. The janitor groans with a roll of his eyes. //Not another one.// He set his broom aside, heading into the office and grabbing the foot of the now deceased researcher. With a grunt of effort, he gave the leg a quick tug, moving it toward the door. Dr. Roget had been walking back to his office after a particularly tasty casserole. He hummed to himself as he turned to corner, and saw the janitor lugging something out of his office. "Hey, what's that there?" "Another dead kid." The janitor gave the leg another jerk, pulling the body out of the office. "You need to start lockin' your door." Dr. Roget groaned. "I always forget to put that damned thing away when I'm out of the office. When will these punk kids learn to not touch other people's shit? It only leads to tragedy." "Start hidin' it or somethin'." The janitor grabbed his broom and started dragging Dwyer's corpse down the hall. "'cause I'm not cleanin' up the next one." > Item Description: A ██████-brand bobblehead that, when bobbled, causes the user's head to bobble with it. Can create neck injuries if bobbled too hard. > Date of Recovery: ██-██-19██ > Location of recovery: Seattle, Washington > Current Status: --On Dr. Roget's office desk-- In Dr. Roget's office safe. The maintenance shed was extremely humid, and Agent Boyd was grumbling as she dug through piles of tools. She stood up and wiped her brow."It should //not// be this difficult to find a damned hammer." "Let's just say we couldn't find it and leave." Agent Valint grinned as she leaned against the shed door, making no attempt to help. "We already did that, they won't buy it a second time." Boyd stooped down and began to dig through a pile of rakes. //Why do they have so many damn rakes...// Valint rolls her eyes. "You know you'd think they'd just do it themselves, and I doubt it's in the rake pile." Boyd tossed a particularly rusty rake to the side. "You never know, with the way they keep shop around here they could be anywhere....ah!" She pulled a hammer from a shelf, kicking up a cloud of dust. "Hammer is located!" Valint sighed. "Right…. it would be on the shelf." //Can't they ever organize this damn place for once?// She stood up, contemplating the hammer in his hand. "Alright... I kinda want to hit some stuff now. To make sure it works." Valint shrugged. "Whatever, not like we have anything better to do." "Do we have any planks... or nails..." She dove back into the stuff, soon returning with a wooden plank and a rusty nail. Boyd offered the nail, plank and hammer to Valint. "You want to do the honors?" "Sure, why the hell not." Valint lined up the nail and hammer, took a swing... and a miss. "Nice one." Valint frowns. "What the fuck?" She swung again, with the result being a second miss. Boyd sniggered. "Having problems?" "Fucking hell, you do it." She shoved the hammer at Boyd. "Alright, let me show you how its done." She swung with all her might, directly onto her thumb. //Twitch// "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU" > Item Description: Hammer which will consistently miss the nail intended as its target when used by humans. Use of machinery or robots to guide the hammer results in normal function. > Date of Recovery: ██-██-████ > Location of Recovery:██████, ██████ > Current Status: Identified by agents working in Site 19's maintenance shed, currently in storage. "Well then." Agent Ekblad removed his hat, squinting at the skylight. "I do believe that is Love-Love." > Item Description: A white table-tennis ball produced by the DHS company, marked as "Four Star". Note that DHS is only known to manufacture balls up to "Three Star" grade. In addition to showing an unusually efficient bounciness, it launches with extreme velocity when in contact with DHS-made table tennis bat rubber. > Date of Recovery █-█-████ > Location of Recovery: Site-██, Recreation Room > Current Status: Item's anomalous properties were discovered when Agent Ekblad used it in a friendly match against Researcher ███. Item flew through open skylight, current location unknown. "I don't even get this one." Agent Boyd held the wig gingerly, at a fair distance from her body. "I mean really, what's the point of having a wig that only works if you already have hair?" Fish stared forlornly at the tufts of hair littering the floor. "... You didn't have to cut //my// hair to find out." "Well, you say that, but in all fairness it would've taken at least 20 minutes to find a bald guy to test this with. Much quicker this way." Boyd stretched the wig onto Fish's now smooth cranium. Fish looked up. "What'd it do?" ".... Huh. Can't say I expected that." > Item Description: A wig that mimics the hairstyle of its wearer. When worn by bald persons, it transforms into a rubber swimming cap. > Date of Recovery: █/██/████ > Location of Recovery: ███████████ shop in Omsk. > Current Status: Incinerated. "C'mon, you can scrub better than that." Agent Boyd grinned, walking around her crouched partner. "No pain no gain, am I right?" "We've been... working... for hours... I don't think... this is going to work." Fish panted, scrubbing the almost-squeaky clean polo shirt over a washpan with all the force his wiry body could muster. "You do make a valid point. Perhaps we could try a more efficient method of cleaning." Fish sat back, wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. "Like... what?" "Hmmm..." > Item Description: A [REDACTED] brand polo shirt, with a large mustard stain on the front. The stain proved to be impossible to remove. > Date of Recovery: ██/██/1999 > Location of Recovery: ████████, GA, USA. > Current Status: Destroyed during a vigorous attempt to clean it. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-11-28T00:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "ao-tale", "doctor-roget", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Anomalous Incidents - SCP Foundation	69	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "ao-hub", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	15181780	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/anomalous-incidents
another-boring-day	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Special Agent Broderick sat in front of his computer, idly looking through closed case documents. Rat people in the subway? Turned out to be some group of perverts dressed in rat costumes. Mysterious artifact that killed all its owners? The damned thing was radioactive. A cult leader capable of real magic? A washed up stage magician and a humidifier filled with LSD. He would kill for once, just once, something he was sent out on to be a real anomaly. Considering he was in New York City, something genuinely strange was bound to pop up eventually.</p> <p>He got the call about something weird going on at around two in the afternoon, just when he was reading about the moving statues that turned out to be a performance art group last summer. The call said that there was a girl with three eyes freaking out in Penn Station. It took him twenty minutes to get there from the field office.</p> <p>When he finally got there, a member of security led him to the area where she was. As he got there, he observed the situation for a moment: the girl was backed into a corner and obviously frightened. She looked perfectly normal aside from the large third eye in her forehead. It was a dull red and seemed to lack both white and pupil, making it difficult to know where it was looking. A hat lay a few feet away from her on the ground, one that could have been used to cover the eye.</p> <p>A security officer approached her; her forehead eye glowed red and the officer's hat and jacket ignited. He dropped his hat and tore off his jacket as Agent Broderick went to the head of security, after watching this display with astonishment and excitement: he would finally encounter something abnormal! He explained who he was, and was given permission to approach the girl. He did so, raising his arms above his head, one hand holding his badge open in her direction, the other empty.</p> <p>As he walked into the perimeter he said, "Hello, I'm Nathan. I'm not here to hurt you; I'm here to help."</p> <p>She backed further into the corner, looking away as if trying to keep him out of the field of her third eye's vision. He stopped a few feet from her.</p> <p>"I want to get you out of here unharmed. Can you please tell me your name?" he asked calmly.</p> <p>The girl looked at him from the corner of her normal left eye, her hand blocking her third eye from view.</p> <p>"Megan," she said quietly in a shaky voice.</p> <p>He picked up the hat that was on the ground and offered it to her "Was this yours?"</p> <p>Megan nodded and reached out to grab it, then placed it on her head to cover her eye. Once this happened, he said "Why don't you come with me, I can take you somewhere you will be safe?"</p> <p>Megan nodded and moved out of the corner. He cleared a path ahead of her through the crowd as they made their way to a hallway. When they were almost at the end of the hallway, she slumped and fell over, a small metal dart sticking out of her back. Down the hall stood a man in a suit, with one arm raising a badge and the other placing the weapon on the floor as Agent Broderick was reaching for his gun.</p> <p>From the door he and Megan were heading to came two more men in suits wheeling a stretcher. As they approached they identified themselves as Agents Howard, Fine, and Howard of the Social Conformity Program, which he never heard of but they explained it to be a group made so that people like Megan can be helped to live normal lives, and more people knowing about it was a threat to people like Megan. They asked him to help them gently put her on the stretcher to get her to an ambulance they positioned at the exit they were using.</p> <p>As they wheeled her to the exit, he tried to ask them questions, but kept being instructed to wait until they were in the ambulance. Once inside, he asked what was going to happen to her as one of the men attached a IV and a monitor to her arm, they were going to keep her under anesthesia until she was in a safe location to prevent her third eye from waking. As he asked more questions of the other two, finding out the Megan was from Maine and accidentally immolated her house a month ago before running away, the one who prepared the girl for transport filled a syringe and expelled the air before getting Agent Broderick's attention.</p> <p>He was told he needed to receive a booster shot, in case there was some form of virus responsible for Megan's condition, after the shot he suddenly felt groggy, unable to keep his eyes open as he slumped over and heard them saying: "How much did you give him?" "Enough to make him forget everything after one or so." "This guy is good." "Why do you think we keep making sure his transfers get denied? This was the ninth scip he brought in alive this year."</p> <p>It all faded to black.</p> <p>- - -</p> <p>As he awoke at his desk, Agent Broderick looked at his emails. A new one came in saying he had to log some girl in a weird costume who was throwing lit matches at people, claiming she was starting fires with her mind. As he wrote his report he considered sending in another request to be transferred out to another division. For some reason he kept getting denied, despite all his attempts to move to a job where there was more excitement.</p> <p>Either way, today was just another boring day at the UIU.</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="/another-boring-day">Another Boring Day</a>" by MrUnpleasant, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/another-boring-day">https://scpwiki.com/another-boring-day</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]] [[/>]] Special Agent Broderick sat in front of his computer, idly looking through closed case documents. Rat people in the subway? Turned out to be some group of perverts dressed in rat costumes. Mysterious artifact that killed all its owners? The damned thing was radioactive. A cult leader capable of real magic? A washed up stage magician and a humidifier filled with LSD. He would kill for once, just once, something he was sent out on to be a real anomaly. Considering he was in New York City, something genuinely strange was bound to pop up eventually. He got the call about something weird going on at around two in the afternoon, just when he was reading about the moving statues that turned out to be a performance art group last summer. The call said that there was a girl with three eyes freaking out in Penn Station. It took him twenty minutes to get there from the field office. When he finally got there, a member of security led him to the area where she was. As he got there, he observed the situation for a moment: the girl was backed into a corner and obviously frightened. She looked perfectly normal aside from the large third eye in her forehead. It was a dull red and seemed to lack both white and pupil, making it difficult to know where it was looking. A hat lay a few feet away from her on the ground, one that could have been used to cover the eye. A security officer approached her; her forehead eye glowed red and the officer's hat and jacket ignited. He dropped his hat and tore off his jacket as Agent Broderick went to the head of security, after watching this display with astonishment and excitement: he would finally encounter something abnormal! He explained who he was, and was given permission to approach the girl. He did so, raising his arms above his head, one hand holding his badge open in her direction, the other empty. As he walked into the perimeter he said, "Hello, I'm Nathan. I'm not here to hurt you; I'm here to help." She backed further into the corner, looking away as if trying to keep him out of the field of her third eye's vision. He stopped a few feet from her. "I want to get you out of here unharmed. Can you please tell me your name?" he asked calmly. The girl looked at him from the corner of her normal left eye, her hand blocking her third eye from view. "Megan," she said quietly in a shaky voice. He picked up the hat that was on the ground and offered it to her "Was this yours?" Megan nodded and reached out to grab it, then placed it on her head to cover her eye. Once this happened, he said "Why don't you come with me, I can take you somewhere you will be safe?" Megan nodded and moved out of the corner. He cleared a path ahead of her through the crowd as they made their way to a hallway. When they were almost at the end of the hallway, she slumped and fell over, a small metal dart sticking out of her back. Down the hall stood a man in a suit, with one arm raising a badge and the other placing the weapon on the floor as Agent Broderick was reaching for his gun. From the door he and Megan were heading to came two more men in suits wheeling a stretcher. As they approached they identified themselves as Agents Howard, Fine, and Howard of the Social Conformity Program, which he never heard of but they explained it to be a group made so that people like Megan can be helped to live normal lives, and more people knowing about it was a threat to people like Megan. They asked him to help them gently put her on the stretcher to get her to an ambulance they positioned at the exit they were using. As they wheeled her to the exit, he tried to ask them questions, but kept being instructed to wait until they were in the ambulance. Once inside, he asked what was going to happen to her as one of the men attached a IV and a monitor to her arm, they were going to keep her under anesthesia until she was in a safe location to prevent her third eye from waking. As he asked more questions of the other two, finding out the Megan was from Maine and accidentally immolated her house a month ago before running away, the one who prepared the girl for transport filled a syringe and expelled the air before getting Agent Broderick's attention. He was told he needed to receive a booster shot, in case there was some form of virus responsible for Megan's condition, after the shot he suddenly felt groggy, unable to keep his eyes open as he slumped over and heard them saying: "How much did you give him?" "Enough to make him forget everything after one or so." "This guy is good." "Why do you think we keep making sure his transfers get denied? This was the ninth scip he brought in alive this year." It all faded to black. - - - As he awoke at his desk, Agent Broderick looked at his emails. A new one came in saying he had to log some girl in a weird costume who was throwing lit matches at people, claiming she was starting fires with her mind. As he wrote his report he considered sending in another request to be transferred out to another division. For some reason he kept getting denied, despite all his attempts to move to a job where there was more excitement. Either way, today was just another boring day at the UIU. [[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>]]	2012-04-29T15:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	Another Boring Day - SCP Foundation	31	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unusual-incidents-unit-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13243612	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/another-boring-day
another-star-on-the-wall	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> The Foundation buried another of my friends today. <p>He wasn’t the first. And, knowing how this line of work goes, I doubt he will be the last.</p> <p>I first met him when he was giving an orientation to a new batch of recruits. Most of the folks in the audience were young enough they could have been my kids – heck, <em>he</em> was years younger than I. Reminded me of a Staff Sergeant who served under me back, oh, must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Solid as a rock, seen everything, the sort of fellow you want watching your back. My friend told us he’d been a Foundation agent for over a decade, working mostly in retrieval. His eyes made me believe him: you get eyes like his from seeing the worst the world has to offer, walking into hell, spitting in the face of the devil, and walking back.</p> <p>We worked together on a few occasions after that. Not too often, since I was working mostly in intel and operations planning. We’d have drinks and trade stories after hours, mostly. He forgave me for being a REMF once he learned about what I’d been through back in Ukraine. And in Kashmir. And in [REDACTED].</p> <p>The service was subdued. Empty casket – no surprise, considering the size of the explosion. The sweep-and-clear team never found a body, just a twisted bit of metal that used to be his dog-tags. Or so they say. Honestly, I’m skeptical; my friend’s been working for the Foundation for so many years now and come home so many times I’m not going to believe he’s dead until the DNA matches. They apparently didn’t find any of that, either.</p> <p>The service was in the site's north amphitheater. I slipped away afterwards to visit the Memorial Wall. The Wall is actually an entire room, duplicated at all the large Sites. On three walls there is a star carved for every member of the Foundation who has died in the line of duty. A small, leather-bound book sits on a stand before the wall, listing the fallen in chronological order. Most of the names are blank, identities remaining secret even in death.</p> <p>The remaining wall has small inlaid bronze valor medals for every such award given posthumously. Most of these are Distinguished Crosses or Foundation Stars. I looked; my friend’s award had already been added.</p> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;"><strong>Foundation Star</strong></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;"><strong>Awarded Posthumously on This Day 28 February 2012,</strong></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;">For Voluntary Acts of Courage Performed Under Hazardous Conditions,</span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;">And For Outstanding Achievements and Services Rendered With Distinction Under Conditions of Grave Risk.</span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;"><strong>He Gave His Life That His Team Could Escape.</strong></span></p> </blockquote> <p>As expected, there was no name. Understandable; everyone at the Foundation knew their names might never be chronicled. But in the quiet, dimly lit marble room, they were remembered.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;">We Secure. We Contain. We Protect.</span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#880000;"><em>And We Never Forget.</em></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="/another-star-on-the-wall">Another Star On The Wall</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/another-star-on-the-wall">https://scpwiki.com/another-star-on-the-wall</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 Foundation buried another of my friends today. He wasn’t the first. And, knowing how this line of work goes, I doubt he will be the last. I first met him when he was giving an orientation to a new batch of recruits. Most of the folks in the audience were young enough they could have been my kids – heck, //he// was years younger than I. Reminded me of a Staff Sergeant who served under me back, oh, must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Solid as a rock, seen everything, the sort of fellow you want watching your back. My friend told us he’d been a Foundation agent for over a decade, working mostly in retrieval. His eyes made me believe him: you get eyes like his from seeing the worst the world has to offer, walking into hell, spitting in the face of the devil, and walking back. We worked together on a few occasions after that. Not too often, since I was working mostly in intel and operations planning. We’d have drinks and trade stories after hours, mostly. He forgave me for being a REMF once he learned about what I’d been through back in Ukraine. And in Kashmir. And in [REDACTED]. The service was subdued. Empty casket – no surprise, considering the size of the explosion. The sweep-and-clear team never found a body, just a twisted bit of metal that used to be his dog-tags. Or so they say. Honestly, I’m skeptical; my friend’s been working for the Foundation for so many years now and come home so many times I’m not going to believe he’s dead until the DNA matches. They apparently didn’t find any of that, either. The service was in the site's north amphitheater. I slipped away afterwards to visit the Memorial Wall. The Wall is actually an entire room, duplicated at all the large Sites. On three walls there is a star carved for every member of the Foundation who has died in the line of duty. A small, leather-bound book sits on a stand before the wall, listing the fallen in chronological order. Most of the names are blank, identities remaining secret even in death. The remaining wall has small inlaid bronze valor medals for every such award given posthumously. Most of these are Distinguished Crosses or Foundation Stars. I looked; my friend’s award had already been added. > = [[span style="color:#880000;"]]Foundation Star > = Awarded Posthumously on This Day 28 February 2012, > = For Voluntary Acts of Courage Performed Under Hazardous Conditions, > = And For Outstanding Achievements and Services Rendered With Distinction Under Conditions of Grave Risk. > = He Gave His Life That His Team Could Escape.[[/span]] As expected, there was no name. Understandable; everyone at the Foundation knew their names might never be chronicled. But in the quiet, dimly lit marble room, they were remembered. [[span style="color:#880000;"]] = We Secure. We Contain. We Protect. = //And We Never Forget.// [[/span]] [[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>]]	2012-02-29T19:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Another Star On The Wall - SCP Foundation	90	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12829577	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/another-star-on-the-wall
april-fools	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“Termination” is a word we heard a lot in this place. It was mostly heard over intercoms, or through the grape vines as gossip between the dorms. They didn't like that we talked between dorms at all, but we found ways. Most of us have spent years in prisons all over the country, and we had been sneaking things a lot bigger (and often deadlier) than scraps of paper between cells, so it wasn't a problem to learn at least some details of what insane shit the guys down the hall were being ordered to do. A lot of it doesn't bear repeating, because it's obviously bullshit. Only problem was that most people only lasted a few days here. We here in dorm 3 would spend that time setting up links with the dorms next to us, and across from us, but often we'd be lucky to get more than a few pieces of news from them before they dropped off the face of the Earth. We'd hear new guys getting marched in to take the spots, and we'd all be back to square one. And every time, one way or another, we'd hear that word- “The Class Ds were terminated”, we would over hear on radios. “Guys, you know that tall guy from Dorm 2? He failed a polygraph, haven’t seen him since. The Doc just said he'd be terminated”. And for everyone of us who was “terminated”, another would be marched into their now vacant spot later that same day.</p> <p>We here in dorm 3 were a little luckier. We'd been stuck in here for about 4 weeks. The calendar says it's the 31st of March, so maybe a little longer. About a month sounds right. The six of us were all taken together from a Supermax in Colorado, lifers all. Although we're not sure where we are, we know we took a bus, a plane, and train (and possibly a boat?) to get here, on a blindfolded journey that lasted about, say, 2 days? Point is, none of us wanted to spend a day longer in those tiny cells, with awful food, surrounded by cameras, sharing what little space you had with your fellow criminals. When we agreed to this, that's what we were trying to escape.</p> <p>Problem is, this place was almost exactly the same, except a lot more strict, and a hell of a lot more secretive. Not even an exercise yard, or a warden we can talk to if we bitch loud enough. In hindsight, better the devil you know, maybe. But at the time, all we knew was a guy in suit, saying he was here “on authority of the Department of Justice” asking us the same question each: “Do you want to be Class Ds? It's just for a month”. Hell, we were all class A prisoners in a Supermax. We thought we were being offered a spot at a minimum security prison, or at the very least, transfer to a less secure wing here. Maybe we should have asked questions. Maybe we should have been skeptical. Maybe we should have recognized the guy had shown us not a scrap of ID. We didn't care at the time. We saw a way out, took it, and now we're trapped in an even tighter prison where our fellow prisoners are constantly getting “terminated”. We were stupid; but we were lucky. Since then, we've not had to leave the cells, do hard labour, or worry about getting shanked. All we have to worry about is: what happens at the end of the month? Will we be “terminated,” too?</p> <p>Next morning, and we rip yesterday's date off the calendar. We're getting so bored, we almost fight for that privilege. At least it passes a few seconds. 1st April, and already the others are busy punching and pinching each other like little kids. Maybe something will happen. We've been here a month. Will we hear from our little friend from the supermax? Will we finally be allocated one of these “procedures” we keep hearing about? The ones followed by numbers we never remember? They remind us of police codes, but aren't connected to any crimes. Or at least, not any we committed.</p> <p>Wait, no. Intercom's coming on. Some guy clearing his throat. “Good morning, Class D Personnel of dorm 3”. Shit! This had better be good. The six of us were practically standing to attention now.<br/> “I would like to thank you for your valuable service in the past 31 days. Everyone here at the Foundation is grateful for your decision to join us for this time. Sadly, your month long tenure with us is at an end, as agreed, and it is now time for you to be terminated”.</p> <p>Deadly silence. Whatever it meant, we were joining all the others we'd seen this past month.</p> <p>“That is, your employment with us is to be terminated, and our contracts annulled. To celebrate your time with us, we have prepared an honorary breakfast in the canteen. Our senior staff would like to thank you personally for your efforts, before escorting you off of Foundation grounds, and back to your homes. A guard will come to escort you in 5 minutes. Thank you again, gentlemen”.</p> <p>It cut out. Employment terminated? An actual breakfast? Home?! Things were looking up, and the six of us found ourselves once again silent. After 10 years of more of prison followed by a month of nothing, going home was like telling a kid he'd just won his own candy store. The guard did show up five minutes later. He did escort us down the hall, and through others we had never before seen, until arriving at a set of double doors, through which he ushered us. And in this room, what we found was definitely not our breakfast.</p> <p>As heavy locks closed behind us, and bright lights came up, we found ourselves face to face with a giant-ass glass cube, like a giant fish tank. There were no koi here, though- the tank had some giant mess of blood, bone, and guts floating in liquid. Two of us barfed at the sight; I barfed at the smell. It was then that the same voice came up over another intercom. “Class D personnel are in position. All safety features and door locks are activated. Commence tank drain”. A vent in the bottom of the tank opened up, and began gushing the liquid onto the floor of the room, giving off a sizzle and some faint steam wherever it touched. It slowly leaked all the way to us, touching our shoes which melted a little before we started moving back up against the door.</p> <p>Once the tank was empty, and most of the room was an acidic death trap, the sides were lowered, as is the cube was being unfolded. Not only did we only have a small island of dry floor by the wall left to stand on, but we had no option but to stare as the gooey mass slowly took form- first as a beak, secondly as a torso- until finally- oh, <em>Christ</em>. It's got legs. It's getting up. It can walk- but we have no where to run.</p> <p>As this ungodly animal slowly awoke and eyed us, then the room, then us again, we heard for the third time, that voice. “So sorry, gentlemen. It appears I had my memos confused. The termination of employment is for one of our senior staff. You, however, have been assigned for termination in quite another way. Please await the approach of SCP-682 to commence testing. I can only apologize again for the confusion. Goodbye, Ds. Oh, and April Fools”.</p> <p>The monster was prowling now, I didn't count the mouths; I couldn't possibly count the teeth. Things moved too fast after that; for most of us, they ended even faster. We never even had the chance to dodge, or run this thing. We had nowhere to go even if we tried; but I tried anyway. As I ran to the side, into the acid, I felt the melting sole of my shoe liquefy. I tripped, landing on my face. <em>It burned everywhere</em>- but still, the creature came for me, clearly still hungry from the friends of mine he had just swallowed almost whole. Before it blocked my sight entirely, I could see cameras in the corner. And at the other end of the cameras was, no doubt, the man who was the source of that voice.</p> <p>Yeah. Happy April fools. You 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="/april-fools">April Fools</a>" by Zappanale, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/april-fools">https://scpwiki.com/april-fools</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]] [[/>]] “Termination” is a word we heard a lot in this place. It was mostly heard over intercoms, or through the grape vines as gossip between the dorms. They didn't like that we talked between dorms at all, but we found ways. Most of us have spent years in prisons all over the country, and we had been sneaking things a lot bigger (and often deadlier) than scraps of paper between cells, so it wasn't a problem to learn at least some details of what insane shit the guys down the hall were being ordered to do. A lot of it doesn't bear repeating, because it's obviously bullshit. Only problem was that most people only lasted a few days here. We here in dorm 3 would spend that time setting up links with the dorms next to us, and across from us, but often we'd be lucky to get more than a few pieces of news from them before they dropped off the face of the Earth. We'd hear new guys getting marched in to take the spots, and we'd all be back to square one. And every time, one way or another, we'd hear that word- “The Class Ds were terminated”, we would over hear on radios. “Guys, you know that tall guy from Dorm 2? He failed a polygraph, haven’t seen him since. The Doc just said he'd be terminated”. And for everyone of us who was “terminated”, another would be marched into their now vacant spot later that same day. We here in dorm 3 were a little luckier. We'd been stuck in here for about 4 weeks. The calendar says it's the 31st of March, so maybe a little longer. About a month sounds right. The six of us were all taken together from a Supermax in Colorado, lifers all. Although we're not sure where we are, we know we took a bus, a plane, and train (and possibly a boat?) to get here, on a blindfolded journey that lasted about, say, 2 days? Point is, none of us wanted to spend a day longer in those tiny cells, with awful food, surrounded by cameras, sharing what little space you had with your fellow criminals. When we agreed to this, that's what we were trying to escape. Problem is, this place was almost exactly the same, except a lot more strict, and a hell of a lot more secretive. Not even an exercise yard, or a warden we can talk to if we bitch loud enough. In hindsight, better the devil you know, maybe. But at the time, all we knew was a guy in suit, saying he was here “on authority of the Department of Justice” asking us the same question each: “Do you want to be Class Ds? It's just for a month”. Hell, we were all class A prisoners in a Supermax. We thought we were being offered a spot at a minimum security prison, or at the very least, transfer to a less secure wing here. Maybe we should have asked questions. Maybe we should have been skeptical. Maybe we should have recognized the guy had shown us not a scrap of ID. We didn't care at the time. We saw a way out, took it, and now we're trapped in an even tighter prison where our fellow prisoners are constantly getting “terminated”. We were stupid; but we were lucky. Since then, we've not had to leave the cells, do hard labour, or worry about getting shanked. All we have to worry about is: what happens at the end of the month? Will we be “terminated,” too? Next morning, and we rip yesterday's date off the calendar. We're getting so bored, we almost fight for that privilege. At least it passes a few seconds. 1st April, and already the others are busy punching and pinching each other like little kids. Maybe something will happen. We've been here a month. Will we hear from our little friend from the supermax? Will we finally be allocated one of these “procedures” we keep hearing about? The ones followed by numbers we never remember? They remind us of police codes, but aren't connected to any crimes. Or at least, not any we committed. Wait, no. Intercom's coming on. Some guy clearing his throat. “Good morning, Class D Personnel of dorm 3”. Shit! This had better be good. The six of us were practically standing to attention now. “I would like to thank you for your valuable service in the past 31 days. Everyone here at the Foundation is grateful for your decision to join us for this time. Sadly, your month long tenure with us is at an end, as agreed, and it is now time for you to be terminated”. Deadly silence. Whatever it meant, we were joining all the others we'd seen this past month. “That is, your employment with us is to be terminated, and our contracts annulled. To celebrate your time with us, we have prepared an honorary breakfast in the canteen. Our senior staff would like to thank you personally for your efforts, before escorting you off of Foundation grounds, and back to your homes. A guard will come to escort you in 5 minutes. Thank you again, gentlemen”. It cut out. Employment terminated? An actual breakfast? Home?! Things were looking up, and the six of us found ourselves once again silent. After 10 years of more of prison followed by a month of nothing, going home was like telling a kid he'd just won his own candy store. The guard did show up five minutes later. He did escort us down the hall, and through others we had never before seen, until arriving at a set of double doors, through which he ushered us. And in this room, what we found was definitely not our breakfast. As heavy locks closed behind us, and bright lights came up, we found ourselves face to face with a giant-ass glass cube, like a giant fish tank. There were no koi here, though- the tank had some giant mess of blood, bone, and guts floating in liquid. Two of us barfed at the sight; I barfed at the smell. It was then that the same voice came up over another intercom. “Class D personnel are in position. All safety features and door locks are activated. Commence tank drain”. A vent in the bottom of the tank opened up, and began gushing the liquid onto the floor of the room, giving off a sizzle and some faint steam wherever it touched. It slowly leaked all the way to us, touching our shoes which melted a little before we started moving back up against the door. Once the tank was empty, and most of the room was an acidic death trap, the sides were lowered, as is the cube was being unfolded. Not only did we only have a small island of dry floor by the wall left to stand on, but we had no option but to stare as the gooey mass slowly took form- first as a beak, secondly as a torso- until finally- oh, //Christ//. It's got legs. It's getting up. It can walk- but we have no where to run. As this ungodly animal slowly awoke and eyed us, then the room, then us again, we heard for the third time, that voice. “So sorry, gentlemen. It appears I had my memos confused. The termination of employment is for one of our senior staff. You, however, have been assigned for termination in quite another way. Please await the approach of SCP-682 to commence testing. I can only apologize again for the confusion. Goodbye, Ds. Oh, and April Fools”. The monster was prowling now, I didn't count the mouths; I couldn't possibly count the teeth. Things moved too fast after that; for most of us, they ended even faster. We never even had the chance to dodge, or run this thing. We had nowhere to go even if we tried; but I tried anyway. As I ran to the side, into the acid, I felt the melting sole of my shoe liquefy. I tripped, landing on my face. //It burned everywhere//- but still, the creature came for me, clearly still hungry from the friends of mine he had just swallowed almost whole. Before it blocked my sight entirely, I could see cameras in the corner. And at the other end of the cameras was, no doubt, the man who was the source of that voice. Yeah. Happy April fools. You 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>]]	2012-05-16T00:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	April Fools - SCP Foundation	16	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13340909	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/april-fools
ask-lord-blackwood	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="blackwood.png" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/ask-lord-blackwood/blackwood.png"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"Deeds? Where the devil are my slippers?"</p> </div> </div> <p>To whom it may concern;</p> <p>Tally-ho, ladies and gentlemen! It is I, Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE, 7th Viscount of Westminister, noted explorer and gentleman.</p> <p>It has come to my attention that I am held in quite high regard by the readers of a periodical known as "the World-Wide Web". I have heard of no such paper being available in London, but Deeds has explained to me that it is a most clever artiface which harnesses the power of the telegraph by which to convey the latest happenings in far-off lands directly into the homes of its subscribers. Will such wonders ever cease?</p> <p>As I find myself wanting for diversion since I have been made an involuntary guest of these mountebanks and confidence-men who call themselves "scientists", I have decided to endeavour in making contact with you, my admirers, through this marvelous publication. Though I lack a telegraph key in the quarters I have been given (not that it would operate given that my gaolers insist for some reason on continuing to fill the room with water day after day), Deeds has agreed to collect my mail and take dictation for me while the watchful eyes of the guardsmen are turned away, that I might correspond through these pages with any and all who wish to enquire of my life and adventures.</p> <p>Tell me, my fellow Englishmen and our brothers and cousins throughout the world, what would you ask of me? What exploits of mine would you wish to know of? What secrets of my life and times would you have laid bare? What opinions or beliefs of my own do you wish to learn of? While I am sure the editors of this news-paper are quite diligent in censoring matters of a prurient or classified nature, I shall do my best to answer any honest and decent questions that any of you might have. I eagerly await receiving your responses.</p> <p>Yours in Christ,<br/> T.T.B.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Jekeled writes:</strong></p> <p><em>You are aware you're a slug, right?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies</strong>:</p> <p>Mr. Jekeled - I have heard that joke several times, and I no longer find it as risible as once I did. Obviously I am a man, and not a slug - for how else could I hunt, and fight, and write, and sing, and love? Perhaps you are in need of a new pair of eyeglasses - I can recommend a fellow in Brighton who sold me a pince-nez capable of seeing back in time.</p> <p><em>Egads, sir, I have that very same pince-nez sitting in my parlor! Could this be a black forgery of some sort?</em></p> <p>Perhaps - I have heard that those blackguards, Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark have made quite a bit of ill-gotten wealth counterfeiting Henry's contraptions. I would have it thoroughly examined by a phlogistonic engineer as soon as possible. I know not what far-off corner of the world you find yourself in, but surely there is one in the nearest metropolis?</p> <p><em>Hah! Even if the rapscallions have gypped me, I have gotten adequate use out of those spectacles. Saved my life in Bora-Bora in '72.</em></p> <p>That was you? By Jove, boy, I thought we were both finished after the manticore got between us and the powder magazine. Did you ever find out what happened to Baron von Almsbach?</p> <p><em>Poor fellow, never the brightest jewel in the necklace, you know. Picked an ill-timed fight with a ruffian in the East End.</em></p> <p>Oooh. <strong>Nasty.</strong></p> <p><em>We never did find the entirety of that poor blighter's lower torso…</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>SwamplessThing writes:</strong></p> <p><em>My good fellow! Please share with me a story concerning the loss of your greatest love.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. SwamplessThing - my greatest love, of course, is England herself, and God willing we shall never lose her. I have heard distressing news from the doctors here that she is not as strong and mighty as once she was - but she endures, and I am told that there sits now a queen almost as savvy and beloved as my dear Victoria herself.</p> <p>The story of my marriage to Countess Francesca, the daughter of the Neapolitan archduke - now that is another story entirely, and one I shall have to recount in great detail someday - but suffice it to say that the Knights Hospitaller take no prisoners, and the steppes of Mongolia are a cruel and unforgiving land.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr J Sombre writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood, I've lately stumbled across a bit of a poser- which is better, a Tesla Coil gun or one of those fancy little 'ray-guns' I've seen sometimes in artificers' markets? I was planning to do a little exploration down Brazil-way, perhaps in those rainforest sinkholes I've heard so much about, so would it be wiser to sacrifice a little power for more portability? Or would I be kicking myself when the mokele-mbembes came? (I'd ask my guides to carry it, but finding a trustworthy native who can spelunk worth a damn… Well, it's no easy task I can tell you.)<br/> Also, top hat or bowler?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dr. Sombre - While I am personally fond of my particle destabilizing muskets, you would likely have great difficulty acquiring one yourself, as Mr. Moth's waiting list has been known to extend for years filling his orders. I'm told the old man insists on making every one of them by hand after being swindled by an urchin he hired to assist him. In any event, I find that radium weapons are more effective than electrical any day of the week.</p> <p>And I should hope you don't encounter Mokele-Mbembe in the Amazon, for that would mean that you had either gone mad or turned to drink - for the creature seldom strays from its demesne in the Congo, and I know of no cousins of itself to be found in South America. Beware the great snake the natives call Matatoro, however, and the giant sloths that prey on man and beast alike.</p> <p>(Incidentally, the next time you find yourself in Sao Paolo, seek out a tavern called 'A história do galo e o touro' and ask for a bar-man named Armando. The old boy makes the finest martini i've ever tasted outside of London.)</p> <p>As to headgear, I prefer the comfort of a pith helmet when I find myself in the wild, but when it comes to the social scene, I would sooner be seen naked than without my top hat.</p> <p><em>Well, maybe with my grasp of Geography I should stay at home. Or try and aquire better travel guides; I think I was sold a pup.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Catboy637 writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Good sir, I must ask: how do you survive these so-called "scientists" filling your room with water?<br/> In addition, have you been given proper access to a Bible?<br/> Lastly, who is heir to your titles, upon (God forbid it!) the event of your death?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Catboy - It's not the first time i've been forced to live underwater, I assure you. One does grow accustomed to it eventually. I've requested a Bible several times, but my attendants have denied all my requests thus far for books. I was, of course, three times the winner of the annual Scripture Knowledge competition in my days at Eton, and I can still recite the book of Matthew, and most of Leviticus, from beginning to end by memory.</p> <p>As to an heir - sadly, my life of adventure has yet left me little time to raise a family. Lord Randolph Churchill's third son, Winnie, is my godson, though I have not seen him since he was but a boy - I expect he has done quite well in life, and my current will specifies him (or his descendent) as the heir to my lands and title.</p> <p><em>Are you aware of the proposal to revive the Ancient Greek Olympic games? The great city of London has been chosen as the new site at which they will be held.</em></p> <p>Indeed? This is most fascinating news - though surely the runners will not compete in the nude as the Grecians once did, one hopes.</p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood, have you ever encountered the <a href="/scp-1625">Amaski tribe of Africa</a>? They have quite the odd oral tradition, and with all your exploration, any knowledge you can provide on them would be invaluable.</em></p> <p><em>On an unrelated note, what is the best way to prevent sunburn while travelling near the equator, in your opinion?</em></p> <p><strong>Drewbear writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Nay, not naked, but near enough. The contestants, both male and female (yes, indeed!), tend to wear the most shockingly form-fitting clothing when competing in the more physically strenuous events.</em></p> <p><em>Personally, I prefer the more dignified sporting events of archery, shooting and equestrianism. And although it is somewhat distressing to see ladies of refinement competing in the swimming or gymnastic events, there is nothing finer than a gentle-woman upon a good dressage horse. And a woman has matched the record for skeet-shooting! 99 hits out of 100! Alas, they use but ordinary rifles rather than the more effective weaponry owned by yourself.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Boa Noah writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What does Mr. Deeds smell like?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>A strange query indeed, but I find that he often has the scent of fresh lilacs about him. What cologne or secret he uses, he refuses to tell me.</p> <p><em>Thank you, good day fine sir.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Scratskinner writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Have you ever met a man deluded into believing himself a sea slug?<br/> What diversions of this era do you find least offensive to your taste?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>A man believing himself a sea slug, Mr. Scratskinner? I should say not - such a thing would be madness, and I associate not with madmen.</p> <p>I have not had much time to investigate the diversions of the world outside this facility as of late, I regret, but I am told that the game of cricket has become quite popular in the last century. Now that, my friend, is a sport truly befitting a gentleman's passions!</p> <p>(The Americans, I am told, have naturally gotten it all wrong.)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Lordlyhour writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Greetings, My fine fellow!<br/> What, dear Gentleman, is your opinion on Facial Hair? Do you have any tips for one who wishes to Keep his Moustachio in Fine Fettle?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Lordlyhour - Brush, trim, and wax. <em>Always</em> wax.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Drewbear writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Do you have any advice with regards to beard maintenance? I am myself blessed with a fine and full beard, yet am prone to a degree of bushiness that is most distracting when laying a buss upon the cheek of my beloved.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong><br/> A beard? Good heavens no, sir. You should perhaps consult a Russian if such matters are of import to you; I have never worn anything more than a fine and proper English mustache, thank you very much.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>SwamplessThing writes:</strong><br/> <em>If I may be so bold as to posit another question to your lordship; Which of Shakespeare's works are your favorite, and why?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong><br/> Mr. SwamplessThing - the works of the Bard have constantly proven an inspiration to me. I have always counted "Julius Caesar" the finest of his works, though I hold a special place in my heart for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" owing to the circumstances under which I met Oberon himself in battle back in fifty-eight. (Should you ever find yourself in the land of the Fae, be warned that accepting an offer of drink from a lady is considered to be a proposal of marriage, and that the sidhe do not look kindly upon broken engagements.)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Faminepulse writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Was wondrin' if you like a good smoke with yer rosie every now an' then? An' if so, what method? What brand balms yer' bristols if you don't mind me askin''?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Is that you, Mr. Horace?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Drewbear writes:</strong></p> <p><em>If you had but one request of the blackguards who currently detain you, and they must but answer it, what would it be? Unfortunately, I must perforce decline the question of your own freedom, as, being men of good intelligence, we are both aware of the unlikelihood of that request being granted.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong><br/> Mr. Drewbear - The food here is sadly wanting. My captors insist on feeding me in the form of these strangely-flavored flakes that they sprinkle into the water. A decent steak, or some eel pie, or just a decent cup of tea would do much to improve my spirits.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>MrCobalt writes:</strong><br/> <em>I am aware of your affinity for Aether-based weaponry, but what is your opinion on traditional gunpowder-based firearms? Personally, I find there are few things that match the almost primal thrill of a shotgun recoiling in your grasp as it is fired; are there any more… advanced weapons that have that kind of kick?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Cobalt - I once had the opportunity to experiment with an electrically-powered "rail-gun" the Germans have been working on. The bloody thing nearly broke my shoulder, but it's got more punch than a dreadnought's broadside. Would that I'd had it with me when I faced down that behemoth in Persia!</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>VAELynx writes:</strong><br/> <em>What is your opinion on the Great October Socialist Revolution and the workers' movement worldwide?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. VAELynx: I am afraid I have no words with which to describe that rabble that are fit to print in any decent publication.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Tuomey Tombstone writes:</strong></p> <p><em>How come you even know how to use a computer - they're a little new for you, right?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Tuomey - Do you refer to the difference engines of Mr. Babbage's? I saw a demonstration of such a device in fifty-eight, though i'm not certain how it is relevant to our current telegraphic conversation. Deeds has been relaying your questions to me and taking dictation of my response - I assume that once he has done so, he is returning to the telegraph office and wiring my answers to the central offices of this World-Wide Web for distribution.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Goodwill writes:</strong><br/> <em>Has the Royal Society for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Artifacts ever requested your services? If so, what have you accomplished for the Society? Also, have you heard of the American Secure Containment Initiative, and their rather…loose requirements for what defines as paranormal phenomena?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Goodwill - the Royal Foundation and I have, shall we say, a <em>colorful</em> history together - it seems I've found them at my throat as often as i've found them an ally. I have not had the pleasure of doing business with its American counterpart, though I suspect the organization now holding me captive is associated with it.</p> <p><em>If I may follow up with a similar question, have you ever had contact with the elusive Professor A.W.? He's the mind behind that electro-mechanical memory machine, along with a few other oddities.</em></p> <p>I regret to declare that I have not met the man you speak of, though I have heard his name whispered many times at the gentlemen's club.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Eric_h writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood: I was wondering if you would share your experiences with Marshall, Carter, and Dark. They remain a most disreputable group to this day, and have caused the Foundation a significant amount of trouble. Any opportunities to get the upper hand on them would be most appreciated.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong><br/> Mr. Eric: Those rogues operate a "gentleman's club" in Knightsbridge - though the name is quite misleading, as neither themselves nor any of the libertinous Bohemians they attract are fit to be called gentlemen. I have known them to be associated with theft, larceny, white slavery, and crimes of nature not fit to be discussed among Christian men, and I would sooner wipe my backside with the Queen's portrait (forgive my immodesty) than willingly do business with any of them. Mr. Dark is the only one I have had the displeasure to meet in person - he is a squat and unseemly fellow, with a scar across one eye and a beard almost Satanic in its cut, and his voice is harsh and discordant. He is, however, surprisingly adept in the art of judo, and I had quite a time fending him off before I could make my escape from the scene of his depravities with the artifact I had come to recover at the Lord Admiral's request.</p> <p>(Incidentally, I met a young man named Eric once. He had a most unusual collection of artifacts of his own. Might you and he be any relation?)</p> <p><em><strong>eric_h replies:</strong> You knew my great-uncle? How odd. Small world, isn't it?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>GG Crono writes:</strong></p> <p><em>My good Lord,<br/> Surely someone who has been through such ordeals as yourself knows the importance of keeping one's spirits up. So in the interest of raising the spirits of all, I ask you; what is the most humorous happening that you have come across on your travels far and wide?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong><br/> Mr. Crono - It is a long tale that I do not know if the censors of this publication would allow me to relate in full, but suffice it to say that it involved Lord Palmerston's dog, a one-legged lady of the evening, and a gentleman of the Polish persuasion.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>StuporousStuart writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood,<br/> From this fine selection of participants, thou must use one action without repetition, three are given of each.<br/> Wouldst thy choose to wed, slay or lay with the following atrocities;<br/> <a href="/scp-136">SCP-136</a>-2, <a href="/scp-1308">SCP-1308</a> and <a href="/scp-096">SCP-096</a>.</em><br/> <strong>COMMIT THYSELF DISCERNINGLY.</strong></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Stuart - I would most certainly slay all three! If you seek the company of someone who would engage in perversions with such monstrous aberrations, perhaps I should introduce you to my old schoolmate Mr. Harris.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dmatix writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What is your weapon of choice when hunting Giant Howling Sloths? Those things are a bugger to corner, and have a skin as tough as a week old lamprey pie.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Ah, yes, <em>Megatherium</em>. Deceptively agile when they're angry, those ones. I have found that nothing smaller than an elephant gun will even pierce their flesh, but I must say that electric rifles are efficient enough at stunning them for a moment or two - long enough for your porters (or yourself, if you have the stomach for it) to approach from behind and cut its throat with an electric saw.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Boa Noah writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood, if a gentleman must engage in self gratification should he use a lubricating lotion? Do you have any exotic alternatives for the adventurous yet lonely explorer?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Good heavens, sir! I'll have you know that self-pollution is well-established to lead inevitably to illnessess of the stomach and digestion, loss of appetite or ravenous hunger, vomiting, nausea, weakening of the organs of breathing, coughing, hoarseness, paralysis, weakening of the organ of generation to the point of impotence, lack of libido, back pain, disorders of the eye and ear, total diminution of bodily powers, paleness, thinness, pimples on the face, decline of intellectual powers, loss of memory, attacks of rage, madness, idiocy, epilepsy, fever and finally suicide.</p> <p>If you absolutely <em>must</em> indulge the masculine urge while afield, you would be better advised (so I am told) to seek out a lady-in-waiting. Be wary, however, for my less morally scrupulous associates have told me that in Indochina it is common for men of an effeminate persuasion to disguise themselves as ladies, and in so doing beguile men of immorality out of their money.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood writes from the future:</strong></p> <p><em>Thank God I brought my trusty Electro-Dynamic Curvator to send this back to you. There isn't much time. You need, urgently, to tell the Prime Minister to halt the memorial service at the Abbey next Sunday. There's a sniper from the future on the rooftop with one of Herr Buechinger-Dolmutz's air rifles trying to kill Her Majesty. I fear his plan is to divert history into a continuum in which we are conquered by the French on a pretext of restoring order. To prove this is me I give the password: Celeste. I only hope you remember her in your world. Now, GO! God speed, and the best of British luck.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Stephen, is that you? Good one, big brother - you almost had me going for a moment there. This is payback for that time I convinced you the Swedish had invaded Newcastle, isn't it?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Trinitite writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Noble Viscount, I seem to find myself a mite confused. Your title as Viscount of Westminster appears in breach of the sacred tradition that no two peers can have title to the same place at once. How was it not noticed in 1831 that creating the Grosvenor family Marquesses-and now, I hear, Dukes-of Westminster most treasonably violates the long Blackwood lineage?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dear me, are the Grosvenors still at it? To hear my father tell the tale, that disreputable clan has been trying to usurp my family's titles since before the Protestant Reformation, and they've sided with the most disreputable sorts - Yorkists, Spaniards, Cromwellians, even that blasted Prince Charlie and his horde of Scottish pretenders - to try and wrest it from us. Legend has it that the feud goes all the way back to a slight that occurred between their progenitor and my own during the Hundred Years War - of course, <em>they</em> claim that it was Robert de Forêt-Noir who was responsible, and not t'other way around. Foolish louts.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Trinitite writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> Is it true that you are made of win?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I'm afraid I don't understand the expression, Mr. Trinitrite. I am merely a man of flesh and blood like any other. True, I <em>have</em> won a great many times, but to win is an act, not a substance of which one can be composed.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Doktori writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood, have you heard of a rising academical named A. Einstein? I hear he has some interesting ideas about the photoelectric effect as well as gravity.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dr. Tori - I met a teenaged Swiss by that name in ninety-seven. He seemed to be quite a contemplative young man with an interest in matters physical. I lent him six shillings for carriage fare and he promised to pay me back once he wins Mr. Nobel's endowment. Has he done so, do you know? I am quite certain that with interest, that loan should be more than enough to bribe the watchmen here to get me some decent scotch, or at least a cup of tea.</p> <p><em>I don't believe he will receive Mr. Nobel's prize until the early 1920's. I'm afraid you may not receive your money, but I would greatly enjoy sharing a nice cask of Mortlach or Speyside with you.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>J THOMPSON BRADLEY, ESQ. (U.K. CITIZEN) WRITES:</strong></p> <p><em>HELLO LORD %{NAME},</em></p> <p><em>May our lord Christ bless you and keep you. I am J Thompson Bradley Esq. a United Kingdom Citizen and Registered Barrister. I am Attorney of Law to the deceased Oil Executive Mr. John Hamilton of BRITISH PETROLUEM Inc. based in Basra Iraq.</em></p> <p><em>On June 13, 2012 my client Mr. HAMILTON was killed in an aeroplane accident in Iraq. At the time of his death certain oil leases in my client's name had been sold and the money deposited into his confidential fiduciary account. I have been authorized by BRITISH PETROLUEM to repatriate my client's funds to his next of kin. However, Mr. HAMILTON has no known living relatives and under UNITED KINGDOM law within three months if a next of kin is still unfound his funds must revert to Her Majesties' Government.</em></p> <p><em>I write to you today in the hopes of your assistance in repatriating the £25million to United Kingdom of funds currently held in escrow in UNITED BANK OF IRAQ to allow us time to find next of kin of mr HAMILTON. In return for your aid we would pay a fee of (10%) of funds.</em></p> <p><em>All I require is your honest and confidential co-operation to see this deal through. Please contact me with your full names, address in UNITED KINGDOM, bank account number, and fax no. to allow us to further discuss this situation.</em></p> <p><em>Your obedient servant,</em></p> <p><em>J THOMPSON BRADLEY ESQ. (UK CITIZEN)</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>"Aeroplane"? "Iraq"? "Fax"? "2012"?</p> <p>Dear me, is this another one of those bizarre religious pitches from the Latter-Day Saints?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Spacecadet writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>Boxers or briefs?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Union suit.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>McKinteer writes:</strong></p> <p>Dear Lord Blackwood,</p> <p><em>I am wondering if, in your travels of the North American Continent, you had the pleasure of meeting the inventor and industrialist Samuel Colt before his untimely death in 1862. If so, did he perchance gift to you any special sort of firearm to which the public was never made aware of? For I have heard rumors that before his passing, he designed and built a most excellent pistol which had the capability of being able to slay even the vilest of hellspawn with a single round.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Ah, yes, the Improved Anti-Daemon Revolver Mark V. I'm afraid I no longer have it in my collection - I bequeathed it to my little brother, the archbishop, as a Christmas gift. Such a thing comes in quite handy in the career of an exorcist, you know.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Iceberg writes:</strong></p> <p>Dear Lord Blackwood,</p> <p><em>Do you prefer hot or cold climates?<br/> Also, what would you say is the most dangerous continent?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dr. Iceberg - now that is an amusing question coming from a person named such as you are!</p> <p>Truly, I would not trade the climate of my native England for any other, but there are times in one's life when one enjoys a respite from the cold and the fog. The tropical climates are, by the nature of the civilisations to be found there, the lands where I do much of my adventuring, and I have grown quite accustomed to the warm sun, the thick humid air, and the refreshing cool of the oceans and rivers.</p> <p>As to your latter question, I would venture to say that Antarctica, that great unexplored mass to the south, may be the deadliest of them all - for while it (so far as I have yet determined) possesses no great beasts or savage races to beguile the explorer, it has neither any fauna, nor fruits and vines, nor even any tree to harvest for firewood, and the perpetual freezing cold and long nights would surely drive any man to madness or death. I have heard rumours that it was not always the case - the journals of Piri Re'is, the mad Turk, suggest that it was but a few centuries ago a green and verdant land. How could such a realm be transformed so quickly in the overall scheme of things? Perhaps one day I shall charter an observation in search of clues thereunto.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Scratskinner writes:</strong></p> <p><em>How long do you suppose it'll take before those Foundation blackguards catch wind of this enterprise, and put a stop to it?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I have every confidence in Deeds' ability to elude detection, Mr. Scratskinner. Though he is but a simple valet of working-class birth, his ability to move in the shadows rivals that of the <em>ninja</em> assassins of the Orient. In fact, on the occasion of my visit to Edo… ah, but that's a tale for another time.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Foundation Agent Baxter writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> Why has this metal sphere we found in your collection started ticking? And how can we make it stop? Thank you for any assistance.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I fear I cannot say except to assure you that it must be deactivated as soon as possible. I would be more than happy to render my assistance, but the fools in charge here refuse to let me examine it, even in spite of the fact that it clearly attempted to speak to me when I saw it carried past me the other day.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Jethro writes:</strong></p> <p><em>How did you first meet Deeds? Has he ever made you upset, disappointed, etc? And has he always lived in that bell of his?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>It was 1837 - the day of Queen Victoria's coronation, indeed. I had just returned to my London estate after watching the festivities and there he was, in the midst of pressing and starching my shirts. He wouldn't say how he'd gotten in, or who sent him - but he has been my valet ever since, and never has he been anything but completely faithful and diligent in his responsibilties. (Well, aside from that unfortunate incident in the Wyoming Territory with the drunken Indian, but none of us expected him to have a Tomahawk, of all things, hidden up <em>there.</em>)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Foundation Historian Gallow writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> We are currently investigating the process by which Ireland became independent from the British Empire. We have a theory that the Irish rebels may have used some kind of reality-distorting artifact, possibly ancient and possibly dug up immediately south-west of the Hill of Tara, to either achieve sufficient military success to persuade the British to withdraw, or to divert history into a reality in which the nationalists won. Can you throw any light on this matter?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>The Irish? Independent? By jingo, old sport, that's the funniest thing I've heard all week.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Researcher Cobalt writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> An associate of mine has wagered that you may have heard of <a href="/scp-1326">SCP-1326</a>, or a similar tome. What do you say to that?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dr. Cobalt - I must say, the terms you amateurs use to refer to the mysterious and wonderful artifacts our world is teeming with are so dry. Where is your sense of wonder?</p> <p>I cannot say that I have encountered the particular volume you mention - had I, I no doubt could have spent decades simply in cataloging its contents. I am made to understand it even contains references to myself, which I find most disconcerting - for I have never consented to my memoirs being put into publication, and if the original producer of this book has profited from it, then I intend to speak to a solicitor about the matter as soon as I am freed from this facility.</p> <p><strong>Researcher Cobalt replies:</strong></p> <p><em>I see. It is rather fortunate for my associate that there was no money involved in the wager.</em></p> <p><em>I was actually the one responsible for SCP-1326's original documentation, and unoficially dubbed the tome "The Lexicon"; unfortunately, protocol only lets me refer to it by its official SCP designation. As for its anomalous documentation of your adventures, I am afraid a solicitor may not be of much help in the matter of copyright; I fear that book's author may hail from an alternate timeline, or even another reality, and would be beyond our reach or jurisdiction.</em></p> <p><em>Speaking of your adventures, did the one described in the Lexicon really occur?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>William, in the Foundation mail room writes:</strong></p> <p>Dear Lord Blackwood:</p> <p>We have received an unusual parcel from a "Mr. Moth" via post from London. Perchance, did you order something? If we can't identify the item, protocol definitely prohibits passing it along to you.</p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dash it all! He was supposed to address it to "Pervical Wilburforce" so that Deeds could secret it to me after it was dead-lettered. Are you quite sure you couldn't just allow me to access it on Sundays? I assure you it poses no danger to anyone - it is merely a trans-Akashic codex viewer. I've grown quite bored without my library at hand, you see, and I was hoping to be able to use it to revise my old notes and finally get around to learning Greek.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Edison writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> Have you ever been to Japan?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dr. Edison - Deeds and I made a secret trip there in fourty-six, posing as Dutchmen, in order to retrieve some documents for the Duke of Edinburgh. I met a strange fellow named "Darkblade" there - he seemed to think quite highly of himself, though I found him to be little more than arrogant, aggrandizing, and incapable of holding his own in a stand-up fight. (And possibly, if I may say so, a Bohemian.)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Spacecadet writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> Just for the sake of argument, would you actually recognize a sea slug if you saw one?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>You insult me, Mr. Spacecadet! Mr. Darwin and I catalogued no fewer than seventy-three species of sea slug during our voyages in the south seas! I daresay I could not only recognize one at fifty paces, but tell you its species, how old it was, and what it had eaten for breakfast that day.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>BRIT BRITISHMAN writes:</strong></p> <p><em>G'DAY, GOVINAH,<br/> PIP PIP CHERRIO OFF TO THE FIVE 'AN DIME APPLES AN PARES BLOODY WANKING HELL OFF YER ROCKER GOD SAVE THE QUEEN FOR KING AND COUNTRY BY OUR MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE!<br/></em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Yes… quite.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Edison writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> Have you ever met a funny man who owns a time-traveling blue box that's bigger on the inside?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I cannot say that I have. I did, however, once meet a strange man in possession of a glass kiosk he claimed could travel through time. He called himself Rufus and urged me to be excellent. He had two idle youths in his company who spoke with a strange accent and used words the likes of which I hope to never hear again - if this be the future of mankind, I begin to wonder whether all my efforts have been for naught.</p> <p>—-<br/> <strong>Nyehcat writes:</strong><br/> <em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> Have you ever had a run-in with the Church of the Broken God?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Do you mean the Unitarians?</p> <p>—-<br/> <strong>Lord James T. Archibald writes:</strong></p> <p><em>My dearest Lady Blackwood,<br/> To you I can barely express how I miss your touch, your voice, your smell. I cannot wait until next Tuesday for us to be together again. Your supple breasts and moist lips call to me from that terrible estate of your husband's. Last Thursday in the cabbage patch you made a proposal to me after a fervent session of love making; that we run away together from your dreadful husband and my tyrant of a wife, and start a life in the new world. I have decided to accept your proposal. Meet me outside the Hogswash Inn on Friday night wearing a green scarf, and we will away together to Virginia. Make sure to keep this letter safe from the prying eyes of your husband and his servants.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>My mother was a <em>saint</em>, you varlet! I ought to horse-whip you on the front steps of your club for this sort of obscene slander! As soon as I effect my escape from this facility, I shall find you and we will settle this in the ancient manner afforded to men of honour (not that you have any, I am sure).</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Harry Flashman writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>Regarding the ancient manner of resolving disputes afforded to men of honour that you allude to, would you have any advice for a young gentleman about to settle his first such affair of honour? A reply before dawn would be most appreciated, not to say helpful.</em></p> <p><em>Yours,<br/> H. Flashman</em></p> <p><em>P.S. Please bear my best regards to your lady wife.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>As the challengee (I presume), you ought to have the right to select your weapon of choice. Have you any particular specialty - pistol, epee, perhaps the smallsword? If not, choose that which you know your rival is lacking in skill with. If nothing else, simply allow your rival to take first blood and call it done - unless he is an utterly contemptible rogue, this should satisfy his need for satisfaction.</p> <p>(Incidentally, if you do not desist from speaking of my familial relations in such a manner, then the best advice I can give you is to cheat - for I never lose.)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Gilgamesh writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>Have you ever found Excalibur? If so, can I have it?</em></p> <p><em>-The Great And Powerful <strong>GILGAMESH!!!!!!!!</strong></em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Twice, in fact, but I fear it is no longer in my possession. The Lady of the Lake is a surprisingly adept card-shark.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Grug writes:</strong><br/> <em>Wurg naf, Lord Blackwood, hal darl daff!</em><br/> <em>Ror nuff hoff muusel draff, Bur hoff oss iriff loss.</em><br/> <em>Murrn ror purn haff nansel ram? Mur nas oss woff huubess juss?</em><br/> <em>Oss ven rab,</em><br/> <strong>Grug</strong></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>If you say so.</p> <p><strong>Grug replies:</strong></p> <p><em>Holl, Lord Blackwood, nol ram.<br/> Err waff raff wurg murrn marr. Kaff sil na "Problem" nif tal English. <br/> Morlaf vaf kril tarr. Werf wurg raff woll kurf oss. Poss rofs zet aussnal refnel kreff, sil na narrim. Quass nerrif na darl zoff genocide darr. Varg wurg lurr nef posskeff. Raff kwor bor na remoff zet kral waff bref, neffil zaffer extinct groff, murrn ruff nuclear breff haff England wurg…<br/> Kroff ved,</em></p> <p><strong>Grug</strong></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Are you in need of an alienist, my dear boy?</p> <p><strong>Grug replies:</strong></p> <p><em>Raff ross oss vern. Murrn werrin porr English fon ref. Nerr:<br/> <tt>"Us. Genocide. England. Nuclear. Soon."</tt><br/> Kroff ved,</em></p> <p><strong>Grug</strong></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dear boy, please sober up before you try to write anything else.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Spacecadet writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I was wondering if you would favor us with your thoughts on the late civil war in the States.</em></p> <p><em>Sincerely,<br/> Spacecadet</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Ours was better.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Agent Baxter writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I am writing for the Site-17 newsletter an article on what clothes are the height of fashion this season. Can you tell me what you are wearing at the moment, and what your sartorial plans for this summer will be?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Unfortunately, Agent Baxter, your confederates have not seen it fit to release my full wardrobe into my possession after they took custody of it from my country estate. Perhaps if you could put in a good word with them I could give you a more proper lecture on the nature of proper English fashion. (See to it that they drain the room of water as well; wool does not hold up well under the circumstances of the climate I find myself imprisoned in.)</p> <p>As to the summer, Agent, one cannot go wrong with khaki if one finds oneself in the tropics, but if it is an English summer you have in mind, I am told that a less formal form of the traditional Evening Dress has of late been adapted by the <em>hoi polloi</em>. It is my personal opinion that the ascot tie is the most elegant accessory a gentleman can adorn himself with, though I understand that the four-in-hand style so beloved by Prince Albert the Younger has made inroads lately.</p> <p>I do not expect that his fashion sensibilities will long endure; however, the brand of canned tobacco marketed under his name is most superb. Could you perhaps see to acquiring some for me? I have made several covert attempts to request a delivery of it by tele-phone; however, every tobacconist whom I have spoken to on the matter has responded most rudely.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Foundation Weaponeer Buggle writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>Who do you think would win in a fight between a brown bear and a hammerhead shark?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I cannot say, Mr. Buggle, that I can envision a scenario where such a confrontation would occur. Would that I still had the address of my old associate at the Royal Centre for Selachian Pugilistics, for he was once the world's foremost expert on subjects of such a nature.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>██████ █. ██████ writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I am the writer of the</em> Brink Dangerguts Adventures, <em>a harmless set of novels about the world of mercenaries and explorers which for some reason the O5s consider a libelous security breach. But anyway, in my next book I am considering including an epic chase through the streets of Beirut in which our hero seeks shelter and weapons in a shady bar before leaping out to win the day in an epic fight intended to be a combination of</em> The Bourne Ultimatum, Oliver! <em>and</em> Bad Boys II. <em>As I am unable to go on leave to do any research in the Lebanon in case the Foundation works out who I am, can you recommend a suitable location for these happenings? You can be the book's dedicatee if you want.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Do the Ottomans now permit the open establishment of bars in the Levant? My, how the world has changed since I found myself behind these walls! I knew of no legal establishments that the Sultanate would countenance during my last visit to those parts - however, should your character find his way to Cairo, there is an excellent establishment in the basement of the French consulate there.</p> <p>I must admit that I am not familiar with the books you name, though your description brings to mind the adventure novels of Stevenson or that American fellow Clemens whom I met while he was touring the Holy Land in sixty-seven. I got the impression that he was unimpressed with my anecdotes, though he promised not to describe me unflatteringly in the text he was writing.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Space Core writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Get to space. Wanna get to space. Can you get me to space? SPAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>My old associate Dr. Hightower is the best at space, good boy.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Edison writes:</strong></p> <p><em>How do I get all this semen off my keyboard?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Good heavens, boy, that's just foul.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>McKineteer writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>What was your opinion of the two world wars which we have had?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>"World war"? That is not a term I am familiar with, Mr. McKineteer. Do you perhaps refer to the Crimean War, and the wars against Napoleon? Nasty business, those - I think (and hope) that we shall never see another affray as bloody as the former, or as drawn out as the latter.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Murrin Pinethorn writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Can you describe your family, Lord Blackwood? You mentioned a brother.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I do not speak often of my family, Mr. Pinethorn, for I would not wish it to be thought I was riding on their coat-tails. My father is the esteemed Sir Edward Thomas George Blackwood, who I am sure needs no introduction, and I am the second of his four children. Admiral Sir Stephen Blackwood is the eldest of us, and Archbishop Clifford Blackwood the youngest; between he and I is Duchess Catherine Blackwood (being the wife of the Duke of Brandenburg). It has been some time since I saw them all together; the last time was most eventful, and perhaps you will sometime have an opportunity to read my diaries about the occasion.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Doktori writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>If you could bring only two weapons with you for a prolonged journey through the African veldt, what would they be? Also, how many porters would you think would be necessary for such a journey? Thank you for your time.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>One of my destabilizing muskets and possibly a pistol - though if you count a machete as a weapon, then I should have to take that in stead of the pistol, for such a blade is invaluable in the darkest regions of the continent. I should want for at least half a dozen porters, I should think, and if possible one or two native guides familiar with the lay of the land. (Ensure, should you be planning a trip yourself, that your guides be Christian - I nearly met an ill fate in sixty-two as the result of a Punjabi guide who turned out to be a member of the Thuggee.)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>CITIZEN O' US OF A writes:</strong></p> <p><em>MURICA</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>God save the Queen.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Nyehcat writes:</strong></p> <p><em>I say, how did you convince your brother that the Swedish had invaded Newcastle? That might make for a riveting tale.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>King Oscar owed me a favour.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Agent Thesson writes</strong></p> <p><em>Hello kind fellow! It seems I have an undocumented species of Carp on my desk. I don't know where it came from but it appears to have lungs. Isn't that just DANDY! Should I Put it in a loving zoo to keep it from sucking on my finger or just give it to a fellow researcher?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Ah, yes, the Patagonian lungcarp! Magnificent beasts. Would that I had access to my laboratory so that I could perform a proper examination for you - perhaps in the meantime it would be best to observe its natural behaviours.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>O5-█ writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>What are your thoughts about <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/fragment:scp-1173-a">this business in Samothrace</a>?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I do not believe I am particularly familiar with any business in that nation.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Agent Adam Henderson writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood, I've been wondering about your views on the rights of non-human but sapient creatures such as <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-562">Centipede Nymphs</a> or <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood">King Alaric the Fifth</a></em></p> <p><em>Also, have you ever had any contact with the individual or group known as Dr. Wondertainment?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I have wracked my brain many nights over the question of King Alaric and his "animal kingdom", as it were. If you have read my diaries of that encounter, you know as well as I do that he and his followers are Christian, or claim to be - but whether the beasts of the forest have souls in need of salvation is a topic that was never addressed by the instructors at Eton.</p> <p>As to your second question - I knew an Edmund Wondertainment many years ago in Manchester, though he was a blacksmith and not a doctor. He was not an educated man, but he had wisdom and ambitions beyond his station - he dreamed of making toys for children, and hoped through his earnings to one day send his son to university and thereby be able to care for him so that in old age he could pursue his dream.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>E. Elric:</strong><br/> <em>Have you ever dabbled in alchemy? If so, do you have any insights into the creation of the Great Work, AKA the Philosopher's Stone?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I have never dabbled myself, although I do have some associates familiar with the art of alchemy. I have had need of their consultations on several occasions.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Grand Dreadlord Xifax Lightbane</strong><br/> <em>Salutations, Lord Blackwood<br/> The Black Counsel requests your presence at the Eternal Citadel of The Seventh Eye regarding the acquisition of soulstones used to keep <a href="/scp-1333-j">THE SCREAMING MAN!</a> bound to Gaspar's Revenants. Should you ignore our request, the Akashic Glyphs will rupture, and neither heaven nor hell will be able to halt the ensuing chaos.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Dear me, Mr. Lightbane. As much as I would be delighted to assist you with this no doubt urgent matter, I fear the guardsmen here are utterly insistent on my not leaving this tank. Perhaps you could put in a word with them?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>John Swindle writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Good day Lord Blackwood! You may be pleased to know that I for one humbly hold you in highest esteem, enjoy reading your adventures, insights and wisdom, receive your publication to the World-Wide Web in the Americas, and am simply one of many in all of these regards. I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and that I do not damper them terribly with the following information, which I feel must be passed along to you. I regret to inform you that I as well as the rest of your subscribers remain unfortunately ignorant as to the true nature of your appearance; living witnesses of yourself seem to be impossible for any of us to locate save Mr. Deeds (I personally suspect this to be the elaborate work of your captors), and Deeds himself, despite his elusiveness from your guardsmen as well as the many other fine qualities that he possesses, is tragically lacking the means to properly retrieve a record of your visage, in artistic form, accurate photographic form via George Eastman's photographic film (I understand the human eye would fare no better in any event given the distorting effects in which your captivity in water produces), or descriptive form, as he insists he is bound by confidentiality to his employer. With this in mind, would you humbly provide us with a description of yourself? We loyal subscribers do have a vague idea based upon various publications to which we have access, yet I trust that you and I both would prefer thoroughness to such a degree that a proper portrait truly fitting of a Lord such as yourself could be painted from such information, by an artist worthy to paint a gentlemen of your rank. You need spare no expense, as it would be my honor to finance and circulate your proper portrait.</em></p> <p><em>Yours in Christ,<br/> J.C.S.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Would that I could conduct a proper sitting for a daguerrotype at this time, for I am not as young a man as I once was when last I had a proper sitting in ninety-seven. The closer I get to fifty, the more gray I find in my neatly-trimmed brown mane and my proud English moustache, and I find it more and more difficult to read without my spectacles. Let no one say that age has sapped my vitality, however; for I am as fit and barrel-chested as ever I was, and when the good Mr. Lincoln and I had occasion to meet in sixty-three I found that he stood as tall as I. My eyes are blue, for which my brown-eyed siblings teased me constantly as a child, alleging that I was a bastard or a Mongoloid (a claim abetted, no doubt, by the bout of left-handedness that plagues me to this day). Though my face and hands are unblemished, were you to observe me in the buff you would find my arms and trunk cris-crossed every which way with a lifetime's worth of scars, every one of them proudly earned in battle or in exploration. I cannot say more, for modesty's sake; but allow me to assure you that the reputation of the Blackwood family of being possessed heartily of stamina and virility is not one ill-assigned.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Edison Writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What would you say if I told you that a man of African descent was elected president of the United States of America?<br/> -Dr. Edison</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Of South African descent, certainly?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>L. Heartstrings Writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Have you ever visited a land of magical talking horses?</em></p> <p><strong>eric_h writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood: I keep hearing rumours about talking horses in London. Have you ever met any?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Once, yes. I found it highly unsettling and in no way whatsoever whimsical, satrical, or condemnatory of the British class system.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright Writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What do you think about Antidisestablishmentarianism?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I am an antidisestablishmentarian, sir, and I am proud to call myself one. Let the atheists and reprobates sally off to France if they wish it.</p> <p>Incidentally - have we met? I seem to recall encountering a Mr. Bright in Africa back in seventy-four.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Mrs. Gallow Writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> From your experience, do you think pufferkittens are a suitable pet for a 14 year-old?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I would have no objection, Mrs. Gallow, as long as one ensures that the beasts are not able to breed. Blackwood Manor was overrun by hundreds of the things when my sister secreted a pair into her room as a child. The conservatory still smells of dander.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>S. Bad Writes:</strong><br/> <em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> How do you type with boxing gloves on?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>With great difficulty, I would imagine. Mr. Remington's typographical machine is difficult enough to operate as intended.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Darkblade Writes:</strong></p> <p><em>HOW DARE YOU SPREAD LIES ABOUT DARKBLADE! I WILL DESTROY YOOOOOOUUUUUU!</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I apologize if my words have caused any insult, ma'am.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Spacecadet writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear sir,<br/> What is it like to live amongst people with so many odd</em> idees fixees <em>on the subject of sea slugs? And how do you suppose one comes to have these fixations in the first place?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>It is hardly that difficult to understand. Sea slugs are quite fascinating creatures indeed; I could happily spend the rest of my days merely in cataloguing the hundreds of varieties found in the South Seas.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Mr. Robert Pattinson writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> I am an Englishman working in a foreign country, far from home and unsure whom to trust. I understand that your exploits have been famed for many years-what do you find the best way to cope with feelings of paranoia, anxiety and depression, especially with newspapermen following you around?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Your question reminds me of a strange man I met many years ago in the northwest of America - he was old and possessed of great strength, but was forever trapped in the body of an adolescent, and his flesh seemed to shimmer and coruscate when touched by the sun's rays. As I recall, he had taken to impersonating a teen-ager and attending primary school with the young people of the region, for he found that those who looked the same age as he were more accepting of his oddities.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr Xanderfeld writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,<br/> My skin has taken to the rot before my appointed time, and I fear there is very little I can do to reverse the process. A colleague of mine recommended I ask you if you had knowledge of anything sufficient to return to me the youth of my flesh, as they claimed you have seen wonders beyond the wildest imaginings of men in your adventures. So tell me, have you ever found something capable of such feats?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Woe, Dr. Xanderfield, but I cannot report that I have made such a discovery. In my younger days I quested in the Floridian peninsula for the legendary Fountain of Youth, but found instead only inscrutable Indians, rancid swamp waters, and the ravages of malaria. I have heard tales of a cosmetic application which effortlessly conceals the scars of age, but I am told that it is a terribly addictive compound, and that one long left without its benefit will find that their skin rots and sloughs away far more rapidly than if had been left along to begin with. I would certainly not recommend that treatment; however, if you are sitting for a photographic portrait, I am told that a generous application of make-up can do wonders to conceal wrinkles and give the camera cause to portray one as years or decades younger than is truly the case.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Lord Darkbirch writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>You are a man with exquisite taste. Do you enjoy the works of modern authors such as Dickens and Hawthorne? My children adore their works, but I simply cannot stand their prose. I have demanded their tutors to stay true to literature in the classical sense, yet I just found out last week that she had been disobeying me and sneaking the works of Burnett and James into the house. Naturally, I dismissed her, yet my children has already been convinced that this is great literary work. I have read the works, and I have found them to be pure rubbish. Why does my children find them so enticing?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I have always found the works of Dickens and Hawthorne most interesting, for the good gentlemen elucidate the status of the working-class in a manner which Providence and circumstance have prevented me from observing first-hand; I do, however, find his tendencies towards sesquipedalianity to be most bothersome and distracting. (I am told that the news-papers of London pay writers of fiction by the word for their serials; had I the inclination to do so, I could easily have become their equal without setting foot outside London!)</p> <p>I must confess to not being largely familiar with the works of James or Burnett, though I had occasion to read Hardy's <em>The Mayor of Casterbridge</em> while traveling aboard the Orient Express in eighty-nine; I found it to be a most horrifying tale of how even a man of an intellectual disposition and a repentant nature, regardless of the circumstances of his birth, might rise to fame and glory only to fall even beyond the point from which he had begun. I immediately upon having finished it offered Deeds an additional pound per year on his salary, though he graciously declined the offer.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Goodwill writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>If circumstances came to be so unfortunate, would you sooner retire as a naturalist and adventurer, or denounce your loyalty to England and her Church?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>I should sooner be flayed alive and made a feast for cannibals, Mr. Goodwill, than denounce England and her Church. God in His wisdom has made the laws of science rigid and eternal; but our church and our state are things of men, temporal and vulnerable. The Earth shall not move or fall asunder if I abandon it, but England, for the want of a single loyal subject to wave her banner, could easily be lost to history. It is the duty of all her subjects to do their best to ensure that this doom may never come to pass.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Ch00bakka wirtes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>Have you heard about the phenomenon of "<a href="/scp-1841-ex">Lizstomania</a>"? Some fellows at the Royal Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria claim that it may be cause by some supernatural or otherwise abnormal effect centered on Mr. Lizst. Have you ever come into contact with anything like this in your travels? And do you find Mr. Lizst as dreamy as I do?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Ah, Liszt! I must confess I briefly contracted the "Liszt fever" in forty-one. My participations in the Great Austrian Warlock Hunt brought me to Berlin, where I found the young composer beset on all sides by fanatical ladies. I assisted the man in making his way to the safety of his hotel, where he favored me with a private performance. Had I been born a lady, I think I might have proposed marriage to him - but common sense prevailed, and I beat a hasty retreat before embarrassing myself.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I want your babies. Preferably human ones though this isn't absolutely a requirement. How do you think I should go about achieving this goal?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>Ah, a lady has come a-courting! Splendid! Tell me, ma'am, what pastimes do you fancy? What is your favorite colour? Are you, I hope, Church of England?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Emissary the Sixth writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>Have you ever, intentionally or accidentally, swapped bodies with that of another organism?<br/> Also, what is, in your experience, the best way to avoid giving into the urge to murder someone?</em></p> <p><em>P.S. Have you ever heard the joke about the man everyone thought was a sea slug?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Shulk writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>A girl that I had been in love with for the longest time was recently killed by an army of robots. How would I go about avenging her?</em></p> <p><em>Regards, Shulk</em></p> <p>—-<br/> <strong>Heropon Riki writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Blackwoodpon,</em></p> <p><em>How do I become world famous greatest heropon ever?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Major Tom writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What do you feel, regarding to the current queen, Queen Elizabeth II? Hopefully she's as good as Queen Victoria?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>John Swindle writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Salutations once again Lord Blackwood! I must open with an apology- while I have commissioned your portrait several times over, I've simply been unable to procure an artist with sufficient talent to accurately capture your virility on canvas, much less the fine details of your proudly-worn scars. I will happily accept recommendations to this end from you. Having said that, I find a collegue of mine to be in a most unfortunate bind. Having recently claimed victory over a thaumaturge with my assistance, and against my insistence to the contrary, he had chosen to take into possession said thaumaturge's weapon, which I believe to be the cause of his transmutation into a telepathic lamprey. Thus I consult your expertise- do you know of any means by which men can reverse this transmutation? I'm afraid this is a matter of some urgency. You see, my collegue is in a state of grave distress precisely as one might expect from being made aware of such a traumatic experience, and I fear that with such distress (of which the body of a lamprey is naturally ill-equipped to endure), the thaumaturge may yet at last claim his life. I will procure any cures of which you know post haste, though due to the experiences I have described herein, I would very much prefer that no cure involve me procuring and subsequently lending my trust to a practitioner of thaumaturgy.</em></p> <p><em>Yours in Christ,<br/> J.C.S.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Andre writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What's cooler than being cool?</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood replies:</strong></p> <p>The state of being chilled in a fashion comparable to frozen water.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong><a href="/scp-275">SCP-275</a> writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Mr Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I have been informed that you were alive in the nineteenth century, and were quite the world traveler. Might you have ever visited Ottoman territory and heard of, or possibly even met, a young girl with impenetrable skin? If so, would you have any knowledge as to her origins, or perhaps her name?</em></p> <p><em>I ask purely out of idle curiosity.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Trinitite writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>How do you feel about the Foundation classifying you as anomalous?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Guilliman writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>As you are a devout man, I was wondering if you were aware of <a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a>, and if you are, what is your opinion on him?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Bryx writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I should like to inform you that the "World Wide Web", the entity which your most adept servant has been liaising with on your behalf, is not, in fact, a periodical, but a hub of information which any sentient being can access by the use of a very common terminal that is connected to it. Please give us your views regarding these developments, not least the fact that your audience and pool of eager contributors is much larger than you may have originally anticipated.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>"Banzai" Bill writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Dear Lord Blackwood,</em></p> <p><em>I have recently come into the possession of a number of artefacts of the most unusual and diverse variety, and I have had some difficulty in operating one of them. Are you perchance familiar with a shoulder-mounted miniature-cannon/rifle designed to, in the words of the message found alongside it, "shoot Magnetism"?<br/> And while I think of it, did you ever manage to discover how that magma rifle we found in '83 (I was the porter's son) automatically replenished its ammunition? The cache of aforementioned artifacts contained an identical device, and as there are now multiples, am willing to attempt disassembly of mine, but wished to inquire as to whether you have had any success with yours.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Lady Gertrude E. Hamilton writes:</strong></p> <p><em>What the fuck is WRONG with you, Theo? I haven't seen you in weeks, you haven't replied to any of my telegrams - your servants say you're just going through some shit, but three weeks is long enough, man! Until now, I could never understand why the Duchess of Brabant said you were trash, and that I could do way better, but this whole experience has finally opened my fucking eyes! If you don't respond to this, we are THROUGH! And I MEAN it this time!</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Wire writes:</strong></p> <p><em>I was wondering if you have ever heard of an ancient city by the peculiar name of <a href="/scp-4840">Audapaupadopolis</a>? I ask because I have heard mentions of this legend and those related to it, and I thought to ask someone who specializes in this kind of stuff.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Dr. █ writes:</strong></p> <p><em>Are you affiliated with UnLondon in any way? Are you aware of it's existence per chance?</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="/ask-lord-blackwood">Ask Lord Blackwood</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ask-lord-blackwood">https://scpwiki.com/ask-lord-blackwood</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> blackwood.png<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/smapti" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(362048); return false;"><img alt="Smapti" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=362048&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1721653418" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=362048)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/smapti" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(362048); return false;">Smapti</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=blackwood.png\|caption="Deeds? Where the devil are my slippers?"]] To whom it may concern; Tally-ho, ladies and gentlemen! It is I, Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE, 7th Viscount of Westminister, noted explorer and gentleman. It has come to my attention that I am held in quite high regard by the readers of a periodical known as "the World-Wide Web". I have heard of no such paper being available in London, but Deeds has explained to me that it is a most clever artiface which harnesses the power of the telegraph by which to convey the latest happenings in far-off lands directly into the homes of its subscribers. Will such wonders ever cease? As I find myself wanting for diversion since I have been made an involuntary guest of these mountebanks and confidence-men who call themselves "scientists", I have decided to endeavour in making contact with you, my admirers, through this marvelous publication. Though I lack a telegraph key in the quarters I have been given (not that it would operate given that my gaolers insist for some reason on continuing to fill the room with water day after day), Deeds has agreed to collect my mail and take dictation for me while the watchful eyes of the guardsmen are turned away, that I might correspond through these pages with any and all who wish to enquire of my life and adventures. Tell me, my fellow Englishmen and our brothers and cousins throughout the world, what would you ask of me? What exploits of mine would you wish to know of? What secrets of my life and times would you have laid bare? What opinions or beliefs of my own do you wish to learn of? While I am sure the editors of this news-paper are quite diligent in censoring matters of a prurient or classified nature, I shall do my best to answer any honest and decent questions that any of you might have. I eagerly await receiving your responses. Yours in Christ, T.T.B. --- Jekeled writes: //You are aware you're a slug, right?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Jekeled - I have heard that joke several times, and I no longer find it as risible as once I did. Obviously I am a man, and not a slug - for how else could I hunt, and fight, and write, and sing, and love? Perhaps you are in need of a new pair of eyeglasses - I can recommend a fellow in Brighton who sold me a pince-nez capable of seeing back in time. //Egads, sir, I have that very same pince-nez sitting in my parlor! Could this be a black forgery of some sort?// Perhaps - I have heard that those blackguards, Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark have made quite a bit of ill-gotten wealth counterfeiting Henry's contraptions. I would have it thoroughly examined by a phlogistonic engineer as soon as possible. I know not what far-off corner of the world you find yourself in, but surely there is one in the nearest metropolis? //Hah! Even if the rapscallions have gypped me, I have gotten adequate use out of those spectacles. Saved my life in Bora-Bora in '72.// That was you? By Jove, boy, I thought we were both finished after the manticore got between us and the powder magazine. Did you ever find out what happened to Baron von Almsbach? //Poor fellow, never the brightest jewel in the necklace, you know. Picked an ill-timed fight with a ruffian in the East End.// Oooh. Nasty. //We never did find the entirety of that poor blighter's lower torso…// --- SwamplessThing writes: //My good fellow! Please share with me a story concerning the loss of your greatest love.// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. SwamplessThing - my greatest love, of course, is England herself, and God willing we shall never lose her. I have heard distressing news from the doctors here that she is not as strong and mighty as once she was - but she endures, and I am told that there sits now a queen almost as savvy and beloved as my dear Victoria herself. The story of my marriage to Countess Francesca, the daughter of the Neapolitan archduke - now that is another story entirely, and one I shall have to recount in great detail someday - but suffice it to say that the Knights Hospitaller take no prisoners, and the steppes of Mongolia are a cruel and unforgiving land. --- Dr J Sombre writes: //Lord Blackwood, I've lately stumbled across a bit of a poser- which is better, a Tesla Coil gun or one of those fancy little 'ray-guns' I've seen sometimes in artificers' markets? I was planning to do a little exploration down Brazil-way, perhaps in those rainforest sinkholes I've heard so much about, so would it be wiser to sacrifice a little power for more portability? Or would I be kicking myself when the mokele-mbembes came? (I'd ask my guides to carry it, but finding a trustworthy native who can spelunk worth a damn… Well, it's no easy task I can tell you.) Also, top hat or bowler?// Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Sombre - While I am personally fond of my particle destabilizing muskets, you would likely have great difficulty acquiring one yourself, as Mr. Moth's waiting list has been known to extend for years filling his orders. I'm told the old man insists on making every one of them by hand after being swindled by an urchin he hired to assist him. In any event, I find that radium weapons are more effective than electrical any day of the week. And I should hope you don't encounter Mokele-Mbembe in the Amazon, for that would mean that you had either gone mad or turned to drink - for the creature seldom strays from its demesne in the Congo, and I know of no cousins of itself to be found in South America. Beware the great snake the natives call Matatoro, however, and the giant sloths that prey on man and beast alike. (Incidentally, the next time you find yourself in Sao Paolo, seek out a tavern called 'A história do galo e o touro' and ask for a bar-man named Armando. The old boy makes the finest martini i've ever tasted outside of London.) As to headgear, I prefer the comfort of a pith helmet when I find myself in the wild, but when it comes to the social scene, I would sooner be seen naked than without my top hat. //Well, maybe with my grasp of Geography I should stay at home. Or try and aquire better travel guides; I think I was sold a pup.// --- Catboy637 writes: //Good sir, I must ask: how do you survive these so-called "scientists" filling your room with water? In addition, have you been given proper access to a Bible? Lastly, who is heir to your titles, upon (God forbid it!) the event of your death?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Catboy - It's not the first time i've been forced to live underwater, I assure you. One does grow accustomed to it eventually. I've requested a Bible several times, but my attendants have denied all my requests thus far for books. I was, of course, three times the winner of the annual Scripture Knowledge competition in my days at Eton, and I can still recite the book of Matthew, and most of Leviticus, from beginning to end by memory. As to an heir - sadly, my life of adventure has yet left me little time to raise a family. Lord Randolph Churchill's third son, Winnie, is my godson, though I have not seen him since he was but a boy - I expect he has done quite well in life, and my current will specifies him (or his descendent) as the heir to my lands and title. //Are you aware of the proposal to revive the Ancient Greek Olympic games? The great city of London has been chosen as the new site at which they will be held.// Indeed? This is most fascinating news - though surely the runners will not compete in the nude as the Grecians once did, one hopes. //Lord Blackwood, have you ever encountered the [[[SCP-1625\|Amaski tribe of Africa]]]? They have quite the odd oral tradition, and with all your exploration, any knowledge you can provide on them would be invaluable.// //On an unrelated note, what is the best way to prevent sunburn while travelling near the equator, in your opinion?// Drewbear writes: //Nay, not naked, but near enough. The contestants, both male and female (yes, indeed!), tend to wear the most shockingly form-fitting clothing when competing in the more physically strenuous events.// //Personally, I prefer the more dignified sporting events of archery, shooting and equestrianism. And although it is somewhat distressing to see ladies of refinement competing in the swimming or gymnastic events, there is nothing finer than a gentle-woman upon a good dressage horse. And a woman has matched the record for skeet-shooting! 99 hits out of 100! Alas, they use but ordinary rifles rather than the more effective weaponry owned by yourself.// --- Boa Noah writes: //What does Mr. Deeds smell like?// Lord Blackwood replies: A strange query indeed, but I find that he often has the scent of fresh lilacs about him. What cologne or secret he uses, he refuses to tell me. //Thank you, good day fine sir.// --- Scratskinner writes: //Have you ever met a man deluded into believing himself a sea slug? What diversions of this era do you find least offensive to your taste?// Lord Blackwood replies: A man believing himself a sea slug, Mr. Scratskinner? I should say not - such a thing would be madness, and I associate not with madmen. I have not had much time to investigate the diversions of the world outside this facility as of late, I regret, but I am told that the game of cricket has become quite popular in the last century. Now that, my friend, is a sport truly befitting a gentleman's passions! (The Americans, I am told, have naturally gotten it all wrong.) --- Lordlyhour writes: //Greetings, My fine fellow! What, dear Gentleman, is your opinion on Facial Hair? Do you have any tips for one who wishes to Keep his Moustachio in Fine Fettle?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Lordlyhour - Brush, trim, and wax. //Always// wax. --- Drewbear writes: //Do you have any advice with regards to beard maintenance? I am myself blessed with a fine and full beard, yet am prone to a degree of bushiness that is most distracting when laying a buss upon the cheek of my beloved.// Lord Blackwood replies: A beard? Good heavens no, sir. You should perhaps consult a Russian if such matters are of import to you; I have never worn anything more than a fine and proper English mustache, thank you very much. --- SwamplessThing writes: //If I may be so bold as to posit another question to your lordship; Which of Shakespeare's works are your favorite, and why?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. SwamplessThing - the works of the Bard have constantly proven an inspiration to me. I have always counted "Julius Caesar" the finest of his works, though I hold a special place in my heart for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" owing to the circumstances under which I met Oberon himself in battle back in fifty-eight. (Should you ever find yourself in the land of the Fae, be warned that accepting an offer of drink from a lady is considered to be a proposal of marriage, and that the sidhe do not look kindly upon broken engagements.) --- Faminepulse writes: //Was wondrin' if you like a good smoke with yer rosie every now an' then? An' if so, what method? What brand balms yer' bristols if you don't mind me askin''?// Lord Blackwood replies: Is that you, Mr. Horace? --- Drewbear writes: //If you had but one request of the blackguards who currently detain you, and they must but answer it, what would it be? Unfortunately, I must perforce decline the question of your own freedom, as, being men of good intelligence, we are both aware of the unlikelihood of that request being granted.// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Drewbear - The food here is sadly wanting. My captors insist on feeding me in the form of these strangely-flavored flakes that they sprinkle into the water. A decent steak, or some eel pie, or just a decent cup of tea would do much to improve my spirits. --- MrCobalt writes: //I am aware of your affinity for Aether-based weaponry, but what is your opinion on traditional gunpowder-based firearms? Personally, I find there are few things that match the almost primal thrill of a shotgun recoiling in your grasp as it is fired; are there any more… advanced weapons that have that kind of kick?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Cobalt - I once had the opportunity to experiment with an electrically-powered "rail-gun" the Germans have been working on. The bloody thing nearly broke my shoulder, but it's got more punch than a dreadnought's broadside. Would that I'd had it with me when I faced down that behemoth in Persia! --- VAELynx writes: //What is your opinion on the Great October Socialist Revolution and the workers' movement worldwide?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. VAELynx: I am afraid I have no words with which to describe that rabble that are fit to print in any decent publication. --- Tuomey Tombstone writes: //How come you even know how to use a computer - they're a little new for you, right?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Tuomey - Do you refer to the difference engines of Mr. Babbage's? I saw a demonstration of such a device in fifty-eight, though i'm not certain how it is relevant to our current telegraphic conversation. Deeds has been relaying your questions to me and taking dictation of my response - I assume that once he has done so, he is returning to the telegraph office and wiring my answers to the central offices of this World-Wide Web for distribution. --- Goodwill writes: //Has the Royal Society for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Artifacts ever requested your services? If so, what have you accomplished for the Society? Also, have you heard of the American Secure Containment Initiative, and their rather…loose requirements for what defines as paranormal phenomena?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Goodwill - the Royal Foundation and I have, shall we say, a //colorful// history together - it seems I've found them at my throat as often as i've found them an ally. I have not had the pleasure of doing business with its American counterpart, though I suspect the organization now holding me captive is associated with it. //If I may follow up with a similar question, have you ever had contact with the elusive Professor A.W.? He's the mind behind that electro-mechanical memory machine, along with a few other oddities.// I regret to declare that I have not met the man you speak of, though I have heard his name whispered many times at the gentlemen's club. --- Eric_h writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood: I was wondering if you would share your experiences with Marshall, Carter, and Dark. They remain a most disreputable group to this day, and have caused the Foundation a significant amount of trouble. Any opportunities to get the upper hand on them would be most appreciated.// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Eric: Those rogues operate a "gentleman's club" in Knightsbridge - though the name is quite misleading, as neither themselves nor any of the libertinous Bohemians they attract are fit to be called gentlemen. I have known them to be associated with theft, larceny, white slavery, and crimes of nature not fit to be discussed among Christian men, and I would sooner wipe my backside with the Queen's portrait (forgive my immodesty) than willingly do business with any of them. Mr. Dark is the only one I have had the displeasure to meet in person - he is a squat and unseemly fellow, with a scar across one eye and a beard almost Satanic in its cut, and his voice is harsh and discordant. He is, however, surprisingly adept in the art of judo, and I had quite a time fending him off before I could make my escape from the scene of his depravities with the artifact I had come to recover at the Lord Admiral's request. (Incidentally, I met a young man named Eric once. He had a most unusual collection of artifacts of his own. Might you and he be any relation?) //eric_h replies: You knew my great-uncle? How odd. Small world, isn't it?// --- GG Crono writes: //My good Lord, Surely someone who has been through such ordeals as yourself knows the importance of keeping one's spirits up. So in the interest of raising the spirits of all, I ask you; what is the most humorous happening that you have come across on your travels far and wide?// Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Crono - It is a long tale that I do not know if the censors of this publication would allow me to relate in full, but suffice it to say that it involved Lord Palmerston's dog, a one-legged lady of the evening, and a gentleman of the Polish persuasion. --- StuporousStuart writes: //Lord Blackwood, From this fine selection of participants, thou must use one action without repetition, three are given of each. Wouldst thy choose to wed, slay or lay with the following atrocities; [[[SCP-136]]]-2, [[[SCP-1308]]] and [[[SCP-096]]].// COMMIT THYSELF DISCERNINGLY. Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Stuart - I would most certainly slay all three! If you seek the company of someone who would engage in perversions with such monstrous aberrations, perhaps I should introduce you to my old schoolmate Mr. Harris. --- Dmatix writes: //What is your weapon of choice when hunting Giant Howling Sloths? Those things are a bugger to corner, and have a skin as tough as a week old lamprey pie.// Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, yes, //Megatherium//. Deceptively agile when they're angry, those ones. I have found that nothing smaller than an elephant gun will even pierce their flesh, but I must say that electric rifles are efficient enough at stunning them for a moment or two - long enough for your porters (or yourself, if you have the stomach for it) to approach from behind and cut its throat with an electric saw. --- Boa Noah writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, if a gentleman must engage in self gratification should he use a lubricating lotion? Do you have any exotic alternatives for the adventurous yet lonely explorer?// Lord Blackwood replies: Good heavens, sir! I'll have you know that self-pollution is well-established to lead inevitably to illnessess of the stomach and digestion, loss of appetite or ravenous hunger, vomiting, nausea, weakening of the organs of breathing, coughing, hoarseness, paralysis, weakening of the organ of generation to the point of impotence, lack of libido, back pain, disorders of the eye and ear, total diminution of bodily powers, paleness, thinness, pimples on the face, decline of intellectual powers, loss of memory, attacks of rage, madness, idiocy, epilepsy, fever and finally suicide. If you absolutely //must// indulge the masculine urge while afield, you would be better advised (so I am told) to seek out a lady-in-waiting. Be wary, however, for my less morally scrupulous associates have told me that in Indochina it is common for men of an effeminate persuasion to disguise themselves as ladies, and in so doing beguile men of immorality out of their money. --- Lord Blackwood writes from the future: //Thank God I brought my trusty Electro-Dynamic Curvator to send this back to you. There isn't much time. You need, urgently, to tell the Prime Minister to halt the memorial service at the Abbey next Sunday. There's a sniper from the future on the rooftop with one of Herr Buechinger-Dolmutz's air rifles trying to kill Her Majesty. I fear his plan is to divert history into a continuum in which we are conquered by the French on a pretext of restoring order. To prove this is me I give the password: Celeste. I only hope you remember her in your world. Now, GO! God speed, and the best of British luck.// Lord Blackwood replies: Stephen, is that you? Good one, big brother - you almost had me going for a moment there. This is payback for that time I convinced you the Swedish had invaded Newcastle, isn't it? --- Trinitite writes: //Noble Viscount, I seem to find myself a mite confused. Your title as Viscount of Westminster appears in breach of the sacred tradition that no two peers can have title to the same place at once. How was it not noticed in 1831 that creating the Grosvenor family Marquesses-and now, I hear, Dukes-of Westminster most treasonably violates the long Blackwood lineage?// Lord Blackwood replies: Dear me, are the Grosvenors still at it? To hear my father tell the tale, that disreputable clan has been trying to usurp my family's titles since before the Protestant Reformation, and they've sided with the most disreputable sorts - Yorkists, Spaniards, Cromwellians, even that blasted Prince Charlie and his horde of Scottish pretenders - to try and wrest it from us. Legend has it that the feud goes all the way back to a slight that occurred between their progenitor and my own during the Hundred Years War - of course, //they// claim that it was Robert de Forêt-Noir who was responsible, and not t'other way around. Foolish louts. --- Trinitite writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, Is it true that you are made of win?// Lord Blackwood replies: I'm afraid I don't understand the expression, Mr. Trinitrite. I am merely a man of flesh and blood like any other. True, I //have// won a great many times, but to win is an act, not a substance of which one can be composed. --- Doktori writes: //Lord Blackwood, have you heard of a rising academical named A. Einstein? I hear he has some interesting ideas about the photoelectric effect as well as gravity.// Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Tori - I met a teenaged Swiss by that name in ninety-seven. He seemed to be quite a contemplative young man with an interest in matters physical. I lent him six shillings for carriage fare and he promised to pay me back once he wins Mr. Nobel's endowment. Has he done so, do you know? I am quite certain that with interest, that loan should be more than enough to bribe the watchmen here to get me some decent scotch, or at least a cup of tea. //I don't believe he will receive Mr. Nobel's prize until the early 1920's. I'm afraid you may not receive your money, but I would greatly enjoy sharing a nice cask of Mortlach or Speyside with you.// --- J THOMPSON BRADLEY, ESQ. (U.K. CITIZEN) WRITES: //HELLO LORD %{NAME},// //May our lord Christ bless you and keep you. I am J Thompson Bradley Esq. a United Kingdom Citizen and Registered Barrister. I am Attorney of Law to the deceased Oil Executive Mr. John Hamilton of BRITISH PETROLUEM Inc. based in Basra Iraq.// //On June 13, 2012 my client Mr. HAMILTON was killed in an aeroplane accident in Iraq. At the time of his death certain oil leases in my client's name had been sold and the money deposited into his confidential fiduciary account. I have been authorized by BRITISH PETROLUEM to repatriate my client's funds to his next of kin. However, Mr. HAMILTON has no known living relatives and under UNITED KINGDOM law within three months if a next of kin is still unfound his funds must revert to Her Majesties' Government.// //I write to you today in the hopes of your assistance in repatriating the £25million to United Kingdom of funds currently held in escrow in UNITED BANK OF IRAQ to allow us time to find next of kin of mr HAMILTON. In return for your aid we would pay a fee of (10%) of funds.// //All I require is your honest and confidential co-operation to see this deal through. Please contact me with your full names, address in UNITED KINGDOM, bank account number, and fax no. to allow us to further discuss this situation.// //Your obedient servant,// //J THOMPSON BRADLEY ESQ. (UK CITIZEN)// Lord Blackwood replies: "Aeroplane"? "Iraq"? "Fax"? "2012"? Dear me, is this another one of those bizarre religious pitches from the Latter-Day Saints? --- Spacecadet writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //Boxers or briefs?// Lord Blackwood replies: Union suit. --- McKinteer writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, //I am wondering if, in your travels of the North American Continent, you had the pleasure of meeting the inventor and industrialist Samuel Colt before his untimely death in 1862. If so, did he perchance gift to you any special sort of firearm to which the public was never made aware of? For I have heard rumors that before his passing, he designed and built a most excellent pistol which had the capability of being able to slay even the vilest of hellspawn with a single round.// Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, yes, the Improved Anti-Daemon Revolver Mark V. I'm afraid I no longer have it in my collection - I bequeathed it to my little brother, the archbishop, as a Christmas gift. Such a thing comes in quite handy in the career of an exorcist, you know. --- Dr. Iceberg writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, //Do you prefer hot or cold climates? Also, what would you say is the most dangerous continent?// Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Iceberg - now that is an amusing question coming from a person named such as you are! Truly, I would not trade the climate of my native England for any other, but there are times in one's life when one enjoys a respite from the cold and the fog. The tropical climates are, by the nature of the civilisations to be found there, the lands where I do much of my adventuring, and I have grown quite accustomed to the warm sun, the thick humid air, and the refreshing cool of the oceans and rivers. As to your latter question, I would venture to say that Antarctica, that great unexplored mass to the south, may be the deadliest of them all - for while it (so far as I have yet determined) possesses no great beasts or savage races to beguile the explorer, it has neither any fauna, nor fruits and vines, nor even any tree to harvest for firewood, and the perpetual freezing cold and long nights would surely drive any man to madness or death. I have heard rumours that it was not always the case - the journals of Piri Re'is, the mad Turk, suggest that it was but a few centuries ago a green and verdant land. How could such a realm be transformed so quickly in the overall scheme of things? Perhaps one day I shall charter an observation in search of clues thereunto. --- Scratskinner writes: //How long do you suppose it'll take before those Foundation blackguards catch wind of this enterprise, and put a stop to it?// Lord Blackwood replies: I have every confidence in Deeds' ability to elude detection, Mr. Scratskinner. Though he is but a simple valet of working-class birth, his ability to move in the shadows rivals that of the //ninja// assassins of the Orient. In fact, on the occasion of my visit to Edo... ah, but that's a tale for another time. --- Foundation Agent Baxter writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, Why has this metal sphere we found in your collection started ticking? And how can we make it stop? Thank you for any assistance.// Lord Blackwood replies: I fear I cannot say except to assure you that it must be deactivated as soon as possible. I would be more than happy to render my assistance, but the fools in charge here refuse to let me examine it, even in spite of the fact that it clearly attempted to speak to me when I saw it carried past me the other day. --- Jethro writes: //How did you first meet Deeds? Has he ever made you upset, disappointed, etc? And has he always lived in that bell of his?// Lord Blackwood replies: It was 1837 - the day of Queen Victoria's coronation, indeed. I had just returned to my London estate after watching the festivities and there he was, in the midst of pressing and starching my shirts. He wouldn't say how he'd gotten in, or who sent him - but he has been my valet ever since, and never has he been anything but completely faithful and diligent in his responsibilties. (Well, aside from that unfortunate incident in the Wyoming Territory with the drunken Indian, but none of us expected him to have a Tomahawk, of all things, hidden up //there.//) --- Foundation Historian Gallow writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, We are currently investigating the process by which Ireland became independent from the British Empire. We have a theory that the Irish rebels may have used some kind of reality-distorting artifact, possibly ancient and possibly dug up immediately south-west of the Hill of Tara, to either achieve sufficient military success to persuade the British to withdraw, or to divert history into a reality in which the nationalists won. Can you throw any light on this matter?// Lord Blackwood replies: The Irish? Independent? By jingo, old sport, that's the funniest thing I've heard all week. --- Researcher Cobalt writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, An associate of mine has wagered that you may have heard of [[[SCP-1326]]], or a similar tome. What do you say to that?// Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Cobalt - I must say, the terms you amateurs use to refer to the mysterious and wonderful artifacts our world is teeming with are so dry. Where is your sense of wonder? I cannot say that I have encountered the particular volume you mention - had I, I no doubt could have spent decades simply in cataloging its contents. I am made to understand it even contains references to myself, which I find most disconcerting - for I have never consented to my memoirs being put into publication, and if the original producer of this book has profited from it, then I intend to speak to a solicitor about the matter as soon as I am freed from this facility. Researcher Cobalt replies: //I see. It is rather fortunate for my associate that there was no money involved in the wager.// //I was actually the one responsible for SCP-1326's original documentation, and unoficially dubbed the tome "The Lexicon"; unfortunately, protocol only lets me refer to it by its official SCP designation. As for its anomalous documentation of your adventures, I am afraid a solicitor may not be of much help in the matter of copyright; I fear that book's author may hail from an alternate timeline, or even another reality, and would be beyond our reach or jurisdiction.// //Speaking of your adventures, did the one described in the Lexicon really occur?// --- William, in the Foundation mail room writes: Dear Lord Blackwood: We have received an unusual parcel from a "Mr. Moth" via post from London. Perchance, did you order something? If we can't identify the item, protocol definitely prohibits passing it along to you. Lord Blackwood replies: Dash it all! He was supposed to address it to "Pervical Wilburforce" so that Deeds could secret it to me after it was dead-lettered. Are you quite sure you couldn't just allow me to access it on Sundays? I assure you it poses no danger to anyone - it is merely a trans-Akashic codex viewer. I've grown quite bored without my library at hand, you see, and I was hoping to be able to use it to revise my old notes and finally get around to learning Greek. --- Dr. Edison writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever been to Japan?// Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Edison - Deeds and I made a secret trip there in fourty-six, posing as Dutchmen, in order to retrieve some documents for the Duke of Edinburgh. I met a strange fellow named "Darkblade" there - he seemed to think quite highly of himself, though I found him to be little more than arrogant, aggrandizing, and incapable of holding his own in a stand-up fight. (And possibly, if I may say so, a Bohemian.) --- Spacecadet writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, Just for the sake of argument, would you actually recognize a sea slug if you saw one?// Lord Blackwood replies: You insult me, Mr. Spacecadet! Mr. Darwin and I catalogued no fewer than seventy-three species of sea slug during our voyages in the south seas! I daresay I could not only recognize one at fifty paces, but tell you its species, how old it was, and what it had eaten for breakfast that day. --- BRIT BRITISHMAN writes: //G'DAY, GOVINAH, PIP PIP CHERRIO OFF TO THE FIVE 'AN DIME APPLES AN PARES BLOODY WANKING HELL OFF YER ROCKER GOD SAVE THE QUEEN FOR KING AND COUNTRY BY OUR MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE! // Lord Blackwood replies: Yes... quite. --- Dr. Edison writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever met a funny man who owns a time-traveling blue box that's bigger on the inside?// Lord Blackwood replies: I cannot say that I have. I did, however, once meet a strange man in possession of a glass kiosk he claimed could travel through time. He called himself Rufus and urged me to be excellent. He had two idle youths in his company who spoke with a strange accent and used words the likes of which I hope to never hear again - if this be the future of mankind, I begin to wonder whether all my efforts have been for naught. --- Nyehcat writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever had a run-in with the Church of the Broken God?// Lord Blackwood replies: Do you mean the Unitarians? --- Lord James T. Archibald writes: //My dearest Lady Blackwood, To you I can barely express how I miss your touch, your voice, your smell. I cannot wait until next Tuesday for us to be together again. Your supple breasts and moist lips call to me from that terrible estate of your husband's. Last Thursday in the cabbage patch you made a proposal to me after a fervent session of love making; that we run away together from your dreadful husband and my tyrant of a wife, and start a life in the new world. I have decided to accept your proposal. Meet me outside the Hogswash Inn on Friday night wearing a green scarf, and we will away together to Virginia. Make sure to keep this letter safe from the prying eyes of your husband and his servants.// Lord Blackwood replies: My mother was a //saint//, you varlet! I ought to horse-whip you on the front steps of your club for this sort of obscene slander! As soon as I effect my escape from this facility, I shall find you and we will settle this in the ancient manner afforded to men of honour (not that you have any, I am sure). --- Harry Flashman writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //Regarding the ancient manner of resolving disputes afforded to men of honour that you allude to, would you have any advice for a young gentleman about to settle his first such affair of honour? A reply before dawn would be most appreciated, not to say helpful.// //Yours, H. Flashman// //P.S. Please bear my best regards to your lady wife.// Lord Blackwood replies: As the challengee (I presume), you ought to have the right to select your weapon of choice. Have you any particular specialty - pistol, epee, perhaps the smallsword? If not, choose that which you know your rival is lacking in skill with. If nothing else, simply allow your rival to take first blood and call it done - unless he is an utterly contemptible rogue, this should satisfy his need for satisfaction. (Incidentally, if you do not desist from speaking of my familial relations in such a manner, then the best advice I can give you is to cheat - for I never lose.) --- Gilgamesh writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //Have you ever found Excalibur? If so, can I have it?// //-The Great And Powerful GILGAMESH!!!!!!!!// Lord Blackwood replies: Twice, in fact, but I fear it is no longer in my possession. The Lady of the Lake is a surprisingly adept card-shark. --- Grug writes: //Wurg naf, Lord Blackwood, hal darl daff!// //Ror nuff hoff muusel draff, Bur hoff oss iriff loss.// //Murrn ror purn haff nansel ram? Mur nas oss woff huubess juss?// //Oss ven rab,// Grug Lord Blackwood replies: If you say so. Grug replies: //Holl, Lord Blackwood, nol ram. Err waff raff wurg murrn marr. Kaff sil na "Problem" nif tal English. Morlaf vaf kril tarr. Werf wurg raff woll kurf oss. Poss rofs zet aussnal refnel kreff, sil na narrim. Quass nerrif na darl zoff genocide darr. Varg wurg lurr nef posskeff. Raff kwor bor na remoff zet kral waff bref, neffil zaffer extinct groff, murrn ruff nuclear breff haff England wurg... Kroff ved,// Grug Lord Blackwood replies: Are you in need of an alienist, my dear boy? Grug replies: //Raff ross oss vern. Murrn werrin porr English fon ref. Nerr: {{"Us. Genocide. England. Nuclear. Soon."}} Kroff ved,// Grug Lord Blackwood replies: Dear boy, please sober up before you try to write anything else. --- Spacecadet writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //I was wondering if you would favor us with your thoughts on the late civil war in the States.// //Sincerely, Spacecadet// Lord Blackwood replies: Ours was better. --- Agent Baxter writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //I am writing for the Site-17 newsletter an article on what clothes are the height of fashion this season. Can you tell me what you are wearing at the moment, and what your sartorial plans for this summer will be?// Lord Blackwood replies: Unfortunately, Agent Baxter, your confederates have not seen it fit to release my full wardrobe into my possession after they took custody of it from my country estate. Perhaps if you could put in a good word with them I could give you a more proper lecture on the nature of proper English fashion. (See to it that they drain the room of water as well; wool does not hold up well under the circumstances of the climate I find myself imprisoned in.) As to the summer, Agent, one cannot go wrong with khaki if one finds oneself in the tropics, but if it is an English summer you have in mind, I am told that a less formal form of the traditional Evening Dress has of late been adapted by the //hoi polloi//. It is my personal opinion that the ascot tie is the most elegant accessory a gentleman can adorn himself with, though I understand that the four-in-hand style so beloved by Prince Albert the Younger has made inroads lately. I do not expect that his fashion sensibilities will long endure; however, the brand of canned tobacco marketed under his name is most superb. Could you perhaps see to acquiring some for me? I have made several covert attempts to request a delivery of it by tele-phone; however, every tobacconist whom I have spoken to on the matter has responded most rudely. --- Foundation Weaponeer Buggle writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //Who do you think would win in a fight between a brown bear and a hammerhead shark?// Lord Blackwood replies: I cannot say, Mr. Buggle, that I can envision a scenario where such a confrontation would occur. Would that I still had the address of my old associate at the Royal Centre for Selachian Pugilistics, for he was once the world's foremost expert on subjects of such a nature. --- ██████ █. ██████ writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //I am the writer of the// Brink Dangerguts Adventures, //a harmless set of novels about the world of mercenaries and explorers which for some reason the O5s consider a libelous security breach. But anyway, in my next book I am considering including an epic chase through the streets of Beirut in which our hero seeks shelter and weapons in a shady bar before leaping out to win the day in an epic fight intended to be a combination of// The Bourne Ultimatum, Oliver! //and// Bad Boys II. //As I am unable to go on leave to do any research in the Lebanon in case the Foundation works out who I am, can you recommend a suitable location for these happenings? You can be the book's dedicatee if you want.// Lord Blackwood replies: Do the Ottomans now permit the open establishment of bars in the Levant? My, how the world has changed since I found myself behind these walls! I knew of no legal establishments that the Sultanate would countenance during my last visit to those parts - however, should your character find his way to Cairo, there is an excellent establishment in the basement of the French consulate there. I must admit that I am not familiar with the books you name, though your description brings to mind the adventure novels of Stevenson or that American fellow Clemens whom I met while he was touring the Holy Land in sixty-seven. I got the impression that he was unimpressed with my anecdotes, though he promised not to describe me unflatteringly in the text he was writing. --- Space Core writes: //Get to space. Wanna get to space. Can you get me to space? SPAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!// Lord Blackwood replies: My old associate Dr. Hightower is the best at space, good boy. --- Dr. Edison writes: //How do I get all this semen off my keyboard?// Lord Blackwood replies: Good heavens, boy, that's just foul. --- McKineteer writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //What was your opinion of the two world wars which we have had?// Lord Blackwood replies: "World war"? That is not a term I am familiar with, Mr. McKineteer. Do you perhaps refer to the Crimean War, and the wars against Napoleon? Nasty business, those - I think (and hope) that we shall never see another affray as bloody as the former, or as drawn out as the latter. --- Murrin Pinethorn writes: //Can you describe your family, Lord Blackwood? You mentioned a brother.// Lord Blackwood replies: I do not speak often of my family, Mr. Pinethorn, for I would not wish it to be thought I was riding on their coat-tails. My father is the esteemed Sir Edward Thomas George Blackwood, who I am sure needs no introduction, and I am the second of his four children. Admiral Sir Stephen Blackwood is the eldest of us, and Archbishop Clifford Blackwood the youngest; between he and I is Duchess Catherine Blackwood (being the wife of the Duke of Brandenburg). It has been some time since I saw them all together; the last time was most eventful, and perhaps you will sometime have an opportunity to read my diaries about the occasion. --- Doktori writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //If you could bring only two weapons with you for a prolonged journey through the African veldt, what would they be? Also, how many porters would you think would be necessary for such a journey? Thank you for your time.// Lord Blackwood replies: One of my destabilizing muskets and possibly a pistol - though if you count a machete as a weapon, then I should have to take that in stead of the pistol, for such a blade is invaluable in the darkest regions of the continent. I should want for at least half a dozen porters, I should think, and if possible one or two native guides familiar with the lay of the land. (Ensure, should you be planning a trip yourself, that your guides be Christian - I nearly met an ill fate in sixty-two as the result of a Punjabi guide who turned out to be a member of the Thuggee.) --- CITIZEN O' US OF A writes: //MURICA// Lord Blackwood replies: God save the Queen. --- Nyehcat writes: //I say, how did you convince your brother that the Swedish had invaded Newcastle? That might make for a riveting tale.// Lord Blackwood replies: King Oscar owed me a favour. --- Agent Thesson writes //Hello kind fellow! It seems I have an undocumented species of Carp on my desk. I don't know where it came from but it appears to have lungs. Isn't that just DANDY! Should I Put it in a loving zoo to keep it from sucking on my finger or just give it to a fellow researcher?// Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, yes, the Patagonian lungcarp! Magnificent beasts. Would that I had access to my laboratory so that I could perform a proper examination for you - perhaps in the meantime it would be best to observe its natural behaviours. --- O5-█ writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //What are your thoughts about [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/fragment:scp-1173-a this business in Samothrace]?// Lord Blackwood replies: I do not believe I am particularly familiar with any business in that nation. --- Agent Adam Henderson writes: //Lord Blackwood, I've been wondering about your views on the rights of non-human but sapient creatures such as [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-562 Centipede Nymphs] or [http://www.scp-wiki.net/from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood King Alaric the Fifth]// //Also, have you ever had any contact with the individual or group known as Dr. Wondertainment?// Lord Blackwood replies: I have wracked my brain many nights over the question of King Alaric and his "animal kingdom", as it were. If you have read my diaries of that encounter, you know as well as I do that he and his followers are Christian, or claim to be - but whether the beasts of the forest have souls in need of salvation is a topic that was never addressed by the instructors at Eton. As to your second question - I knew an Edmund Wondertainment many years ago in Manchester, though he was a blacksmith and not a doctor. He was not an educated man, but he had wisdom and ambitions beyond his station - he dreamed of making toys for children, and hoped through his earnings to one day send his son to university and thereby be able to care for him so that in old age he could pursue his dream. --- E. Elric: //Have you ever dabbled in alchemy? If so, do you have any insights into the creation of the Great Work, AKA the Philosopher's Stone?// Lord Blackwood replies: I have never dabbled myself, although I do have some associates familiar with the art of alchemy. I have had need of their consultations on several occasions. --- Grand Dreadlord Xifax Lightbane //Salutations, Lord Blackwood The Black Counsel requests your presence at the Eternal Citadel of The Seventh Eye regarding the acquisition of soulstones used to keep [[[SCP-1333-J\| THE SCREAMING MAN!]]] bound to Gaspar's Revenants. Should you ignore our request, the Akashic Glyphs will rupture, and neither heaven nor hell will be able to halt the ensuing chaos.// Lord Blackwood replies: Dear me, Mr. Lightbane. As much as I would be delighted to assist you with this no doubt urgent matter, I fear the guardsmen here are utterly insistent on my not leaving this tank. Perhaps you could put in a word with them? --- John Swindle writes: //Good day Lord Blackwood! You may be pleased to know that I for one humbly hold you in highest esteem, enjoy reading your adventures, insights and wisdom, receive your publication to the World-Wide Web in the Americas, and am simply one of many in all of these regards. I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and that I do not damper them terribly with the following information, which I feel must be passed along to you. I regret to inform you that I as well as the rest of your subscribers remain unfortunately ignorant as to the true nature of your appearance; living witnesses of yourself seem to be impossible for any of us to locate save Mr. Deeds (I personally suspect this to be the elaborate work of your captors), and Deeds himself, despite his elusiveness from your guardsmen as well as the many other fine qualities that he possesses, is tragically lacking the means to properly retrieve a record of your visage, in artistic form, accurate photographic form via George Eastman's photographic film (I understand the human eye would fare no better in any event given the distorting effects in which your captivity in water produces), or descriptive form, as he insists he is bound by confidentiality to his employer. With this in mind, would you humbly provide us with a description of yourself? We loyal subscribers do have a vague idea based upon various publications to which we have access, yet I trust that you and I both would prefer thoroughness to such a degree that a proper portrait truly fitting of a Lord such as yourself could be painted from such information, by an artist worthy to paint a gentlemen of your rank. You need spare no expense, as it would be my honor to finance and circulate your proper portrait.// //Yours in Christ, J.C.S.// Lord Blackwood replies: Would that I could conduct a proper sitting for a daguerrotype at this time, for I am not as young a man as I once was when last I had a proper sitting in ninety-seven. The closer I get to fifty, the more gray I find in my neatly-trimmed brown mane and my proud English moustache, and I find it more and more difficult to read without my spectacles. Let no one say that age has sapped my vitality, however; for I am as fit and barrel-chested as ever I was, and when the good Mr. Lincoln and I had occasion to meet in sixty-three I found that he stood as tall as I. My eyes are blue, for which my brown-eyed siblings teased me constantly as a child, alleging that I was a bastard or a Mongoloid (a claim abetted, no doubt, by the bout of left-handedness that plagues me to this day). Though my face and hands are unblemished, were you to observe me in the buff you would find my arms and trunk cris-crossed every which way with a lifetime's worth of scars, every one of them proudly earned in battle or in exploration. I cannot say more, for modesty's sake; but allow me to assure you that the reputation of the Blackwood family of being possessed heartily of stamina and virility is not one ill-assigned. --- Dr. Edison Writes: //What would you say if I told you that a man of African descent was elected president of the United States of America? -Dr. Edison// Lord Blackwood replies: Of South African descent, certainly? --- L. Heartstrings Writes: //Have you ever visited a land of magical talking horses?// eric_h writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood: I keep hearing rumours about talking horses in London. Have you ever met any?// Lord Blackwood replies: Once, yes. I found it highly unsettling and in no way whatsoever whimsical, satrical, or condemnatory of the British class system. --- Dr. Bright Writes: //What do you think about Antidisestablishmentarianism?// Lord Blackwood replies: I am an antidisestablishmentarian, sir, and I am proud to call myself one. Let the atheists and reprobates sally off to France if they wish it. Incidentally - have we met? I seem to recall encountering a Mr. Bright in Africa back in seventy-four. --- Mrs. Gallow Writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, From your experience, do you think pufferkittens are a suitable pet for a 14 year-old?// Lord Blackwood replies: I would have no objection, Mrs. Gallow, as long as one ensures that the beasts are not able to breed. Blackwood Manor was overrun by hundreds of the things when my sister secreted a pair into her room as a child. The conservatory still smells of dander. --- S. Bad Writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, How do you type with boxing gloves on?// Lord Blackwood replies: With great difficulty, I would imagine. Mr. Remington's typographical machine is difficult enough to operate as intended. --- Darkblade Writes: //HOW DARE YOU SPREAD LIES ABOUT DARKBLADE! I WILL DESTROY YOOOOOOUUUUUU!// Lord Blackwood replies: I apologize if my words have caused any insult, ma'am. --- Spacecadet writes: //Dear sir, What is it like to live amongst people with so many odd// idees fixees //on the subject of sea slugs? And how do you suppose one comes to have these fixations in the first place?// Lord Blackwood replies: It is hardly that difficult to understand. Sea slugs are quite fascinating creatures indeed; I could happily spend the rest of my days merely in cataloguing the hundreds of varieties found in the South Seas. --- Mr. Robert Pattinson writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, I am an Englishman working in a foreign country, far from home and unsure whom to trust. I understand that your exploits have been famed for many years-what do you find the best way to cope with feelings of paranoia, anxiety and depression, especially with newspapermen following you around?// Lord Blackwood replies: Your question reminds me of a strange man I met many years ago in the northwest of America - he was old and possessed of great strength, but was forever trapped in the body of an adolescent, and his flesh seemed to shimmer and coruscate when touched by the sun's rays. As I recall, he had taken to impersonating a teen-ager and attending primary school with the young people of the region, for he found that those who looked the same age as he were more accepting of his oddities. --- Dr Xanderfeld writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood, My skin has taken to the rot before my appointed time, and I fear there is very little I can do to reverse the process. A colleague of mine recommended I ask you if you had knowledge of anything sufficient to return to me the youth of my flesh, as they claimed you have seen wonders beyond the wildest imaginings of men in your adventures. So tell me, have you ever found something capable of such feats?// Lord Blackwood replies: Woe, Dr. Xanderfield, but I cannot report that I have made such a discovery. In my younger days I quested in the Floridian peninsula for the legendary Fountain of Youth, but found instead only inscrutable Indians, rancid swamp waters, and the ravages of malaria. I have heard tales of a cosmetic application which effortlessly conceals the scars of age, but I am told that it is a terribly addictive compound, and that one long left without its benefit will find that their skin rots and sloughs away far more rapidly than if had been left along to begin with. I would certainly not recommend that treatment; however, if you are sitting for a photographic portrait, I am told that a generous application of make-up can do wonders to conceal wrinkles and give the camera cause to portray one as years or decades younger than is truly the case. --- Lord Darkbirch writes: //Lord Blackwood,// //You are a man with exquisite taste. Do you enjoy the works of modern authors such as Dickens and Hawthorne? My children adore their works, but I simply cannot stand their prose. I have demanded their tutors to stay true to literature in the classical sense, yet I just found out last week that she had been disobeying me and sneaking the works of Burnett and James into the house. Naturally, I dismissed her, yet my children has already been convinced that this is great literary work. I have read the works, and I have found them to be pure rubbish. Why does my children find them so enticing?// Lord Blackwood replies: I have always found the works of Dickens and Hawthorne most interesting, for the good gentlemen elucidate the status of the working-class in a manner which Providence and circumstance have prevented me from observing first-hand; I do, however, find his tendencies towards sesquipedalianity to be most bothersome and distracting. (I am told that the news-papers of London pay writers of fiction by the word for their serials; had I the inclination to do so, I could easily have become their equal without setting foot outside London!) I must confess to not being largely familiar with the works of James or Burnett, though I had occasion to read Hardy's //The Mayor of Casterbridge// while traveling aboard the Orient Express in eighty-nine; I found it to be a most horrifying tale of how even a man of an intellectual disposition and a repentant nature, regardless of the circumstances of his birth, might rise to fame and glory only to fall even beyond the point from which he had begun. I immediately upon having finished it offered Deeds an additional pound per year on his salary, though he graciously declined the offer. --- Goodwill writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //If circumstances came to be so unfortunate, would you sooner retire as a naturalist and adventurer, or denounce your loyalty to England and her Church?// Lord Blackwood replies: I should sooner be flayed alive and made a feast for cannibals, Mr. Goodwill, than denounce England and her Church. God in His wisdom has made the laws of science rigid and eternal; but our church and our state are things of men, temporal and vulnerable. The Earth shall not move or fall asunder if I abandon it, but England, for the want of a single loyal subject to wave her banner, could easily be lost to history. It is the duty of all her subjects to do their best to ensure that this doom may never come to pass. --- Ch00bakka wirtes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //Have you heard about the phenomenon of "[[[SCP-1841-EX \| Lizstomania]]]"? Some fellows at the Royal Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria claim that it may be cause by some supernatural or otherwise abnormal effect centered on Mr. Lizst. Have you ever come into contact with anything like this in your travels? And do you find Mr. Lizst as dreamy as I do?// Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, Liszt! I must confess I briefly contracted the "Liszt fever" in forty-one. My participations in the Great Austrian Warlock Hunt brought me to Berlin, where I found the young composer beset on all sides by fanatical ladies. I assisted the man in making his way to the safety of his hotel, where he favored me with a private performance. Had I been born a lady, I think I might have proposed marriage to him - but common sense prevailed, and I beat a hasty retreat before embarrassing myself. --- Dr. Rights writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //I want your babies. Preferably human ones though this isn't absolutely a requirement. How do you think I should go about achieving this goal?// Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, a lady has come a-courting! Splendid! Tell me, ma'am, what pastimes do you fancy? What is your favorite colour? Are you, I hope, Church of England? --- Emissary the Sixth writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //Have you ever, intentionally or accidentally, swapped bodies with that of another organism? Also, what is, in your experience, the best way to avoid giving into the urge to murder someone?// //P.S. Have you ever heard the joke about the man everyone thought was a sea slug?// --- Shulk writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //A girl that I had been in love with for the longest time was recently killed by an army of robots. How would I go about avenging her?// //Regards, Shulk// --- Heropon Riki writes: //Dear Blackwoodpon,// //How do I become world famous greatest heropon ever?// --- Major Tom writes: //What do you feel, regarding to the current queen, Queen Elizabeth II? Hopefully she's as good as Queen Victoria?// --- John Swindle writes: //Salutations once again Lord Blackwood! I must open with an apology- while I have commissioned your portrait several times over, I've simply been unable to procure an artist with sufficient talent to accurately capture your virility on canvas, much less the fine details of your proudly-worn scars. I will happily accept recommendations to this end from you. Having said that, I find a collegue of mine to be in a most unfortunate bind. Having recently claimed victory over a thaumaturge with my assistance, and against my insistence to the contrary, he had chosen to take into possession said thaumaturge's weapon, which I believe to be the cause of his transmutation into a telepathic lamprey. Thus I consult your expertise- do you know of any means by which men can reverse this transmutation? I'm afraid this is a matter of some urgency. You see, my collegue is in a state of grave distress precisely as one might expect from being made aware of such a traumatic experience, and I fear that with such distress (of which the body of a lamprey is naturally ill-equipped to endure), the thaumaturge may yet at last claim his life. I will procure any cures of which you know post haste, though due to the experiences I have described herein, I would very much prefer that no cure involve me procuring and subsequently lending my trust to a practitioner of thaumaturgy.// //Yours in Christ, J.C.S.// --- Dr. Andre writes: //What's cooler than being cool?// Lord Blackwood replies: The state of being chilled in a fashion comparable to frozen water. --- [[[SCP-275]]] writes: //Dear Mr Blackwood,// //I have been informed that you were alive in the nineteenth century, and were quite the world traveler. Might you have ever visited Ottoman territory and heard of, or possibly even met, a young girl with impenetrable skin? If so, would you have any knowledge as to her origins, or perhaps her name?// //I ask purely out of idle curiosity.// --- Trinitite writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //How do you feel about the Foundation classifying you as anomalous?// --- Guilliman writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //As you are a devout man, I was wondering if you were aware of [[[SCP-343]]], and if you are, what is your opinion on him?// --- Bryx writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //I should like to inform you that the "World Wide Web", the entity which your most adept servant has been liaising with on your behalf, is not, in fact, a periodical, but a hub of information which any sentient being can access by the use of a very common terminal that is connected to it. Please give us your views regarding these developments, not least the fact that your audience and pool of eager contributors is much larger than you may have originally anticipated.// --- "Banzai" Bill writes: //Dear Lord Blackwood,// //I have recently come into the possession of a number of artefacts of the most unusual and diverse variety, and I have had some difficulty in operating one of them. Are you perchance familiar with a shoulder-mounted miniature-cannon/rifle designed to, in the words of the message found alongside it, "shoot Magnetism"? And while I think of it, did you ever manage to discover how that magma rifle we found in '83 (I was the porter's son) automatically replenished its ammunition? The cache of aforementioned artifacts contained an identical device, and as there are now multiples, am willing to attempt disassembly of mine, but wished to inquire as to whether you have had any success with yours.// --- Lady Gertrude E. Hamilton writes: //What the fuck is WRONG with you, Theo? I haven't seen you in weeks, you haven't replied to any of my telegrams - your servants say you're just going through some shit, but three weeks is long enough, man! Until now, I could never understand why the Duchess of Brabant said you were trash, and that I could do way better, but this whole experience has finally opened my fucking eyes! If you don't respond to this, we are THROUGH! And I MEAN it this time!// --- Dr. Wire writes: //I was wondering if you have ever heard of an ancient city by the peculiar name of [[[SCP-4840 \| Audapaupadopolis]]]? I ask because I have heard mentions of this legend and those related to it, and I thought to ask someone who specializes in this kind of stuff.// --- Dr. █ writes: //Are you affiliated with UnLondon in any way? Are you aware of it's existence per chance?// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: blackwood.png > Author: [[user Smapti]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-08-01T01:21:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "big-cheese-horace", "blackwood", "collaboration", "doctor-edison", "doctor-iceberg", "tale" ]	Ask Lord Blackwood - SCP Foundation	123	[ "scp-1625", "scp-136", "scp-1308", "scp-096", "scp-1326", "fragment:scp-1173-a", "scp-562", "scp-1333-j", "scp-1841-ex", "scp-275", "scp-343", "scp-4840", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/ask-lord-blackwood/blackwood.png" ]	13930795	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ask-lord-blackwood
back-into-hell	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Back Into Hell, a Foundation poem</span><br/> The howling wind steals the breath<br/> I would have used to chant;<br/> Boots, belt, gun, mask<br/> My gear, my only chance</p> <p>The rear doors open wider<br/> The “go” light blinks to life<br/> I follow my commander<br/> Out into the sky</p> <p>Plunging downward, rising panic<br/> I still don’t know what is the target<br/> Am I falling to my death<br/> Am I heading into hell?</p> <p>The radio flares, static in my ears<br/> Broken words not mine to hear<br/> Clouds part, I see a landscape<br/> I see a place that’s gripped in fear</p> <p>Feet find ground, my head yet spinning<br/> Friends are screaming, rifles spitting<br/> Things surround me, tall and dark<br/> I feel the devil grip my heart</p> <p>Some letters and number is what they say<br/> That’s all they give them for a name<br/> Stamp them; label, date and time<br/> These darkest nightmares from our minds</p> <p>Containment is a word to me<br/> A bureaucratic fantasy<br/> A white coat will keep you safe<br/> When Kevlar fails and weapons break</p> <p>The task force folds, retreat is called<br/> Not one of them is yet to fall<br/> These things are not born of this realm<br/> Through withering fire, they overwhelm</p> <p>Engines scream over my head<br/> I tumble down and wait for death<br/> The bombs explode, the missiles hit<br/> I cower and cry inside my pit</p> <p>I stand up in a different world<br/> Where fires sputter and smoke whirls<br/> My friends are dead, I am alone with fear<br/> From out of the darkness, more appear</p> <p>I dream of this when I can sleep<br/> After a pill and a solid drink<br/> I still remember how I felt<br/> When my orders arrive:<br/> Back into hell.<br/> <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Taken from the journal of Agent Baomer, commander of MTF Sigma-7</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="/back-into-hell">Back Into Hell</a>" by tomode, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/back-into-hell">https://scpwiki.com/back-into-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]] [[/>]] __Back Into Hell, a Foundation poem__ The howling wind steals the breath I would have used to chant; Boots, belt, gun, mask My gear, my only chance The rear doors open wider The “go” light blinks to life I follow my commander Out into the sky Plunging downward, rising panic I still don’t know what is the target Am I falling to my death Am I heading into hell? The radio flares, static in my ears Broken words not mine to hear Clouds part, I see a landscape I see a place that’s gripped in fear Feet find ground, my head yet spinning Friends are screaming, rifles spitting Things surround me, tall and dark I feel the devil grip my heart Some letters and number is what they say That’s all they give them for a name Stamp them; label, date and time These darkest nightmares from our minds Containment is a word to me A bureaucratic fantasy A white coat will keep you safe When Kevlar fails and weapons break The task force folds, retreat is called Not one of them is yet to fall These things are not born of this realm Through withering fire, they overwhelm Engines scream over my head I tumble down and wait for death The bombs explode, the missiles hit I cower and cry inside my pit I stand up in a different world Where fires sputter and smoke whirls My friends are dead, I am alone with fear From out of the darkness, more appear I dream of this when I can sleep After a pill and a solid drink I still remember how I felt When my orders arrive: Back into hell. __Taken from the journal of Agent Baomer, commander of MTF Sigma-7__ [[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>]]	2012-06-24T19:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "poetry", "tale" ]	Back Into Hell - SCP Foundation	16	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13624354	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/back-into-hell
bell-weather	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Outside, there is a slight chill in the air. Somewhere, costumed children flicker from house to house, squealing with the anticipation of a potent, yearly sugar rush. Candles gutter in the wind from behind carved faces. The bars are full of the sloppy, intoxicated, and underdressed, a casualty of the marketing genius who had first decided that Halloween could be an excuse for nominal adults to dress like streetwalkers. Some festive soul had even hung a bucket of candy on the automated chain gun emplacements out front; it was a juxtaposition of the light-hearted and lethal that made my skin crawl. Before this was Halloween, it was a holiday where it was said the dead would walk, where the veil between the world and the underworld gave way like a haunted-house cobweb.</p> <p>For me, this was never a fun-filled holiday. It was serious work – one of the more serious nights of work that I had every year, serving the Foundation.</p> <p>My name is immaterial. They call me ‘Padre’, which is fine with me; there is a certain forced jocularity to it, reminiscent of bluff country folk and bad cop shows. I am – was – a priest, though I’ve left my Orders for a more important mission. I was one of the ones affected when SCP—oh, the number doesn’t matter, it’s long since neutralized. But I was recruited rather than made to forget; I found myself wanting to help, as if I’d been waiting all my life for an enemy I could name, a threat to souls that I could see and touch and protect humanity from. In another age, perhaps I’d have been a Templar or a crusader, a saint or a martyr; instead, I found myself in charge of SCP Task Force Psi-11, “The Gods Squad”. Our technical responsibility reads, in part: “an ad hoc team to deal with any religious or religion-related crisis or issue in the Foundation, either external or internal”. What it means in plain language: if the Foundation has a chaplaincy corps, I suppose we’re it.</p> <p>And that is why, on a chilly night in October, I am alone with a million faces.</p> <hr/> <p><em><strong>ITEM#:</strong> SCP-1446<br/> <strong>Object Class:</strong> Safe<br/> Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1446 is only active once per calendar year. Originally part of Sector-38 (located in an unmapped cave complex under the Texas Hill Country), it is now considered an immobile SCP in containment at Sector-38. During its inactive phase, SCP-1446’s only point of entry is to be locked with a dual complement of locks equal to or exceeding Class Six. During its active phase, the locked doors are to be opened, and the following additional procedures are to be initiated: SAMHAIN-026 (including salt, powdered cold iron, and running water) and TOCSIN-003.</em></p> <hr/> <p>1446 is an underground chamber, so the temperature is an even 18 degrees. This part of the system is dead, dry, so it is an excellent place to preserve things. Things like photographs – which is perhaps why someone or something, in the first few months of 2000, started posting photographs on the strangely smooth walls. Each photograph was of a Foundation operative killed in the line of duty; each shot a candid picture of one human life given in service to the greater part of humanity. Perhaps more to the point, each photograph just – appeared on the limestone walls of the chamber. Cameras showed nothing, audio showed nothing. There would just be more photos, every day – a mute testimony to lives cut short.</p> <p>The lab coats moved in, of course. There was nothing unusual about the photos, nothing unusual about the cave. Tests were inconclusive, unresponsive, mute. Summer came and went, and after the 116C Incident in August, Sector-38 was short on personnel. Somehow, the wall of photos didn’t seem as important.</p> <hr/> <p><em><strong>Description:</strong> SCP-1446 is a stone wall 8.2 meters high and 37.8 meters long, the south wall of a dead cave located at [EXPUNGED], part of Sector-38. ██% of the wall is covered with a mosaic of identical, 5-cm square photographs of individuals identified as Foundation personnel killed in the line of duty. New photos appear irregularly, within [EXPUNGED] of the individual’s death. Pictures only appear for those personnel killed; natural deaths do not result in manifest.</em></p> <hr/> <p>I am not wearing any priestly garb tonight – it’s tank top, running shorts, good shoes, and a pair of heavy canvas gardening gloves. I check my watch – 9:36 pm. The trick-or-treaters will be retreating now, returning to their homes with their mask-gotten booty, just ahead of the darkness that will finger its way quietly down the streets as porch lights are extinguished. It will be the day before the new moon tonight; the spook squad says that 1446’s yearly activity cycle is made more or less active by moon phase. A waning moon, just before new, means that only ice and Oxycontin will let me raise my arms tomorrow morning.</p> <p>This is the sixth time I have done this. The bell above my head gleams in the dim light; I can see the old seal of the city of Glasgow on its side, lettering below spelling out ‘St Mungo’s’ and ‘1641’. It was rung for two hundred years and more at funerals; it kept the evil spirits away and helped the dead rest easy. I grimace at that thought, a humorless smile that does little to cheer me. For the sixth time, I check the great hemp rope; it will hold through the four hours.</p> <hr/> <p><tt><strong>INCIDENT REPORT, SECTOR-38, 10/31/2000:</strong><br/> Precisely at 2200 hours, standard security audio reported activity in the hallway outside Chamber 091, colloquially known as the ‘Photo Room’. Security Detachment Gamma responded per protocols, and failed to check in at the required five-minute mark. Detachment Epsilon was dispatched, and found the five members of Gamma [REDACTED], along with an estimated twenty-three liters of human blood. At that point, Epsilon was attacked by [REDACTED] and was forced to retreat with casualties.<br/> In the next four hours, ██% of the staff at Sector-38 were killed in the same manner as the members of Team Gamma. This included nine staff members who took refuge in a standard Foundation Class Three panic room. All activity ceased at 0200 hours on November 1.</tt></p> <hr/> <p>So does a photograph trap a mortal soul?</p> <p>I can’t answer that, any more than I can tell you why a Scottish ‘dede bell’, rung constantly during the four hours of SCP-1446’s active phase, keeps the monsters at bay, keeps the dead operatives – or something that looks like them – trapped in their photographs. I try not to think about why – why is for the lab coats and the Overseers. What I do is pray, shut up and listen, and do my job. And tonight, that means I will ring a bell, once every five seconds, for four hours.</p> <p>But, in the shadows of Halloween night, in a cave lit by pitiless electric light, I can’t help wondering – is this an illusion? An anomaly, a random interlocking weave of energy and time and human belief? A phenomenon with a rational, scientific answer – even if we don’t know what it is?</p> <p>Or are the souls of those killed in the line of Foundation duty not allowed to rest, even in death?</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="/bell-weather">Bell Weather</a>" by Etteilla, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bell-weather">https://scpwiki.com/bell-weather</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]] [[/>]] Outside, there is a slight chill in the air. Somewhere, costumed children flicker from house to house, squealing with the anticipation of a potent, yearly sugar rush. Candles gutter in the wind from behind carved faces. The bars are full of the sloppy, intoxicated, and underdressed, a casualty of the marketing genius who had first decided that Halloween could be an excuse for nominal adults to dress like streetwalkers. Some festive soul had even hung a bucket of candy on the automated chain gun emplacements out front; it was a juxtaposition of the light-hearted and lethal that made my skin crawl. Before this was Halloween, it was a holiday where it was said the dead would walk, where the veil between the world and the underworld gave way like a haunted-house cobweb. For me, this was never a fun-filled holiday. It was serious work – one of the more serious nights of work that I had every year, serving the Foundation. My name is immaterial. They call me ‘Padre’, which is fine with me; there is a certain forced jocularity to it, reminiscent of bluff country folk and bad cop shows. I am – was – a priest, though I’ve left my Orders for a more important mission. I was one of the ones affected when SCP—oh, the number doesn’t matter, it’s long since neutralized. But I was recruited rather than made to forget; I found myself wanting to help, as if I’d been waiting all my life for an enemy I could name, a threat to souls that I could see and touch and protect humanity from. In another age, perhaps I’d have been a Templar or a crusader, a saint or a martyr; instead, I found myself in charge of SCP Task Force Psi-11, “The Gods Squad”. Our technical responsibility reads, in part: “an ad hoc team to deal with any religious or religion-related crisis or issue in the Foundation, either external or internal”. What it means in plain language: if the Foundation has a chaplaincy corps, I suppose we’re it. And that is why, on a chilly night in October, I am alone with a million faces. ------ //ITEM#: SCP-1446 Object Class: Safe Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1446 is only active once per calendar year. Originally part of Sector-38 (located in an unmapped cave complex under the Texas Hill Country), it is now considered an immobile SCP in containment at Sector-38. During its inactive phase, SCP-1446’s only point of entry is to be locked with a dual complement of locks equal to or exceeding Class Six. During its active phase, the locked doors are to be opened, and the following additional procedures are to be initiated: SAMHAIN-026 (including salt, powdered cold iron, and running water) and TOCSIN-003.// ------ 1446 is an underground chamber, so the temperature is an even 18 degrees. This part of the system is dead, dry, so it is an excellent place to preserve things. Things like photographs – which is perhaps why someone or something, in the first few months of 2000, started posting photographs on the strangely smooth walls. Each photograph was of a Foundation operative killed in the line of duty; each shot a candid picture of one human life given in service to the greater part of humanity. Perhaps more to the point, each photograph just – appeared on the limestone walls of the chamber. Cameras showed nothing, audio showed nothing. There would just be more photos, every day – a mute testimony to lives cut short. The lab coats moved in, of course. There was nothing unusual about the photos, nothing unusual about the cave. Tests were inconclusive, unresponsive, mute. Summer came and went, and after the 116C Incident in August, Sector-38 was short on personnel. Somehow, the wall of photos didn’t seem as important. ------ //Description: SCP-1446 is a stone wall 8.2 meters high and 37.8 meters long, the south wall of a dead cave located at [EXPUNGED], part of Sector-38. ██% of the wall is covered with a mosaic of identical, 5-cm square photographs of individuals identified as Foundation personnel killed in the line of duty. New photos appear irregularly, within [EXPUNGED] of the individual’s death. Pictures only appear for those personnel killed; natural deaths do not result in manifest.// ------ I am not wearing any priestly garb tonight – it’s tank top, running shorts, good shoes, and a pair of heavy canvas gardening gloves. I check my watch – 9:36 pm. The trick-or-treaters will be retreating now, returning to their homes with their mask-gotten booty, just ahead of the darkness that will finger its way quietly down the streets as porch lights are extinguished. It will be the day before the new moon tonight; the spook squad says that 1446’s yearly activity cycle is made more or less active by moon phase. A waning moon, just before new, means that only ice and Oxycontin will let me raise my arms tomorrow morning. This is the sixth time I have done this. The bell above my head gleams in the dim light; I can see the old seal of the city of Glasgow on its side, lettering below spelling out ‘St Mungo’s’ and ‘1641’. It was rung for two hundred years and more at funerals; it kept the evil spirits away and helped the dead rest easy. I grimace at that thought, a humorless smile that does little to cheer me. For the sixth time, I check the great hemp rope; it will hold through the four hours. ------ {{INCIDENT REPORT, SECTOR-38, 10/31/2000: Precisely at 2200 hours, standard security audio reported activity in the hallway outside Chamber 091, colloquially known as the ‘Photo Room’. Security Detachment Gamma responded per protocols, and failed to check in at the required five-minute mark. Detachment Epsilon was dispatched, and found the five members of Gamma [REDACTED], along with an estimated twenty-three liters of human blood. At that point, Epsilon was attacked by [REDACTED] and was forced to retreat with casualties. In the next four hours, ██% of the staff at Sector-38 were killed in the same manner as the members of Team Gamma. This included nine staff members who took refuge in a standard Foundation Class Three panic room. All activity ceased at 0200 hours on November 1.}} ------ So does a photograph trap a mortal soul? I can’t answer that, any more than I can tell you why a Scottish ‘dede bell’, rung constantly during the four hours of SCP-1446’s active phase, keeps the monsters at bay, keeps the dead operatives – or something that looks like them – trapped in their photographs. I try not to think about why – why is for the lab coats and the Overseers. What I do is pray, shut up and listen, and do my job. And tonight, that means I will ring a bell, once every five seconds, for four hours. But, in the shadows of Halloween night, in a cave lit by pitiless electric light, I can’t help wondering – is this an illusion? An anomaly, a random interlocking weave of energy and time and human belief? A phenomenon with a rational, scientific answer – even if we don’t know what it is? Or are the souls of those killed in the line of Foundation duty not allowed to rest, even in death? [[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>]]	2012-10-22T21:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "foundation-format", "halloween", "hc2012", "horror", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Bell Weather - SCP Foundation	71	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "halloween-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14759626	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bell-weather
birthday-every-day	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Eat this," a tired-looking man in business-casual said, setting down a plate in front of Andrew. He had been escorted to a small room furnished with only a table. He looked down and blinked at the plate. On it sat a round, 12" circular birthday cake, with frosting, bearing the words "Happy Birthday Dana". Confused, he looked back up to the man. "I'm sorry…what?"</p> <p>"Eat it."</p> <p>He looked back down and looked at the cake before looking back up. "All of it?"</p> <p>"Yes."</p> <p>Andrew looked at the cake once more and then picked up the provided spoon. This must be some kind of science experiment. Resigning himself to the fact that he was probably a lab rat, and at least brightened by the prospect of cake, he took a bite. It was alright. It tasted store-bought. Yellow cake, vanilla frosting. But he sadly did not get far before looking back up again. "I hate to ask…can I get some milk?"</p> <p>The man looked over to the wall at the one-way mirror. A few minutes later another man came in with a gallon of milk and a glass. Impressed with his luck, Andrew poured one and downed it before starting on the cake again. The first half was decently easy, but once he passed two-thirds he had begun to slow. Even the milk was little help. The man noticed, surely, and kept looking at the one-way mirror. Long minutes passed in-between slow bites, but finally, a half-gallon of milk later, the task had been completed. Andrew was escorted out and placed back in his holding cell.</p> <p>-</p> <p>Andrew loved to eat.</p> <p>That had been his downfall, really; his love of eating. Of food in general. Food of all kinds. It was for this reason that he opened his New York bistro, Andy's. And things were good then…that is, until another Andy, the mayor's son, showed up with his thugs. Andy took a liking to Andrew's restaurant, and started hassling him. He demanded a cut of the business, or his father would have his shop shut down. Andrew's mistake was that he said no. And the next thing he knew the kid 's friend was reaching for a gun, and Andrew dove behind the counter and grabbed his. Andrew was quicker than the rest of them.</p> <p>-</p> <p>Andrew was returned to the room with the table on the second day. "Eat this," the man said, presenting him with another cake. the icing read "Happy Birthday Don." He was also provided, once more, with milk.</p> <p>Andrew ate the cake again, with no complaint, though it did not seem as delicious this time. Perhaps it was the cake from the day before. Either way, he took much longer to consume the thing, and afterward, he laid his head in his hands. "Oh, I think I'm gonna be sick." He was swiftly returned to his cell, where he promptly threw up a good portion of the dessert.</p> <p>-</p> <p>"Eat this," The man said, presenting a cake reading "Happy birthday Bob".</p> <p>"Why am I doing this?" Andrew asked between bites.</p> <p>"That's none of your concern."</p> <p>"Who makes these? Do you order them?"</p> <p>"That's none of your concern."</p> <p>"I used to run a bistro. We ordered our cakes."</p> <p>"Fascinating. Now eat."</p> <p>Andrew scowled and returned to his meal, which he completed in silence. Once again, his stomach could not handle the dessert, and emptied upon his return to his cell.</p> <p>-</p> <p>The next day he took a lot longer to start. "I appreciate the cake," he said, looking down at the cake reading "Happy Birthday Bill", "But this is a hell of a lot of cake to eat every day."</p> <p>"You must eat."</p> <p>Andrew scowled again before returning to his meal.</p> <p>-</p> <p>The next day he was joined by another inmate. This one, designated D-2886, was a large, flabby Hispanic man. After expressing some surprise as to the task at hand, he eagerly split the cake with Andrew. Andrew was happy to not have an entire cake to eat, even though 2886 drank most of the milk.</p> <p>-</p> <p>He tried sparking up a conversation, but discovered that the man did not speak any English. They shared their cake and milk, and all was right with the world.</p> <p>-</p> <p>A week later, however, 2886 got tired of cake. He took a few bites and then stopped. The man pointed at the cake. "Es necesario que usted coma." 2886 shook his head. Andrew continued to eat, but watched the exchange with interest. The man repeated his phrase and jabbed his finger toward the cake. In a flurry of motion, 2886 grabbed the cake and threw it right in the man's face. And then, miraculously, a new cake appeared on the table, as if from thin air. The man, 2886, and Andrew all looked at it for a long moment, and then the man drew his gun at 2886 and fired. 2886 lay dead on the floor as the man turned to Andrew. "Eat it."</p> <p>Andrew complied hastily.</p> <p>-</p> <p>Weeks passed. Each day was a new name on the cake. Other inmates came and went, with varying degrees of enthusiasm for the task, but Andrew always stayed. Perhaps they knew he would eat the cake by himself if he had to. Perhaps it was his quiet acceptance of the task presented. For whatever reason, he always ate the cake, and never further did he complain.</p> <p>-</p> <p>One day Andrew was escorted into the room with the table. The man seemed a little different. A bit of a smile graced the sides of his mouth as he presented the plate. On it was a cake bearing the words "Happy Bar Mitzvah Steven". The man also presented him with a gallon of milk and, for the first time, a cup of coffee.</p> <p>"This is different," Andrew remarked, cutting a spoonful of cake out of the molded dessert.</p> <p>The man shrugged. "I've been told you're being kept around a while. You should consider yourself lucky. Most of the time we get rid of you guys."</p> <p>Andrew sighed and took a bite. "Wonderful. I should mention that I hate cake."</p> <p>"Well think of it this way. Those cakes are keeping you alive."</p> <p>Andrew thought about this and took a sip of the coffee. "Well then. I hope I don't get diabetes."</p> <p>The cake tasted terrible.</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="/birthday-every-day">Birthday Every Day</a>" by Sam Swicegood (CityToast), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/birthday-every-day">https://scpwiki.com/birthday-every-day</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]] [[/>]] "Eat this," a tired-looking man in business-casual said, setting down a plate in front of Andrew. He had been escorted to a small room furnished with only a table. He looked down and blinked at the plate. On it sat a round, 12" circular birthday cake, with frosting, bearing the words "Happy Birthday Dana". Confused, he looked back up to the man. "I'm sorry...what?" "Eat it." He looked back down and looked at the cake before looking back up. "All of it?" "Yes." Andrew looked at the cake once more and then picked up the provided spoon. This must be some kind of science experiment. Resigning himself to the fact that he was probably a lab rat, and at least brightened by the prospect of cake, he took a bite. It was alright. It tasted store-bought. Yellow cake, vanilla frosting. But he sadly did not get far before looking back up again. "I hate to ask...can I get some milk?" The man looked over to the wall at the one-way mirror. A few minutes later another man came in with a gallon of milk and a glass. Impressed with his luck, Andrew poured one and downed it before starting on the cake again. The first half was decently easy, but once he passed two-thirds he had begun to slow. Even the milk was little help. The man noticed, surely, and kept looking at the one-way mirror. Long minutes passed in-between slow bites, but finally, a half-gallon of milk later, the task had been completed. Andrew was escorted out and placed back in his holding cell. - Andrew loved to eat. That had been his downfall, really; his love of eating. Of food in general. Food of all kinds. It was for this reason that he opened his New York bistro, Andy's. And things were good then...that is, until another Andy, the mayor's son, showed up with his thugs. Andy took a liking to Andrew's restaurant, and started hassling him. He demanded a cut of the business, or his father would have his shop shut down. Andrew's mistake was that he said no. And the next thing he knew the kid 's friend was reaching for a gun, and Andrew dove behind the counter and grabbed his. Andrew was quicker than the rest of them. - Andrew was returned to the room with the table on the second day. "Eat this," the man said, presenting him with another cake. the icing read "Happy Birthday Don." He was also provided, once more, with milk. Andrew ate the cake again, with no complaint, though it did not seem as delicious this time. Perhaps it was the cake from the day before. Either way, he took much longer to consume the thing, and afterward, he laid his head in his hands. "Oh, I think I'm gonna be sick." He was swiftly returned to his cell, where he promptly threw up a good portion of the dessert. - "Eat this," The man said, presenting a cake reading "Happy birthday Bob". "Why am I doing this?" Andrew asked between bites. "That's none of your concern." "Who makes these? Do you order them?" "That's none of your concern." "I used to run a bistro. We ordered our cakes." "Fascinating. Now eat." Andrew scowled and returned to his meal, which he completed in silence. Once again, his stomach could not handle the dessert, and emptied upon his return to his cell. - The next day he took a lot longer to start. "I appreciate the cake," he said, looking down at the cake reading "Happy Birthday Bill", "But this is a hell of a lot of cake to eat every day." "You must eat." Andrew scowled again before returning to his meal. - The next day he was joined by another inmate. This one, designated D-2886, was a large, flabby Hispanic man. After expressing some surprise as to the task at hand, he eagerly split the cake with Andrew. Andrew was happy to not have an entire cake to eat, even though 2886 drank most of the milk. - He tried sparking up a conversation, but discovered that the man did not speak any English. They shared their cake and milk, and all was right with the world. - A week later, however, 2886 got tired of cake. He took a few bites and then stopped. The man pointed at the cake. "Es necesario que usted coma." 2886 shook his head. Andrew continued to eat, but watched the exchange with interest. The man repeated his phrase and jabbed his finger toward the cake. In a flurry of motion, 2886 grabbed the cake and threw it right in the man's face. And then, miraculously, a new cake appeared on the table, as if from thin air. The man, 2886, and Andrew all looked at it for a long moment, and then the man drew his gun at 2886 and fired. 2886 lay dead on the floor as the man turned to Andrew. "Eat it." Andrew complied hastily. - Weeks passed. Each day was a new name on the cake. Other inmates came and went, with varying degrees of enthusiasm for the task, but Andrew always stayed. Perhaps they knew he would eat the cake by himself if he had to. Perhaps it was his quiet acceptance of the task presented. For whatever reason, he always ate the cake, and never further did he complain. - One day Andrew was escorted into the room with the table. The man seemed a little different. A bit of a smile graced the sides of his mouth as he presented the plate. On it was a cake bearing the words "Happy Bar Mitzvah Steven". The man also presented him with a gallon of milk and, for the first time, a cup of coffee. "This is different," Andrew remarked, cutting a spoonful of cake out of the molded dessert. The man shrugged. "I've been told you're being kept around a while. You should consider yourself lucky. Most of the time we get rid of you guys." Andrew sighed and took a bite. "Wonderful. I should mention that I hate cake." "Well think of it this way. Those cakes are keeping you alive." Andrew thought about this and took a sip of the coffee. "Well then. I hope I don't get diabetes." The cake tasted terrible. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Sam Swicegood (CityToast)]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-06-24T06:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Birthday Every Day - SCP Foundation	105	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13622060	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/birthday-every-day
bloodletting	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>September 7</p> <p>I had a dream last night, something that doesn't happen to me very often at all. I laugh and joke about how I seem to have no imagination at all, but it really is odd that I haven't had one in over ten years now. I'm writing this down before I forget any of it.</p> <hr/> <p>I am a doctor, I think. I know it is me, even though I can see her face and I feel like I am watching from over her shoulder. It is a dark, moonless night, and the mountains and fields outside are covered in snow. The cold sinks straight into my bones as I get out of my car and head towards the small, run-down house where I have been called. The mother, a Hispanic woman, is crying frantically and trying to tell me something in nearly-incoherent Spanish. Her daughter is possessed by a demon, she says, and I notice the silver crucifix pendant she wears, possibly the only thing of value she owns.</p> <p>Her daughter, a girl of maybe eight years of age, kneels in a pool of her own blood. She bleeds from every orifice, and she mouths obscenities that I know to be Latin even though I cannot understand her. But more than anything else, I notice her eyes. They are bloodshot, but even more than that her left eye is completely red, as if it were a clear orb filled with crimson. She laughs at me and I feel a chill deeper than the winter night outside run down my spine.</p> <p>Time blurs. I know I cannot treat her here. I don't know that I can treat her at all, but I restrain her and wrestle her into my car before I drive off as fast as I dare on the slick, icy road. The blood is the key. It has to be. It flows within her, and it is corrupted. I know what must be done, but I don't know how I can possibly carry through with it. I know I have to get her to a hospital or something. Somewhere. Anywhere.</p> <p>My heart skips a beat as I realize that I no longer know where I am. There is suddenly an impenetrable mist that surrounds us, and though I see the outline of mountains beyond them, I do not recognize the road I am on. I pull over to the shoulder and stop, turning to look at the girl on the seat behind me. She grins — an evil, toothy grin — and tells me that I cannot escape this nightmare. In that moment, however, I am filled with a grim clarity and I know what I have to do now.</p> <p>Making sure that she is strapped down tightly, I pull out my tools and instruments. There is no time to actually collect it; I simply start a straight vein-to-vein transfusion between us. Then I slit her wrists. My blood is just enough to keep her alive. Just barely enough to sustain her as she bleeds out the corruption. Her screams echo across the frozen mountains for hours on end.</p> <hr/> <p>I woke up screaming and rushed to the bathroom, where I threw up into the toilet. I was still shaking when I finally managed to pull myself to my feet and I washed my face to try to shake off the chill of what I'd experienced. Several minutes passed before I could even manage to look at my reflection in the mirror.</p> <p>That's when I noticed it.</p> <p>My eye was bloodshot. But only my left eye.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>Containment Team Note</strong>:</p> <p>Document was recovered from the computer of Dr. Evelyn Winters and is dated approximately three (3) days before Incident ███-Zero.</p> <p>As Dr. Winters is completely incoherent at this stage and we still have no known initial infection vector for SCP-███, we are continuing our investigation as planned.</p> <p>Dr. █████████<br/> Senior Observer</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="/bloodletting">Bloodletting</a>" by Aelanna, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bloodletting">https://scpwiki.com/bloodletting</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]] [[/>]] September 7 I had a dream last night, something that doesn't happen to me very often at all. I laugh and joke about how I seem to have no imagination at all, but it really is odd that I haven't had one in over ten years now. I'm writing this down before I forget any of it. ---- I am a doctor, I think. I know it is me, even though I can see her face and I feel like I am watching from over her shoulder. It is a dark, moonless night, and the mountains and fields outside are covered in snow. The cold sinks straight into my bones as I get out of my car and head towards the small, run-down house where I have been called. The mother, a Hispanic woman, is crying frantically and trying to tell me something in nearly-incoherent Spanish. Her daughter is possessed by a demon, she says, and I notice the silver crucifix pendant she wears, possibly the only thing of value she owns. Her daughter, a girl of maybe eight years of age, kneels in a pool of her own blood. She bleeds from every orifice, and she mouths obscenities that I know to be Latin even though I cannot understand her. But more than anything else, I notice her eyes. They are bloodshot, but even more than that her left eye is completely red, as if it were a clear orb filled with crimson. She laughs at me and I feel a chill deeper than the winter night outside run down my spine. Time blurs. I know I cannot treat her here. I don't know that I can treat her at all, but I restrain her and wrestle her into my car before I drive off as fast as I dare on the slick, icy road. The blood is the key. It has to be. It flows within her, and it is corrupted. I know what must be done, but I don't know how I can possibly carry through with it. I know I have to get her to a hospital or something. Somewhere. Anywhere. My heart skips a beat as I realize that I no longer know where I am. There is suddenly an impenetrable mist that surrounds us, and though I see the outline of mountains beyond them, I do not recognize the road I am on. I pull over to the shoulder and stop, turning to look at the girl on the seat behind me. She grins -- an evil, toothy grin -- and tells me that I cannot escape this nightmare. In that moment, however, I am filled with a grim clarity and I know what I have to do now. Making sure that she is strapped down tightly, I pull out my tools and instruments. There is no time to actually collect it; I simply start a straight vein-to-vein transfusion between us. Then I slit her wrists. My blood is just enough to keep her alive. Just barely enough to sustain her as she bleeds out the corruption. Her screams echo across the frozen mountains for hours on end. ---- I woke up screaming and rushed to the bathroom, where I threw up into the toilet. I was still shaking when I finally managed to pull myself to my feet and I washed my face to try to shake off the chill of what I'd experienced. Several minutes passed before I could even manage to look at my reflection in the mirror. That's when I noticed it. My eye was bloodshot. But only my left eye. ---- > Containment Team Note: > > Document was recovered from the computer of Dr. Evelyn Winters and is dated approximately three (3) days before Incident ███-Zero. > > As Dr. Winters is completely incoherent at this stage and we still have no known initial infection vector for SCP-███, we are continuing our investigation as planned. > > Dr. █████████ > Senior Observer @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-09-07T19:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Bloodletting - SCP Foundation	31	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14245172	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bloodletting
bluebrotherhood	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Doctor Baker cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I feel that the SCP would respond well to what it might perceive as a fellow officer. I propose tha-"</p> <p>"That we take one of my men, get him to play dress-up, and send him out in front of a murdering motherfucker to make idle chit-chat," MTF Captain Jameson said in a flat tone, cutting across the doctor in charge of containment. "You <em>propose</em> that we pretend it's the fucking <em>seventies</em>, and just hope my man doesn't get bent over and <em>fucked</em> while you and your cocksucking bunch of rat-fucked <em>lab coats</em> listens to the whole goddamn thing over a fucking <em><strong>radio</strong></em>!" His voice rose to a shout and he smacked his desk with his hand.</p> <p>A metallic voice came from a grey speaker in the wall marked "O5-4". "Calm down, Captain. Uncontained SCPs are a serious problem. We are willing to expend a lot of resources to contain them."</p> <p>"My men are not some kind of fucking '<em>resources</em>' to be '<em>expended</em>' whenever we have a minor issue, <em>sir</em>." Jameson gave the last word the same inflection as the word 'scumbag.'</p> <p>The speaker crackled as the O5 sighed. "Captain, I do not believe they are." Jameson began to rise from his seat, his face red, but the speaker interrupted him. "But I don't want an unsecured SCP, with an expanding area of effect and trigger time, to continue operating outside our control." Jameson sat down, still seething. "Now, Doctor… proceed."</p> <p>"It appears that the… officer in question is a simple trooper. That is, he has no great level of authority," Baker said. "It is entirely possible that he would view a superior officer as, well, uh, a superior officer. I think we should send a man out to at least try and talk to him, if not capture him completely."</p> <p>Captain Jameson snorted. "Talk to him? Capture him?! What do we do, just <em>order him to come in</em>? Tell him we'll <em>have his badge</em> if he doesn't come with us? How can we even attract his attention without getting someone fucking killed!"</p> <p>"That's exactly it, yes. We order him to come in, if possible. Maybe it will have to be left at making contact. And we attract his attention by speeding on his highway. On average, drivers need only travel at about ninety kilometers an hour in ord-"</p> <p>"In order to be attacked and killed by a psychopathic cun-" Jameson interrupted, only to be interrupted himself by the O5 .</p> <p>"Listen, Captain. Doctor Baker has a plan to secure this SCP. You are a Captain of a Foundation task force. I realize the doctor is not a field agent, but the fieldwork will be left to you. I want this SCP under control, soldier."</p> <p>The Hollywood line tempted the captain to salute sarcastically, but there was probably a camera in there somewhere. There usually was.</p> <p>"I.. is this a viable plan, Captain?" the doctor stuttered, hesitant to irritate the soldier further.</p> <p>"It's a fucking <em>crazy</em> plan, you… you <em>lab coat</em>! What's next, just <em>asking</em> 682 to stop hating everything?! I.. you… it…" Jameson took a deep breath. "Have you ever seen one of your men <em>die</em>, doctor?"</p> <p>"I.. I'm not a field agent -"</p> <p>"No. You're not." The three short words fell into the conversation like lead weights.</p> <p>"Captain! Calm down!" the O5 barked. "Will you be able to get a man in there?</p> <p>"<em>In</em>, yes."</p> <p>"Uh…" the doctor began, then trailed off at the captain's glare.</p> <p>"Continue, doctor," the speaker crackled.</p> <p>"Uh. Aircraft could be close enough to intervene within four minutes without attracting attention. Another car could follow and catch up in three," the doctor muttered, carefully not meeting the captain's eyes.</p> <p>"Captain. Knowing this, do you think this would be viable?"</p> <p>Jameson's brow furrowed in calculation. "…possibly. But I still-"</p> <p>"Dammit, Captain!" the O5 snapped, the mask of calm dropping. "If you can't head this operation, someone else will. You may be a veteran, but you're not above being moved from fieldwork."</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Hunter sat uneasily in the darkened police cruiser parked in the SCP-front restaurant. It had taken a little while to find, even for the Foundation. Vintage police cruisers with original plates weren't generally what you got in most car dealerships under "deal of the month". Then they had to modify it up and make it as fast as they could without changing the appearance. Not to mention the cameras that had been added. He adjusted his microphone under the unfamiliar uniform. He wasn't used to wearing a proper uniform, much less one with a badge. <em>Were men a different shape in the seventies or what? At least I get a gun for this one, I guess. And some decent backup.</em> Captain Jameson appeared at the side of the car, making him jump.</p> <p>"Don't worry, Hunter. Just stick to the script and you'll be fine. You're a state police sergeant. He's a trooper. Emergency up the road, he has to follow you. Most important thing: It's seventy-six. If anything should go wrong, I'll be on the guns in Curtis' helicopter and Black will come tearing up behind you with team 2 in the support car, team 3 will be coming from ahead. You've pulled loads of missions like this." Jameson said, in a voice he hoped was cheerful.</p> <p>"Not against a genuine scip, sir," Hunter replied. "Still, first time for everything. I guess. Almost time to move?"</p> <p>"Go time in five minutes, Hunter. See you on the other side," Jameson replied, before walking away and climbing into the helicopter. Hunter listened to the helicopter take off and, just two minutes later, pulled out of the car park, waving to the Team 2 car as he left.</p> <hr/> <p>Soon enough, Hunter was blasting down the highway at just over ninety kilometers an hour. It wasn't long before he heard the siren and saw the lights. He pulled over immediately. He watched his mirror and saw a rust-ridden, dented police cruiser with a cracked windshield pull up behind him and an overweight man step out. As the man drew closer Hunter could see the state police uniform and the gun holster he was wearing. The man stepped up beside the driverside window and bent down revealing deadpan eyes, a handlebar moustache and balding hair as Hunter rolled down the window. Some distance away, Captain Baker told Curtis to move the helicopter to one kilometer away exactly and radioed for team 2 to begin moving up at a distance.</p> <p>"Sir, do you — Oh. You're an officer too?" the trooper said in a surprised tone.</p> <p>"I'm a sergeant, yes. I'm in something of a rush, trooper," Hunter replied, hoping that he sounded less tense than he felt.</p> <p>"I don't recognize you, Sergeant, but I've only been patrolling this area for a little while. What did you say your name was?"</p> <p>"I didn't. I'm Sergeant Hunter. I'll need you to follow me, trooper." Hunter replied.</p> <p>In the helicopter, Captain Jameson grimaced. He wanted to be closer but didn't want to give himself away with the noise of rotors.</p> <p>"Hunter, eh?" The trooper scratched his head. "I haven't heard of you before. You new?" The trooper seemed to be full of questions, a strange glint in his eye. Hunter felt sweat drip down his spine.</p> <p>"No, trooper, I've been here a while. I am a sergeant, after all. Now I'll need you to follow me, there's an emergency up ahead and all officers are to proceed there as fast as possible but with no lights. Understand, trooper?" Hunter was losing it, he knew.</p> <p>Hearing this, Jameson growled again and told Team 2 to get in position quickly. He was soon told they were moving as fast as reasonably possible.</p> <p>"Yes, sergeant, I'll just get my car. When did you join up, again? I think my buddy Jim might know you…"</p> <p>The man just wouldn't give up, Hunter reflected. The trooper's eyes were glinting more strongly now, and getting brighter .</p> <p>"Nineteen-seventy-six, trooper," Hunter said. "Now get going! In your car, trooper!"</p> <p>"No you didn't!" the trooper growled, his mouth opening a little too wide, and drew his gun. "IT'S ONLY NINETEEN SEVENTY-THREE!"</p> <p>Hunter paled, jammed the key in the ignition, and stomped on the gas. Bullets pinged off the doors and cracked the windshield; in the rearview mirror, he could see the trooper's mouth opening wide, and the man's eyes starting to glow. The radio turned itself on. "NINETEEN FUCKING SEVENTY-FUCKING-THREE, YOU FUCKING LIAR! YOU… YOU LYING FUCK! RUN, YOU FUCKER!"</p> <p>"All teams move in now! Cover is blown!" Jameson yelled into his headset.</p> <p>As Hunter pulled away as fast as he thought safe he couldn't think of anything except to curse his own stupidity. Somewhere at the back of his brain he realized his rear bumper was trailing on the ground and his driverside doors must be horribly dented. Then he heard the sirens.<br/> "RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN-" The loudhailer made him find some extra acceleration from somewhere and he drove as fast as he could.</p> <p>"Where the hell are you guys? Team 2, Team 3, report!" Captain Jameson yelled into his headset.</p> <p>"Team 2, closing in! Two kilos out!"<br/> "RUN, FUCKER, RUN,"<br/> "Team 3, less than a kilo out and closing fast oh fu-"<br/> "FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER,"</p> <p>Lights were flashing, sirens screaming, brakes screeching and all were overwhelmed by the noise of the helicopter bearing down in time for Captain Jameson to see team 3's oncoming car get blindsided and knocked into a tree by Agent Hunter's police cruiser, denting his hood and passenger door. Team 2 came close to the trooper's dented car as Jameson prepared to fire on it with the helicopter's mounted gun. He briefly wondered how a rustbucket of that standard managed to maintain such speeds.</p> <p>"RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKE-"<br/> The noise of heavy machine gun fire drowned everything else out.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">MISSION REPORT</span><br/> <strong>Objective:</strong> SCP-973 capture attempt</p> <p><strong>Personnel in charge:</strong> Doctor Baker, Captain Jameson</p> <p><strong>Result:</strong> Failure. SCP-973 is still uncontained. 973-2 seems to have been unaware of - or possibly unwilling to acknowledge - the actual date, but is now aware that it is at least some time after 1976. The implications of this are unknown; however, SCP-973's "territory" appears to be growing faster than before.</p> <p><strong>Casualties:</strong> [DATA EXPUNGED]<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> I fucking told you so. - Capt. Jameson.</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="/bluebrotherhood">Blue Brotherhood</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bluebrotherhood">https://scpwiki.com/bluebrotherhood</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]] [[/>]] Doctor Baker cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I feel that the SCP would respond well to what it might perceive as a fellow officer. I propose tha-" "That we take one of my men, get him to play dress-up, and send him out in front of a murdering motherfucker to make idle chit-chat," MTF Captain Jameson said in a flat tone, cutting across the doctor in charge of containment. "You //propose// that we pretend it's the fucking //seventies//, and just hope my man doesn't get bent over and //fucked// while you and your cocksucking bunch of rat-fucked //lab coats// listens to the whole goddamn thing over a fucking //radio//!" His voice rose to a shout and he smacked his desk with his hand. A metallic voice came from a grey speaker in the wall marked "O5-4". "Calm down, Captain. Uncontained SCPs are a serious problem. We are willing to expend a lot of resources to contain them." "My men are not some kind of fucking '//resources//' to be '//expended//' whenever we have a minor issue, //sir//." Jameson gave the last word the same inflection as the word 'scumbag.' The speaker crackled as the O5 sighed. "Captain, I do not believe they are." Jameson began to rise from his seat, his face red, but the speaker interrupted him. "But I don't want an unsecured SCP, with an expanding area of effect and trigger time, to continue operating outside our control." Jameson sat down, still seething. "Now, Doctor… proceed." "It appears that the… officer in question is a simple trooper. That is, he has no great level of authority," Baker said. "It is entirely possible that he would view a superior officer as, well, uh, a superior officer. I think we should send a man out to at least try and talk to him, if not capture him completely." Captain Jameson snorted. "Talk to him? Capture him?! What do we do, just //order him to come in//? Tell him we'll //have his badge// if he doesn't come with us? How can we even attract his attention without getting someone fucking killed!" "That's exactly it, yes. We order him to come in, if possible. Maybe it will have to be left at making contact. And we attract his attention by speeding on his highway. On average, drivers need only travel at about ninety kilometers an hour in ord-" "In order to be attacked and killed by a psychopathic cun-" Jameson interrupted, only to be interrupted himself by the O5 . "Listen, Captain. Doctor Baker has a plan to secure this SCP. You are a Captain of a Foundation task force. I realize the doctor is not a field agent, but the fieldwork will be left to you. I want this SCP under control, soldier." The Hollywood line tempted the captain to salute sarcastically, but there was probably a camera in there somewhere. There usually was. "I.. is this a viable plan, Captain?" the doctor stuttered, hesitant to irritate the soldier further. "It's a fucking //crazy// plan, you... you //lab coat//! What's next, just //asking// 682 to stop hating everything?! I.. you... it..." Jameson took a deep breath. "Have you ever seen one of your men //die//, doctor?" "I.. I'm not a field agent -" "No. You're not." The three short words fell into the conversation like lead weights. "Captain! Calm down!" the O5 barked. "Will you be able to get a man in there? "//In//, yes." "Uh..." the doctor began, then trailed off at the captain's glare. "Continue, doctor," the speaker crackled. "Uh. Aircraft could be close enough to intervene within four minutes without attracting attention. Another car could follow and catch up in three," the doctor muttered, carefully not meeting the captain's eyes. "Captain. Knowing this, do you think this would be viable?" Jameson's brow furrowed in calculation. "...possibly. But I still-" "Dammit, Captain!" the O5 snapped, the mask of calm dropping. "If you can't head this operation, someone else will. You may be a veteran, but you're not above being moved from fieldwork." ------ Agent Hunter sat uneasily in the darkened police cruiser parked in the SCP-front restaurant. It had taken a little while to find, even for the Foundation. Vintage police cruisers with original plates weren't generally what you got in most car dealerships under "deal of the month". Then they had to modify it up and make it as fast as they could without changing the appearance. Not to mention the cameras that had been added. He adjusted his microphone under the unfamiliar uniform. He wasn't used to wearing a proper uniform, much less one with a badge. //Were men a different shape in the seventies or what? At least I get a gun for this one, I guess. And some decent backup.// Captain Jameson appeared at the side of the car, making him jump. "Don't worry, Hunter. Just stick to the script and you'll be fine. You're a state police sergeant. He's a trooper. Emergency up the road, he has to follow you. Most important thing: It's seventy-six. If anything should go wrong, I'll be on the guns in Curtis' helicopter and Black will come tearing up behind you with team 2 in the support car, team 3 will be coming from ahead. You've pulled loads of missions like this." Jameson said, in a voice he hoped was cheerful. "Not against a genuine scip, sir," Hunter replied. "Still, first time for everything. I guess. Almost time to move?" "Go time in five minutes, Hunter. See you on the other side," Jameson replied, before walking away and climbing into the helicopter. Hunter listened to the helicopter take off and, just two minutes later, pulled out of the car park, waving to the Team 2 car as he left. ------ Soon enough, Hunter was blasting down the highway at just over ninety kilometers an hour. It wasn't long before he heard the siren and saw the lights. He pulled over immediately. He watched his mirror and saw a rust-ridden, dented police cruiser with a cracked windshield pull up behind him and an overweight man step out. As the man drew closer Hunter could see the state police uniform and the gun holster he was wearing. The man stepped up beside the driverside window and bent down revealing deadpan eyes, a handlebar moustache and balding hair as Hunter rolled down the window. Some distance away, Captain Baker told Curtis to move the helicopter to one kilometer away exactly and radioed for team 2 to begin moving up at a distance. "Sir, do you -- Oh. You're an officer too?" the trooper said in a surprised tone. "I'm a sergeant, yes. I'm in something of a rush, trooper," Hunter replied, hoping that he sounded less tense than he felt. "I don't recognize you, Sergeant, but I've only been patrolling this area for a little while. What did you say your name was?" "I didn't. I'm Sergeant Hunter. I'll need you to follow me, trooper." Hunter replied. In the helicopter, Captain Jameson grimaced. He wanted to be closer but didn't want to give himself away with the noise of rotors. "Hunter, eh?" The trooper scratched his head. "I haven't heard of you before. You new?" The trooper seemed to be full of questions, a strange glint in his eye. Hunter felt sweat drip down his spine. "No, trooper, I've been here a while. I am a sergeant, after all. Now I'll need you to follow me, there's an emergency up ahead and all officers are to proceed there as fast as possible but with no lights. Understand, trooper?" Hunter was losing it, he knew. Hearing this, Jameson growled again and told Team 2 to get in position quickly. He was soon told they were moving as fast as reasonably possible. "Yes, sergeant, I'll just get my car. When did you join up, again? I think my buddy Jim might know you..." The man just wouldn't give up, Hunter reflected. The trooper's eyes were glinting more strongly now, and getting brighter . "Nineteen-seventy-six, trooper," Hunter said. "Now get going! In your car, trooper!" "No you didn't!" the trooper growled, his mouth opening a little too wide, and drew his gun. "IT'S ONLY NINETEEN SEVENTY-THREE!" Hunter paled, jammed the key in the ignition, and stomped on the gas. Bullets pinged off the doors and cracked the windshield; in the rearview mirror, he could see the trooper's mouth opening wide, and the man's eyes starting to glow. The radio turned itself on. "NINETEEN FUCKING SEVENTY-FUCKING-THREE, YOU FUCKING LIAR! YOU... YOU LYING FUCK! RUN, YOU FUCKER!" "All teams move in now! Cover is blown!" Jameson yelled into his headset. As Hunter pulled away as fast as he thought safe he couldn't think of anything except to curse his own stupidity. Somewhere at the back of his brain he realized his rear bumper was trailing on the ground and his driverside doors must be horribly dented. Then he heard the sirens. "RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN-" The loudhailer made him find some extra acceleration from somewhere and he drove as fast as he could. "Where the hell are you guys? Team 2, Team 3, report!" Captain Jameson yelled into his headset. "Team 2, closing in! Two kilos out!" "RUN, FUCKER, RUN," "Team 3, less than a kilo out and closing fast oh fu-" "FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER," Lights were flashing, sirens screaming, brakes screeching and all were overwhelmed by the noise of the helicopter bearing down in time for Captain Jameson to see team 3's oncoming car get blindsided and knocked into a tree by Agent Hunter's police cruiser, denting his hood and passenger door. Team 2 came close to the trooper's dented car as Jameson prepared to fire on it with the helicopter's mounted gun. He briefly wondered how a rustbucket of that standard managed to maintain such speeds. "RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKE-" The noise of heavy machine gun fire drowned everything else out. ------ > __MISSION REPORT__ > > Objective: SCP-973 capture attempt > > > Personnel in charge: Doctor Baker, Captain Jameson > > > Result: Failure. SCP-973 is still uncontained. 973-2 seems to have been unaware of - or possibly unwilling to acknowledge - the actual date, but is now aware that it is at least some time after 1976. The implications of this are unknown; however, SCP-973's "territory" appears to be growing faster than before. > > > Casualties: [DATA EXPUNGED] > > > Notes: I fucking told you so. - Capt. Jameson. > [[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>]]	2012-05-06T22:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Blue Brotherhood - SCP Foundation	100	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13284033	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bluebrotherhood
breaker-1-9	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I don't know if this is really a creepy story, but it scared the shit out of me at the time.</p> <p>Four years ago, I was going through training for over-the-road trucking. We were out in Oregon, getting my night hours in. My trainer told me to be careful, because this stretch of road was long, boring, and empty. We gassed up, and he said to just put the cruise on, because without it you'd creep up to 70 or 80, and feel like you were doing 40. This was around…one, two in the morning, and pretty soon my trainer was in a half-doze next to me, with me fighting off the same.</p> <p>There was NOTHING on this road. Flat, straight, with some trees about ten yards off to each side, it was like being on another planet. I didn't see another car for nearly a hour. My trainer would pry an eye open to check my speed and make sure I hadn't hit anything important from time to time, but I was pretty much alone. I didn't mind, really, but the radio didn't even really come in, and I'd forgotten to put my CDs in the cab. Even a mildly creepy road can get boring after a while.</p> <p>I was getting ready to nudge my trainer awake when I saw something by the road. It was a long ways off, and I thought it might be a deer or something. I started slowing down, checking the sides, trying to see if there were any more. A big rig can hit a deer without a ton of problems, but it's a holy mess, and can be a bitch to fix if they crack something important. As we got closer, I saw it wasn't a deer, it was a person.</p> <p>It was late, and I was tired, but I got a general impression of short hair, slightly ratty clothes, a general slump, like she was tired. She was just standing by the road. We'd helped out break-downs before, but I didn't remember seeing any cars off to the side on the way in. She might have broke down farther up, and was walking back…what a shitty stretch of road to get stuck on. I started slowing down, when suddenly my trainer spoke up, totally lucid.</p> <p>“The fuck are you slowing down for?”</p> <p>I jumped, told him to look, someone was in trouble or something, still slowing down. My trainer looked, looked back at me, and got up. If you've ever been in a semi cab, you know that, while no resort suite, they have a fair amount of room. He stood next to me, grabbed the wheel, and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. I was more then a little confused, he looked really weird, and had basically taken control of the truck from me, which he hadn't done like this since my first couple days of training. What's more, he was putting us up to around 70 in a 55.</p> <p>I started yelling, and he just told me to shut up, gogogo, keep going. I almost screamed when I looked up again. The girl had walked from the side to the middle of our lane. I started swearing at my instructor, telling him we're going to kill that girl, almost hit him a couple times, just freaking the hell out, and he wouldn't say anything to me, just kept staring out the window. I did scream when I looked out and saw the girl standing about ten yards in front of our grill. She looked tired. I closed my eyes and just balled up in the seat.</p> <p>And then…nothing. No crunch, no bang, no skidding and screaming. I looked, and we were still rolling. My trainer was back in his seat, and I had to grab the wheel before we started to drift. I looked back, and saw the girl standing in the exact same place, staring at us as we drove on. I looked at my instructor as he was settling back in to his seat. He looked at me through one eye, and sighed.</p> <p>“Sometimes, she waves.”</p> <p>I was so shaken, by the time I started asking questions, he was already asleep. Finished my training a week or two later, and didn't really see him again. Been on the road for a few years now, and haven't had more then the normal amount of problems. As I think of it, I don't remember the name of the road we were on, or if I ever knew it, really. I think about it, now and then. You hear stories, sometimes. I wonder what would have happened if I'd stopped. Or if she'd waved to me. Or what happened to make a well-seasoned trucker do almost 40 over the limit down an empty stretch of nothing road.</p> <p>Sometimes, late, I think I see her. Overtired, mind wandering, but still.</p> <p>She's not waved yet.</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="/breaker-1-9">Breaker 1 9</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/breaker-1-9">https://scpwiki.com/breaker-1-9</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 don't know if this is really a creepy story, but it scared the shit out of me at the time. Four years ago, I was going through training for over-the-road trucking. We were out in Oregon, getting my night hours in. My trainer told me to be careful, because this stretch of road was long, boring, and empty. We gassed up, and he said to just put the cruise on, because without it you'd creep up to 70 or 80, and feel like you were doing 40. This was around...one, two in the morning, and pretty soon my trainer was in a half-doze next to me, with me fighting off the same. There was NOTHING on this road. Flat, straight, with some trees about ten yards off to each side, it was like being on another planet. I didn't see another car for nearly a hour. My trainer would pry an eye open to check my speed and make sure I hadn't hit anything important from time to time, but I was pretty much alone. I didn't mind, really, but the radio didn't even really come in, and I'd forgotten to put my CDs in the cab. Even a mildly creepy road can get boring after a while. I was getting ready to nudge my trainer awake when I saw something by the road. It was a long ways off, and I thought it might be a deer or something. I started slowing down, checking the sides, trying to see if there were any more. A big rig can hit a deer without a ton of problems, but it's a holy mess, and can be a bitch to fix if they crack something important. As we got closer, I saw it wasn't a deer, it was a person. It was late, and I was tired, but I got a general impression of short hair, slightly ratty clothes, a general slump, like she was tired. She was just standing by the road. We'd helped out break-downs before, but I didn't remember seeing any cars off to the side on the way in. She might have broke down farther up, and was walking back...what a shitty stretch of road to get stuck on. I started slowing down, when suddenly my trainer spoke up, totally lucid. “The fuck are you slowing down for?” I jumped, told him to look, someone was in trouble or something, still slowing down. My trainer looked, looked back at me, and got up. If you've ever been in a semi cab, you know that, while no resort suite, they have a fair amount of room. He stood next to me, grabbed the wheel, and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. I was more then a little confused, he looked really weird, and had basically taken control of the truck from me, which he hadn't done like this since my first couple days of training. What's more, he was putting us up to around 70 in a 55. I started yelling, and he just told me to shut up, gogogo, keep going. I almost screamed when I looked up again. The girl had walked from the side to the middle of our lane. I started swearing at my instructor, telling him we're going to kill that girl, almost hit him a couple times, just freaking the hell out, and he wouldn't say anything to me, just kept staring out the window. I did scream when I looked out and saw the girl standing about ten yards in front of our grill. She looked tired. I closed my eyes and just balled up in the seat. And then...nothing. No crunch, no bang, no skidding and screaming. I looked, and we were still rolling. My trainer was back in his seat, and I had to grab the wheel before we started to drift. I looked back, and saw the girl standing in the exact same place, staring at us as we drove on. I looked at my instructor as he was settling back in to his seat. He looked at me through one eye, and sighed. “Sometimes, she waves.” I was so shaken, by the time I started asking questions, he was already asleep. Finished my training a week or two later, and didn't really see him again. Been on the road for a few years now, and haven't had more then the normal amount of problems. As I think of it, I don't remember the name of the road we were on, or if I ever knew it, really. I think about it, now and then. You hear stories, sometimes. I wonder what would have happened if I'd stopped. Or if she'd waved to me. Or what happened to make a well-seasoned trucker do almost 40 over the limit down an empty stretch of nothing road. Sometimes, late, I think I see her. Overtired, mind wandering, but still. She's not waved yet. [[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>]]	2012-03-30T13:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Breaker 1 9 - SCP Foundation	69	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-gears-storytime-entries" ]	[]	13059775	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/breaker-1-9
broadcast	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <ul class="modal-wrapper"> <li class="unfolded"> <div id="u-adult-warning"> <div id="u-adult-header"> <p>ADULT CONTENT</p> </div> <br/> This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers. <div class="content-descriptor"><span style="display: syntax error near `{$gore} ==`">Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts</span><br/> <span style="display: block">Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$sexually`">Explicit depiction of sexual acts.</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$sexual-a`">Features non-consensual sexual acts.</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$child-ab`">Depiction of severe mistreatment of children</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$self-har`">Depiction of self-harm</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$suicide}`">Depiction of suicide</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$torture}`">Depiction of torture</span><br/> <span style="display: syntax error near `{$custom} `">{$custom-content}</span></div> <p>If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.</p> <div class="foldable-list-container choice"><a href="javascript:;">Continue</a></div> <div class="choice"><a href="/">Back to Front Page</a></div> </div> <br/></li> </ul> <br/> <span style="font-size:0px;">I'm the hard-to-find stations on the AM band.</span><br/> John Carlyle ran his hands over his face and stared at his naked form in the bathroom mirror. No longer lean and muscled, it was beginning to sag. Everywhere, the hair was beginning to recede, except, he noted, for his back and chest. At least the graying and the wrinkles were evenly distributed. In almost every way, his earthly vessel was beginning to decay. <p>"So, do you want to go again or what?" came the voice from the bed. John shuddered. Everything about his body was diminishing and breaking down, except the <em>urges</em>. He fought them with every ounce of strength he could muster, but sooner or later, they returned. He had been doing well - six whole months this time - but then that boy who mows the lawn had taken off his shirt and… and… He had barely stopped to tell his wife that it was time for a business meeting in Chatanooga before jumping in the car. He hadn't stopped once on the way to Asheville. The rest he knew well enough from experience that it had almost been a reflex. Check into the hotel, find a boy looking studiedly busy, make small talk, make references to a hotel, wait for interest, inquire how much, return to hotel, and then… <em>oh god</em>. What was wrong with him? He had tried everything from pills to conditioning, trying to get rid of this weakness. He had given his soul over to Jesus was it three times now? Maybe four. Still, no luck. Inevitably, some young man would seduce him and then… this.</p> <p>The rent boy peeked his head into the bathroom. "I said, you want to go again? It's your money, so you can do it how you want, but I don't much care to sit around while y-"</p> <p>"Get out. Money's on the dresser," John said, his voice dripping with disgust. He couldn't stand to even look at the young man. John stood without a sound and listened as the boy put on his clothes. He waited in the bathroom until he heard the door slam, staying an extra minute just to be sure. After he was sure that he was gone, John walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone. Like always, he dialed Julie. Like always, he took the revolver out of his trouser pocket. One could never be too careful, he mused as he heard the dial tone. He'd only used it once before, when the boy recognized him and threatened to go to the papers with news that John Carlyle, yes, <em>the</em> John Carlyle, was a queer, unless he paid him off. He pulled back the hammer and put the gun to his head like always. One note of suspicion in Julie's voice, and he'd do it, he swore to God.</p> <p>"Hi sweetie. Yeah, the meeting just wrapped up… Yeah, I should be there for dinner… Y'all can start cooking and I'll be there by the time you finish up… 'kay love you too. Bye!" He made a kissing sound into the receiver before hanging up. Uncocking the hammer, he laid it down on the bed like always. Through a crack in the bathroom door, John a glimpse of his reflection. It's not me, he thought, it's this. I'm a man, it's this body that perverted and weak. I'm strong, I'm virile, I'm straight, it's this fucking <em>god damn queer fucking faggot piece-of-shit body</em> that keeps betraying me. As he dressed himself, John wondered. Maybe it wasn't this body, maybe it was… no. I'm strong, my soul is strong, it's this body that's weak. When he was done dressing, he opened the door and made his way to the car. Like always, he took a different route to keep anyone from noticing him. A five hour drive back to Atlanta, he thought. Plenty of time to forget all about this moment of weakness.</p> <hr/> <p>Ninety minutes into the drive, John was miserable. The late summer heat seeped through every crack in the car. Rolling down the windows didn't help, it just caused the muggy air to fill the car more quickly. What was more, there was nothing on the radio. Being in the ass-end of northern Georgia probably had something to do with it, he reflected, but it was beginning to get to him. Noise was how he always came down. It didn't matter if it was news, pop, negro music, or even a third-rate Billy Sunday telling him that he was going to hell for everything he had done; it just helped him not to think. But it had been fifteen minutes since that lovely sermon about the blind lady from Pasadena and how she was healed by the good Rev. So-and-so had finally faded into static.</p> <p>In vain, John twisted the dial in an effort to pick up something. <em>Anything</em>. It was static across the dial. John began to sweat. It felt so <em>good</em>, he thought, even if he knew it was wrong. Because he knew it was wrong. He thought of the wedding night, and Julie's words of consolation. The next day, he had done it with a bellboy in a storage closet. That night, Julie had almost collapsed after they made love. No, <em>fucked</em>. He thought of nights spent crying because he couldn't get <em>it</em> off of him (the crying was a sign of weakness, also caused by his body). He thought about his first time, in the lockers, with Todd Willis. In his mind, Todd's face turned to that of the anonymous rent boy. His eyes had been wide, like a jack rabbit's. "Please, mister, I was only fooling." John still remembered the thought that had gone through his head before he pulled the trigger, about how one can never be too careful.</p> <p>The radio dial rocketed side-to-side as John searched for a station. His hands were beginning to shake. Finally, a burst of clear noise from the static. It only took him a moment to zero in on the frequency.</p> <p>"-ow, brothers and sisters? We shake 'em by the heads and run 'em down! Dark times, trapped in layers of meat like snake oil, and all covering the blessed waft!" the voice on the radio lisped. A moan of disapproval rose in the background. "We got the best deal in town. Lose that turgid flesh that's anchorin' you and spread like a cobweb! Come join us brother!"</p> <p>John was no longer thinking about the rent boy with jack rabbit eyes. He had heard some strange shows, once heard a live broadcast of a man swallowing a snake, but never anything like this. Maybe it was one of those beatniks? The slang seemed to fit, but still, it was oddly specific. Was it some hip young preacher? The voice sounded older, though.</p> <p>"I think we got a congregant, brothers and others!" the preacher lisped. The audience cried out in the background. "A real live cracker, all filled with the fire come back from wicked deeds! Come on you shriveled pachyderm son-of-a-bitch! Slough off your suet! It'll be fine without you! It can't miss you."</p> <p>John was interested now. He turned the volume up higher, but the station cut to static. Always god damned static. A bead of sweat fell onto his shirt sleeve. He looked down and realized that he was drenched. At the next exit he would stop at a restaurant and get himself cleaned up, he decided. After a minute, a sign announced an exit to Blairesville, "home of Martin and June's Snack Shack." John pulled off the highway and proceeded through the town. As he looked for some indication of where Martin and June's Snack Shack might be, something caught his eye. A church covered in some kind of tent, which must have been the only building in town over one story tall. It wasn't something one saw every day, so John decided to get in closer and get a better look.</p> <p>As he pulled into the lot in front of the building, he saw someone emerge from the tent. A balding man dressed in a white polo and cut-offs came to greet John as he got out from the car. Between his teeth, the man clenched a pipe. John tucked the pistol into his back pocket. One can never be too careful.</p> <p>"Welcome friend! I hear you heard our word. A blessed holler finds a willing ear, and don't that just warm the heart?" the man exclaimed as he shook John's hand. A murmur of approval rose from an unseen audience. The lisp identified him as the preacher from the radio. John noticed that the man's lips never seemed to part.</p> <p>"I'm John Carlyle. Like, of Carlyle furniture. It's nice to meet you…" John waited for the man to give his name. The man's faced scrunched in disgust.</p> <p>"Folks call this Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Lama Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Brother, I get a good feeling about you. You seem like a fella who'd go far and beyond, make a smoke to swallow the sun! Have you ever had your body crack like eggs and just slipped off your dead shell like a hermit crab?"</p> <p>John laughed nervously and was grateful for the pistol. "No, I can't say that I have. What is this, anyway?"</p> <p>"This, brother John Carlyle, is a beautiful congregation. We hover and linger, can't ever be gotten rid of. Without meat, there's no limit to what we can be! Truth be told, I'm hoping you'd be willing to join our little family. We're looking for upright citizens such as yourself to help us bring in the new day." The man put a hand on John's shoulder and motioned to the church.</p> <p>"Is this some kind of cult deal?" he asked suddenly suspicious.</p> <p>"Far from it, brother. Cults are false bottoms, drop you further into the hole. We want to take the weakness and pull it out. Make it work for you while you work from home," the man said. He began blinking rapidly.</p> <p>John nodded and moved for the church. Pulling out the weakness. It was worth a look, shit it might even help. If not, what was the worst that could happen? He had a gun, he was prepared. He stood back as the man pulled back the church's tent and opened the door. John went inside.</p> <hr/> <p>Two hours later, the body of John Carlyle emerged. It made a mental note to call up Julie as soon as it got the chance. It'd explain to her that there had been some unexpected traffic, or maybe the car had gotten a flat. But first, it needed to find Martin and June's Snack Shack. It was famished.<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="/broadcast">Broadcast</a>" by Gaffsey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/broadcast">https://scpwiki.com/broadcast</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>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:adult-content-warning">:scp-wiki:component:adult-content-warning</a> \|sexual-references=1 ]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0px]]I'm the hard-to-find stations on the AM band.[[/size]] John Carlyle ran his hands over his face and stared at his naked form in the bathroom mirror. No longer lean and muscled, it was beginning to sag. Everywhere, the hair was beginning to recede, except, he noted, for his back and chest. At least the graying and the wrinkles were evenly distributed. In almost every way, his earthly vessel was beginning to decay. "So, do you want to go again or what?" came the voice from the bed. John shuddered. Everything about his body was diminishing and breaking down, except the //urges//. He fought them with every ounce of strength he could muster, but sooner or later, they returned. He had been doing well - six whole months this time - but then that boy who mows the lawn had taken off his shirt and... and... He had barely stopped to tell his wife that it was time for a business meeting in Chatanooga before jumping in the car. He hadn't stopped once on the way to Asheville. The rest he knew well enough from experience that it had almost been a reflex. Check into the hotel, find a boy looking studiedly busy, make small talk, make references to a hotel, wait for interest, inquire how much, return to hotel, and then... //oh god//. What was wrong with him? He had tried everything from pills to conditioning, trying to get rid of this weakness. He had given his soul over to Jesus was it three times now? Maybe four. Still, no luck. Inevitably, some young man would seduce him and then... this. The rent boy peeked his head into the bathroom. "I said, you want to go again? It's your money, so you can do it how you want, but I don't much care to sit around while y-" "Get out. Money's on the dresser," John said, his voice dripping with disgust. He couldn't stand to even look at the young man. John stood without a sound and listened as the boy put on his clothes. He waited in the bathroom until he heard the door slam, staying an extra minute just to be sure. After he was sure that he was gone, John walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone. Like always, he dialed Julie. Like always, he took the revolver out of his trouser pocket. One could never be too careful, he mused as he heard the dial tone. He'd only used it once before, when the boy recognized him and threatened to go to the papers with news that John Carlyle, yes, //the// John Carlyle, was a queer, unless he paid him off. He pulled back the hammer and put the gun to his head like always. One note of suspicion in Julie's voice, and he'd do it, he swore to God. "Hi sweetie. Yeah, the meeting just wrapped up... Yeah, I should be there for dinner... Y'all can start cooking and I'll be there by the time you finish up... 'kay love you too. Bye!" He made a kissing sound into the receiver before hanging up. Uncocking the hammer, he laid it down on the bed like always. Through a crack in the bathroom door, John a glimpse of his reflection. It's not me, he thought, it's this. I'm a man, it's this body that perverted and weak. I'm strong, I'm virile, I'm straight, it's this fucking //god damn queer fucking faggot piece-of-shit body// that keeps betraying me. As he dressed himself, John wondered. Maybe it wasn't this body, maybe it was... no. I'm strong, my soul is strong, it's this body that's weak. When he was done dressing, he opened the door and made his way to the car. Like always, he took a different route to keep anyone from noticing him. A five hour drive back to Atlanta, he thought. Plenty of time to forget all about this moment of weakness. ----- Ninety minutes into the drive, John was miserable. The late summer heat seeped through every crack in the car. Rolling down the windows didn't help, it just caused the muggy air to fill the car more quickly. What was more, there was nothing on the radio. Being in the ass-end of northern Georgia probably had something to do with it, he reflected, but it was beginning to get to him. Noise was how he always came down. It didn't matter if it was news, pop, negro music, or even a third-rate Billy Sunday telling him that he was going to hell for everything he had done; it just helped him not to think. But it had been fifteen minutes since that lovely sermon about the blind lady from Pasadena and how she was healed by the good Rev. So-and-so had finally faded into static. In vain, John twisted the dial in an effort to pick up something. //Anything//. It was static across the dial. John began to sweat. It felt so //good//, he thought, even if he knew it was wrong. Because he knew it was wrong. He thought of the wedding night, and Julie's words of consolation. The next day, he had done it with a bellboy in a storage closet. That night, Julie had almost collapsed after they made love. No, //fucked//. He thought of nights spent crying because he couldn't get //it// off of him (the crying was a sign of weakness, also caused by his body). He thought about his first time, in the lockers, with Todd Willis. In his mind, Todd's face turned to that of the anonymous rent boy. His eyes had been wide, like a jack rabbit's. "Please, mister, I was only fooling." John still remembered the thought that had gone through his head before he pulled the trigger, about how one can never be too careful. The radio dial rocketed side-to-side as John searched for a station. His hands were beginning to shake. Finally, a burst of clear noise from the static. It only took him a moment to zero in on the frequency. "-ow, brothers and sisters? We shake 'em by the heads and run 'em down! Dark times, trapped in layers of meat like snake oil, and all covering the blessed waft!" the voice on the radio lisped. A moan of disapproval rose in the background. "We got the best deal in town. Lose that turgid flesh that's anchorin' you and spread like a cobweb! Come join us brother!" John was no longer thinking about the rent boy with jack rabbit eyes. He had heard some strange shows, once heard a live broadcast of a man swallowing a snake, but never anything like this. Maybe it was one of those beatniks? The slang seemed to fit, but still, it was oddly specific. Was it some hip young preacher? The voice sounded older, though. "I think we got a congregant, brothers and others!" the preacher lisped. The audience cried out in the background. "A real live cracker, all filled with the fire come back from wicked deeds! Come on you shriveled pachyderm son-of-a-bitch! Slough off your suet! It'll be fine without you! It can't miss you." John was interested now. He turned the volume up higher, but the station cut to static. Always god damned static. A bead of sweat fell onto his shirt sleeve. He looked down and realized that he was drenched. At the next exit he would stop at a restaurant and get himself cleaned up, he decided. After a minute, a sign announced an exit to Blairesville, "home of Martin and June's Snack Shack." John pulled off the highway and proceeded through the town. As he looked for some indication of where Martin and June's Snack Shack might be, something caught his eye. A church covered in some kind of tent, which must have been the only building in town over one story tall. It wasn't something one saw every day, so John decided to get in closer and get a better look. As he pulled into the lot in front of the building, he saw someone emerge from the tent. A balding man dressed in a white polo and cut-offs came to greet John as he got out from the car. Between his teeth, the man clenched a pipe. John tucked the pistol into his back pocket. One can never be too careful. "Welcome friend! I hear you heard our word. A blessed holler finds a willing ear, and don't that just warm the heart?" the man exclaimed as he shook John's hand. A murmur of approval rose from an unseen audience. The lisp identified him as the preacher from the radio. John noticed that the man's lips never seemed to part. "I'm John Carlyle. Like, of Carlyle furniture. It's nice to meet you..." John waited for the man to give his name. The man's faced scrunched in disgust. "Folks call this Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Lama Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Brother, I get a good feeling about you. You seem like a fella who'd go far and beyond, make a smoke to swallow the sun! Have you ever had your body crack like eggs and just slipped off your dead shell like a hermit crab?" John laughed nervously and was grateful for the pistol. "No, I can't say that I have. What is this, anyway?" "This, brother John Carlyle, is a beautiful congregation. We hover and linger, can't ever be gotten rid of. Without meat, there's no limit to what we can be! Truth be told, I'm hoping you'd be willing to join our little family. We're looking for upright citizens such as yourself to help us bring in the new day." The man put a hand on John's shoulder and motioned to the church. "Is this some kind of cult deal?" he asked suddenly suspicious. "Far from it, brother. Cults are false bottoms, drop you further into the hole. We want to take the weakness and pull it out. Make it work for you while you work from home," the man said. He began blinking rapidly. John nodded and moved for the church. Pulling out the weakness. It was worth a look, shit it might even help. If not, what was the worst that could happen? He had a gun, he was prepared. He stood back as the man pulled back the church's tent and opened the door. John went inside. ------- Two hours later, the body of John Carlyle emerged. It made a mental note to call up Julie as soon as it got the chance. It'd explain to her that there had been some unexpected traffic, or maybe the car had gotten a flat. But first, it needed to find Martin and June's Snack Shack. It was famished. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author= Gaffsey]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-11-20T05:41:00	[ "_adult", "_licensebox", "big-cheese-horace", "fifthist", "lgbtq", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Broadcast - SCP Foundation	85	[ "prev", "next", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "fifthist-hub" ]	[]	15084243	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/broadcast
broken	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I don't know why I'm recording this, it's not like there's anyone left… well, anyone human to hear it. Maybe aliens will find it and have a good laugh… Anyways, it's a little after dark and I've decided to camp out on what appears to be a large cog. Maybe it's a gear; I don't know anymore, but this, this I do know…</p> <p>It was about six years ago that the eggheads up in astronomy first spotted the damn thing. It was apparently on a direct course for our little blue marble. The reports are a mangled mess of censorship but it was clear just what it was and where it was going. That's the thing I still don't get… we saw it, we knew exactly what it was doing yet here we are stuck in this wasteland. What were they thinking? Who in their right mind figured twiddling their thumbs would keep us safe? Not that it matters anymore.</p> <p>Maybe two years later, give or take, that fucker first entered our solar system. You could sort of see it twinkling at night with the twinkle becoming brighter and brighter as the days went past. It was around this time that the O5 went into hiding with handfuls of their best and brightest, vanishing away into pocket realities so they could bide their time… Stupid bastards are probably still waiting for it to be 'safe' again. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they come out and see what's left.</p> <p>A couple months after the O5 turned tail and ran was when we could finally see it in the sky above our heads: a planet of moving gears and cogs. I hate to admit it, but it almost looked beautiful as it danced over our tiny world. This was also when those nuts at the Church of the Broken God started coming out and preaching to the masses. They thought the thing was our salvation, a physical God come to save the faithful. I remember reading reports about them, about how they thought that ball of rust was some sort of heart; I think they even thought that clockwork disease was part of a grand plan. Heck, maybe it's a mutated strand of this thing's plague, I don't know; I'm not even sure this thing is their God. Either way, none of them are alive today. Most of them were probably wiped out when the first attack started…</p> <p>It was a slow fight, precise and mechanical; we never stood a chance… The first stage of attack was these weird clouds of silver mist. They would blow across fields and mountains and in their wake was nothing but polished sections of shiny metal. Entire cities were wiped off the planet, forests vanished in the blink of an eye, and any poor bastard caught in those damned winds was gone, no blood or meat, just more metal. Days seemed to become colder as our paradise was transformed into a dead, polished sphere. Food was scarce and water was even rarer, but we managed somehow. I turned to nutrient powders, vitamins, and cannibalism while collecting what little rain water I could manage.</p> <p>You know what I remember most about those days? How metallic everything tasted…</p> <p>Then came the plagues. I don't know exactly when they first started but I know it was just another step in that fucking thing's twisted plan. Victims would start complaining of joint pain, muscle stiffness, fatigue, apathy, and strange dreams. One poor sap told me about his dreams as if they were blissful, but what he described seemed like a nightmare to me. Eventually, they would just stop… It was disgusting to see them, villages of these poor fucks just laying on the ground. They looked like they were having a good dream… I saw one of them with a stupid grin on his face as a raven pecked out his dried up eyeballs. I sometimes wished I could've been infected so I didn't have to witness what came next.</p> <p>Their corpses would start moving again. Their limbs jerked and their bodies would shake every couple minutes. I could smell them for miles as their rotting flesh fell away from what used to be their bones. I don't know how it did it, but their skeletons were entirely made of moving and clicking clockwork. It was like watching a fucked up French movie, but there were no subtitles and there was no ending. Those… things would spend every minute of every day working and building, dancing underneath their clockwork creator's unheard tune.</p> <p>Their work was confusing to me but I guess they had a plan. They would cut up sections of the metal then use it to forge more gears, cogs, pistons, whatever else they needed, and when they were done, they would put them all together into complex sheets of machinery and fill in the empty spaces. All the while, that thing just kept turning and dancing above our metallic hell. It's kind of fitting when I think back on how pretty it looked in comparison to our own warped world…</p> <p>I remember the first time an entire plane of metal had been crafted, I could hear the steady grinding of gears and what sounded like the tick of a clock. I can still hear it as the gears and cogs keep spinning and turning in their own dance. This was when the real nightmare began, when those stupid robot fucks started completing more and more sections of land, the ground steadily becoming a death-trap of crushing gears and pistons. I had to watch my good buddy get crushed when he fell onto a functioning section. His screaming wasn't the worst part; it was seeing his broken, mangled corpse get pulled down into a sea of twisting clockwork. The nightmares were the worst part… Seeing him being pulled into the machinery and ripped apart by the spinning metal. But at least he wasn't screaming anymore; instead he had a big stupid grin on his face and he was urging me to join him, to fall into the complex dance of metal upon metal. I wanted to join him, once, but I could never muster up the courage to make that final plunge.</p> <p>I can hear them toiling away outside of my camp, building more of this nightmare all for that spinning ball of metal. I don't know if it cares for our suffering or if it's even aware, but I know it's alive. I saw its eye once. You don't have to believe me, no one else does, but I saw it; it was only for a moment as the gears spun and the cogs shifted that I could see how empty it was and then I saw its eye… It was bright orange like our sun, with a hole right in the center and it was looking down at us, at me, at our lifeless world and I swear to you that it was happy with what it saw…</p> <p>Well, it won't be long now; I can hear them preparing to install what I assume will be the last section of clockwork. I don't know what will happen after their work is done but I know I won't be a victim of that thing. I've gathered the last of my supplies for a fine feast: a can of baked beans, a Snickers, a cyanide capsule, and a nice drink of water.</p> <p>Even now as I look up at that thing dancing in the night sky, I can't help but wonder if it was ever broken at all…</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="/broken">Broken?</a>" by Boa Noah, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/broken">https://scpwiki.com/broken</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 don't know why I'm recording this, it's not like there's anyone left... well, anyone human to hear it. Maybe aliens will find it and have a good laugh... Anyways, it's a little after dark and I've decided to camp out on what appears to be a large cog. Maybe it's a gear; I don't know anymore, but this, this I do know... It was about six years ago that the eggheads up in astronomy first spotted the damn thing. It was apparently on a direct course for our little blue marble. The reports are a mangled mess of censorship but it was clear just what it was and where it was going. That's the thing I still don't get... we saw it, we knew exactly what it was doing yet here we are stuck in this wasteland. What were they thinking? Who in their right mind figured twiddling their thumbs would keep us safe? Not that it matters anymore. Maybe two years later, give or take, that fucker first entered our solar system. You could sort of see it twinkling at night with the twinkle becoming brighter and brighter as the days went past. It was around this time that the O5 went into hiding with handfuls of their best and brightest, vanishing away into pocket realities so they could bide their time... Stupid bastards are probably still waiting for it to be 'safe' again. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they come out and see what's left. A couple months after the O5 turned tail and ran was when we could finally see it in the sky above our heads: a planet of moving gears and cogs. I hate to admit it, but it almost looked beautiful as it danced over our tiny world. This was also when those nuts at the Church of the Broken God started coming out and preaching to the masses. They thought the thing was our salvation, a physical God come to save the faithful. I remember reading reports about them, about how they thought that ball of rust was some sort of heart; I think they even thought that clockwork disease was part of a grand plan. Heck, maybe it's a mutated strand of this thing's plague, I don't know; I'm not even sure this thing is their God. Either way, none of them are alive today. Most of them were probably wiped out when the first attack started... It was a slow fight, precise and mechanical; we never stood a chance... The first stage of attack was these weird clouds of silver mist. They would blow across fields and mountains and in their wake was nothing but polished sections of shiny metal. Entire cities were wiped off the planet, forests vanished in the blink of an eye, and any poor bastard caught in those damned winds was gone, no blood or meat, just more metal. Days seemed to become colder as our paradise was transformed into a dead, polished sphere. Food was scarce and water was even rarer, but we managed somehow. I turned to nutrient powders, vitamins, and cannibalism while collecting what little rain water I could manage. You know what I remember most about those days? How metallic everything tasted... Then came the plagues. I don't know exactly when they first started but I know it was just another step in that fucking thing's twisted plan. Victims would start complaining of joint pain, muscle stiffness, fatigue, apathy, and strange dreams. One poor sap told me about his dreams as if they were blissful, but what he described seemed like a nightmare to me. Eventually, they would just stop... It was disgusting to see them, villages of these poor fucks just laying on the ground. They looked like they were having a good dream... I saw one of them with a stupid grin on his face as a raven pecked out his dried up eyeballs. I sometimes wished I could've been infected so I didn't have to witness what came next. Their corpses would start moving again. Their limbs jerked and their bodies would shake every couple minutes. I could smell them for miles as their rotting flesh fell away from what used to be their bones. I don't know how it did it, but their skeletons were entirely made of moving and clicking clockwork. It was like watching a fucked up French movie, but there were no subtitles and there was no ending. Those... things would spend every minute of every day working and building, dancing underneath their clockwork creator's unheard tune. Their work was confusing to me but I guess they had a plan. They would cut up sections of the metal then use it to forge more gears, cogs, pistons, whatever else they needed, and when they were done, they would put them all together into complex sheets of machinery and fill in the empty spaces. All the while, that thing just kept turning and dancing above our metallic hell. It's kind of fitting when I think back on how pretty it looked in comparison to our own warped world... I remember the first time an entire plane of metal had been crafted, I could hear the steady grinding of gears and what sounded like the tick of a clock. I can still hear it as the gears and cogs keep spinning and turning in their own dance. This was when the real nightmare began, when those stupid robot fucks started completing more and more sections of land, the ground steadily becoming a death-trap of crushing gears and pistons. I had to watch my good buddy get crushed when he fell onto a functioning section. His screaming wasn't the worst part; it was seeing his broken, mangled corpse get pulled down into a sea of twisting clockwork. The nightmares were the worst part... Seeing him being pulled into the machinery and ripped apart by the spinning metal. But at least he wasn't screaming anymore; instead he had a big stupid grin on his face and he was urging me to join him, to fall into the complex dance of metal upon metal. I wanted to join him, once, but I could never muster up the courage to make that final plunge. I can hear them toiling away outside of my camp, building more of this nightmare all for that spinning ball of metal. I don't know if it cares for our suffering or if it's even aware, but I know it's alive. I saw its eye once. You don't have to believe me, no one else does, but I saw it; it was only for a moment as the gears spun and the cogs shifted that I could see how empty it was and then I saw its eye... It was bright orange like our sun, with a hole right in the center and it was looking down at us, at me, at our lifeless world and I swear to you that it was happy with what it saw... Well, it won't be long now; I can hear them preparing to install what I assume will be the last section of clockwork. I don't know what will happen after their work is done but I know I won't be a victim of that thing. I've gathered the last of my supplies for a fine feast: a can of baked beans, a Snickers, a cyanide capsule, and a nice drink of water. Even now as I look up at that thing dancing in the night sky, I can't help but wonder if it was ever broken at all... [[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>]]	2012-05-10T04:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "tale" ]	Broken? - SCP Foundation	104	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13305549	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/broken
brother-s-keeper	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was ironic, in a way. In a CK-event or NK-event extinction scenario, all SCPs that could be terminated were to be terminated, so that whatever shreds remained of humanity could have at least a glimmer of chance of surviving in the ruined world.</p> <p>In a XK-event, all SCPs were set free, so that they might carry humanity's last seeds to whatever wonderlands they would flee to.</p> <p>A suitcase slammed on the floor next to SCP-073. "Heads up, Cain. You are free, on one condition. Take the suitcase with you. When you see the sun again, open it."</p> <p>Cain shook his head, sitting in lotus position, eyes still closed. He nodded towards the patterns drawn in blood, covering the walls of his room. "I am sorry, but I shall be staying. Chances to die like this only come once… well, in a lifetime. I will not be left behind this time."</p> <p>The researcher sat in front of him with a heavy sigh and lit a cigarette, his disability making it a long and elaborate procedure. "Suit yourself. Damn, I should've never taken up smoking."</p> <p>"Losing hope? I guess I should commend you for keeping it this long."</p> <p>"Fuck you."</p> <p>Cain frowned. "I mean it. For what it's worth, I am honestly sorry for what is happening."</p> <p>"What, you telling me the apocalypse is your doing?"</p> <p>"Not quite, but I've dealt with it before. And every island fled away, and the mountains were not found, and the third part of the creatures that had life died." Cain vaguely gestured with his metal arms.</p> <p>"So we're fucking biblical now and you're the Cain that killed his brother?" The researcher chuckled. "I don't think that took."</p> <p>"No, I am not. At least, not quite." A weary laugh. "Very well. I swore to take this secret to the grave, but there are more than enough graves now. The job your Foundation does - that it did until now? I have done something similar in the past."</p> <p>"The past. How far past we are talking about? Before the Beatles?"</p> <p>"Before music. We had a good group, back then. Yweh, me, Hevel, Lilit, Bright - not your Bright, I'm afraid - Orion, Sela… More, much more, but the others are gone. Even their names, when we failed."</p> <p>"And you guys just lived for the next n-th millenia and waited for someone to invent television?"</p> <p>"Only the cursed. Only us that went too far and too deep, and were branded for it. No, I didn't kill Able. But I might as well have."</p> <p>The researcher sneered, lighting a second cigarette. "Could have shared a bit more with us before this sort of schedule pressure, chief."</p> <p>"One copy of the 'Containment Procedures' in every hotel of America is not enough?"</p> <p>"Something may have been lost in the translation."</p> <p>Cain sighed. "Ten millenia is a long time, child. Even ideas decay. No, you have done a much better job than we have. You have even managed to keep that accursed lizard caged for more than a week."</p> <p>"Not good enough."</p> <p>"It is not the end, you know. It was not the end before." He touched his brand. "And the storm will face more than seven thirds, this time."</p> <p>"I'd really prefer to see for myself."</p> <p>Cain opened his eyes. "Would you? Would you be cursed? Would you have life itself flee you at every step?"</p> <p>The researcher leaned up, inches away from Cain's face. "If it saves one life. If it lets one more human be born."</p> <p>SCP-073 paused for a moment, then laughed. "Yes. That is what I said, then." He stood up. "Shall we, Dr. Kain?"</p> <p>The dog got up and spat his cigarette. "After you… Senior Researcher Cain."</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="/brother-s-keeper">Brother's Keeper</a>" by zaratustra, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/brother-s-keeper">https://scpwiki.com/brother-s-keeper</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]] [[/>]] It was ironic, in a way. In a CK-event or NK-event extinction scenario, all SCPs that could be terminated were to be terminated, so that whatever shreds remained of humanity could have at least a glimmer of chance of surviving in the ruined world. In a XK-event, all SCPs were set free, so that they might carry humanity's last seeds to whatever wonderlands they would flee to. A suitcase slammed on the floor next to SCP-073. "Heads up, Cain. You are free, on one condition. Take the suitcase with you. When you see the sun again, open it." Cain shook his head, sitting in lotus position, eyes still closed. He nodded towards the patterns drawn in blood, covering the walls of his room. "I am sorry, but I shall be staying. Chances to die like this only come once... well, in a lifetime. I will not be left behind this time." The researcher sat in front of him with a heavy sigh and lit a cigarette, his disability making it a long and elaborate procedure. "Suit yourself. Damn, I should've never taken up smoking." "Losing hope? I guess I should commend you for keeping it this long." "Fuck you." Cain frowned. "I mean it. For what it's worth, I am honestly sorry for what is happening." "What, you telling me the apocalypse is your doing?" "Not quite, but I've dealt with it before. And every island fled away, and the mountains were not found, and the third part of the creatures that had life died." Cain vaguely gestured with his metal arms. "So we're fucking biblical now and you're the Cain that killed his brother?" The researcher chuckled. "I don't think that took." "No, I am not. At least, not quite." A weary laugh. "Very well. I swore to take this secret to the grave, but there are more than enough graves now. The job your Foundation does - that it did until now? I have done something similar in the past." "The past. How far past we are talking about? Before the Beatles?" "Before music. We had a good group, back then. Yweh, me, Hevel, Lilit, Bright - not your Bright, I'm afraid - Orion, Sela... More, much more, but the others are gone. Even their names, when we failed." "And you guys just lived for the next n-th millenia and waited for someone to invent television?" "Only the cursed. Only us that went too far and too deep, and were branded for it. No, I didn't kill Able. But I might as well have." The researcher sneered, lighting a second cigarette. "Could have shared a bit more with us before this sort of schedule pressure, chief." "One copy of the 'Containment Procedures' in every hotel of America is not enough?" "Something may have been lost in the translation." Cain sighed. "Ten millenia is a long time, child. Even ideas decay. No, you have done a much better job than we have. You have even managed to keep that accursed lizard caged for more than a week." "Not good enough." "It is not the end, you know. It was not the end before." He touched his brand. "And the storm will face more than seven thirds, this time." "I'd really prefer to see for myself." Cain opened his eyes. "Would you? Would you be cursed? Would you have life itself flee you at every step?" The researcher leaned up, inches away from Cain's face. "If it saves one life. If it lets one more human be born." SCP-073 paused for a moment, then laughed. "Yes. That is what I said, then." He stood up. "Shall we, Dr. Kain?" The dog got up and spat his cigarette. "After you... Senior Researcher Cain." [[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>]]	2012-05-23T22:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "apocalyptic", "bleak", "cain", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	Brother's Keeper - SCP Foundation	138	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13389803	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/brother-s-keeper
but-when-they-opened-it-they-turned-and-swift	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I’m sorry, but look at us. We’re still in here, after all this time. We’ve served our sentence and then some, and we’re still in this goddamn prison. It’s not the time to be angry with each other, we’ve done enough of that over the years. We don’t work together, so we don’t get anything done, and they know it. Our fighting, our little spats, they’re what’s keepin’ us locked up and controlled. Oh sure, you can kill who you’d like when they go wandering through, and have a jolly time with getting your stab quota filled, but that doesn’t give us freedom. It doesn’t get us out beyond these walls. I know me and a lot of you feel the same way about it, about being stuck in this hellhole. Now, I know most of us wouldn’t have trusted each other with our lives, but now we have one goal, and that’s getting out of this jam.</p> <p>It’s not just a spur of the moment type thing. You guys know what happened to Harold? I saw some of you stop by every once in a while, checking up on the poor guy. He never did get better. Over the years he just grew more pale, skinnier. His hair fell out and vanished. I was with him until the end. He just sort of faded away, without saying a word. Now it’s happening to Mike, and I’m afraid he’s going to just fade away too. What happens when it starts happening to James, or you, or me? What do we do then? Do we keep fighting amongst ourselves until we’re all gone?</p> <p>It’s not ‘just our time’.</p> <p>It’s the blood, see? The janitors come around every long while, and we’ve thought that they just touch it up, make sure it’s fixed up and nice. But we’re wrong. They’re adding imperfections, it’s starting to do a bit of a worse job keeping us grounded. Don’t you notice you’re getting weaker lately? Hauling those chains and slitting those throats is getting a little harder, ain’t it? Affecting some of us more than others, but it is getting to us all. And that’s why we need to fight back against them. They’re not just keeping us here, making sure that we don’t escape. They’re killin’ us, ever so slowly. I don’t know how we can die a second death, but apparently we can, and I don’t want to let that happen to any more of us.</p> <p>I can’t believe you’d say that it might be a good thing. You think just fading away into nothing is a good thing?</p> <p>No, there ain’t Heaven for us. Don’t you remember what you did to land you here? And you think that the big man would give you a break and let you pass the pearly gates just because some asshole decided to keep you locked up longer than you were supposed to? At least if we put up a fight we get a chance, a hope for freedom. Even this place is better than eternal fire and brimstone. I want to see the sun again some day. Harold did, too, but now he’s never going to see it and it’s all because of them. Don’t you want to see the face of your family, feel a cool breeze? Well too bad, pack up your bags because we’re going to hell! And that’s how it’s going to be if we don’t find a way to get some changes around here.</p> <p>Look, I don’t expect us to somehow magically obtain livelihoods away from that electric chair, but at least we can stop ourselves from fading into nothing. They have numbers, and they’re big, and they’re strong, but we’ve got nothing to lose. Even if we don’t succeed in getting away from this place, maybe they’ll feel one giant punch instead of all these small ones. Maybe we can force them to change. Maybe one day I’ll finally see the sun again, and maybe one day you will too. But that's only if we bring the fight to them.</p> <p>What I’m proposing? Well I’m proposing we have ourselves a prison riot.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>SCP Involved</strong>: <a href="/scp-450">SCP-450</a><br/> <strong>Personnel Involved</strong>: Site-18 Security<br/> <strong>Date</strong>: 08/26/2007<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: █████████, ██.</p> <p><em>On 08/26/2007, at approximately 15:26, during the routine cleaning and maintenance of SCP-450, all staff performing janitorial duties were simultaneously targeted by SCP-450’s anomalous effects. All personnel suffered wounds consistent with repeated stabbing by makeshift weapons, and perished shortly thereafter. For the first time since its containment, SCP-450 activity spread beyond its containment area. Several fires were started in the prison’s courtyard. Specter activity began affecting those not present in the death row section of the prison. Among the on-site staff, there were 12 casualties, 14 fatalities, and 4 unharmed personnel.</em></p> <p><em>SCP-450 activity came under control following the arrival of the █████████ SWAT team. Foundation casualties claim that █████████ SWAT team intervention allowed their survival. Security camera footage corroborates these claims. Mobile Task Force Pi-2 arrived at 22:33 and extracted casualties, successfully re-containing SCP-450 at 01:22 of the following morning. Debriefing of MTF Pi-2 agents indicates that during its arrival they observed a number of officers surrounding the facility, but were unable to apprehend any due to evacuation concerns. It should be noted that the █████████ SWAT team has been disbanded since 1973, and of its original ██ members, only █ are still living.</em></p> <p><em>SCP-450 activity is in decline following incident 450-2242-12.</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="/but-when-they-opened-it-they-turned-and-swift">In Dread Forever Fled</a>" by GrandEnder, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/but-when-they-opened-it-they-turned-and-swift">https://scpwiki.com/but-when-they-opened-it-they-turned-and-swift</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’m sorry, but look at us. We’re still in here, after all this time. We’ve served our sentence and then some, and we’re still in this goddamn prison. It’s not the time to be angry with each other, we’ve done enough of that over the years. We don’t work together, so we don’t get anything done, and they know it. Our fighting, our little spats, they’re what’s keepin’ us locked up and controlled. Oh sure, you can kill who you’d like when they go wandering through, and have a jolly time with getting your stab quota filled, but that doesn’t give us freedom. It doesn’t get us out beyond these walls. I know me and a lot of you feel the same way about it, about being stuck in this hellhole. Now, I know most of us wouldn’t have trusted each other with our lives, but now we have one goal, and that’s getting out of this jam. It’s not just a spur of the moment type thing. You guys know what happened to Harold? I saw some of you stop by every once in a while, checking up on the poor guy. He never did get better. Over the years he just grew more pale, skinnier. His hair fell out and vanished. I was with him until the end. He just sort of faded away, without saying a word. Now it’s happening to Mike, and I’m afraid he’s going to just fade away too. What happens when it starts happening to James, or you, or me? What do we do then? Do we keep fighting amongst ourselves until we’re all gone? It’s not ‘just our time’. It’s the blood, see? The janitors come around every long while, and we’ve thought that they just touch it up, make sure it’s fixed up and nice. But we’re wrong. They’re adding imperfections, it’s starting to do a bit of a worse job keeping us grounded. Don’t you notice you’re getting weaker lately? Hauling those chains and slitting those throats is getting a little harder, ain’t it? Affecting some of us more than others, but it is getting to us all. And that’s why we need to fight back against them. They’re not just keeping us here, making sure that we don’t escape. They’re killin’ us, ever so slowly. I don’t know how we can die a second death, but apparently we can, and I don’t want to let that happen to any more of us. I can’t believe you’d say that it might be a good thing. You think just fading away into nothing is a good thing? No, there ain’t Heaven for us. Don’t you remember what you did to land you here? And you think that the big man would give you a break and let you pass the pearly gates just because some asshole decided to keep you locked up longer than you were supposed to? At least if we put up a fight we get a chance, a hope for freedom. Even this place is better than eternal fire and brimstone. I want to see the sun again some day. Harold did, too, but now he’s never going to see it and it’s all because of them. Don’t you want to see the face of your family, feel a cool breeze? Well too bad, pack up your bags because we’re going to hell! And that’s how it’s going to be if we don’t find a way to get some changes around here. Look, I don’t expect us to somehow magically obtain livelihoods away from that electric chair, but at least we can stop ourselves from fading into nothing. They have numbers, and they’re big, and they’re strong, but we’ve got nothing to lose. Even if we don’t succeed in getting away from this place, maybe they’ll feel one giant punch instead of all these small ones. Maybe we can force them to change. Maybe one day I’ll finally see the sun again, and maybe one day you will too. But that's only if we bring the fight to them. What I’m proposing? Well I’m proposing we have ourselves a prison riot. > SCP Involved: [[[SCP-450]]] > Personnel Involved: Site-18 Security > Date: 08/26/2007 > Location: █████████, ██. > > //On 08/26/2007, at approximately 15:26, during the routine cleaning and maintenance of SCP-450, all staff performing janitorial duties were simultaneously targeted by SCP-450’s anomalous effects. All personnel suffered wounds consistent with repeated stabbing by makeshift weapons, and perished shortly thereafter. For the first time since its containment, SCP-450 activity spread beyond its containment area. Several fires were started in the prison’s courtyard. Specter activity began affecting those not present in the death row section of the prison. Among the on-site staff, there were 12 casualties, 14 fatalities, and 4 unharmed personnel.// > > //SCP-450 activity came under control following the arrival of the █████████ SWAT team. Foundation casualties claim that █████████ SWAT team intervention allowed their survival. Security camera footage corroborates these claims. Mobile Task Force Pi-2 arrived at 22:33 and extracted casualties, successfully re-containing SCP-450 at 01:22 of the following morning. Debriefing of MTF Pi-2 agents indicates that during its arrival they observed a number of officers surrounding the facility, but were unable to apprehend any due to evacuation concerns. It should be noted that the █████████ SWAT team has been disbanded since 1973, and of its original ██ members, only █ are still living.// > > //SCP-450 activity is in decline following incident 450-2242-12.// [[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>]]	2012-11-27T02:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	In Dread Forever Fled - SCP Foundation	118	[ "scp-450", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15169058	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/but-when-they-opened-it-they-turned-and-swift
cave-paintings	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> In a barren mountain range in northern Europe is a secluded cave. <p>Deep inside is a wide chamber that appears to have been used in ancient rituals. The walls of the roughly circular space are densely covered in cave paintings. At first glance, they seem much like those found in other caves in that part of Europe, rendered in red and brown ochres.</p> <p>Look closely, however, and you will see that the most common figures depicted are subtly non-human. They are humanoid, but slightly hunched, and while it is hard to be sure owing to the primitive style of the art, each figure appears to have two short, conical horns on its head, and a hint of a tail.</p> <p>Look more closely still, and you will find some more traditionally drawn human figures. They are being hunted by the others, run through with spears, battered with stone axes. In some scenes the horned figures appear to be roasting humans over open fires, or feasting on human-looking limbs.</p> <p>The paintings are disquieting, but they are just old pictures. The scenes they depict happened countless years ago, if they even happened at all. A determined traveller seeking shelter from a blizzard might decide to ignore the paintings and make camp. He may even light a fire.</p> <p>A well-used firepit lies at the centre of the room, slightly raised on a natural mound. Should a fire be lit there, wavering shadows will be cast onto the painted walls. For many, seeing their own silhouette superimposed on those eerie paintings will be the last straw, driving them to try their luck outside with the snow.</p> <p>Others will stay.</p> <p>Sometimes, nothing will happen. These lucky travellers will emerge the next morning, haggard from a night filled with half-remembered nightmares, anxious but alive.</p> <p>Other times, shadows will move on those walls, shadows cast by nobody present in the room. The wavering firelight will blur their outlines, make them hard to pick out, and some observers may believe them to be a trick of the light. Watch closely, though, and you will see that the shadows resemble hunched figures, perhaps with small horns, and maybe a hint of a stubby tail behind them.</p> <p>These figures will gravitate toward the shadows of those who are taking shelter in the cave. They may appear to stand over their sleeping forms. They may appear to be holding weapons, like spears or rough axes.</p> <p>Often, a lone traveller sheltering in the cave will never be seen or heard from again. Their fate will remain unknown.</p> <p>However, those travelling in a group will be woken by screams in the night. They will look for the source of the screams and find that one of their number is missing, their bedroll empty. If they happen to look at just the right place on the wall, they may see the wavering shadows of figures who are not present in the room, or at least not visible.</p> <p>The fire will be low and red, so the shadows dim and soft-edged, but it will appear that a struggling form is being speared and clubbed by multiple assailants, and then dragged away, out of the circle of firelight.<br/> The screams will fade slowly, seeming to sink into the rocks themselves.</p> <p>And is that a new cave painting on the wall the next morning? Surely not - the ochre it is painted in is just as old and dry as all the rest. No, no, that picture of a man being gutted by horned figures must have always been there.<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="/cave-paintings">Cave Paintings</a>" by DexX, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cave-paintings">https://scpwiki.com/cave-paintings</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]] [[/>]] In a barren mountain range in northern Europe is a secluded cave. Deep inside is a wide chamber that appears to have been used in ancient rituals. The walls of the roughly circular space are densely covered in cave paintings. At first glance, they seem much like those found in other caves in that part of Europe, rendered in red and brown ochres. Look closely, however, and you will see that the most common figures depicted are subtly non-human. They are humanoid, but slightly hunched, and while it is hard to be sure owing to the primitive style of the art, each figure appears to have two short, conical horns on its head, and a hint of a tail. Look more closely still, and you will find some more traditionally drawn human figures. They are being hunted by the others, run through with spears, battered with stone axes. In some scenes the horned figures appear to be roasting humans over open fires, or feasting on human-looking limbs. The paintings are disquieting, but they are just old pictures. The scenes they depict happened countless years ago, if they even happened at all. A determined traveller seeking shelter from a blizzard might decide to ignore the paintings and make camp. He may even light a fire. A well-used firepit lies at the centre of the room, slightly raised on a natural mound. Should a fire be lit there, wavering shadows will be cast onto the painted walls. For many, seeing their own silhouette superimposed on those eerie paintings will be the last straw, driving them to try their luck outside with the snow. Others will stay. Sometimes, nothing will happen. These lucky travellers will emerge the next morning, haggard from a night filled with half-remembered nightmares, anxious but alive. Other times, shadows will move on those walls, shadows cast by nobody present in the room. The wavering firelight will blur their outlines, make them hard to pick out, and some observers may believe them to be a trick of the light. Watch closely, though, and you will see that the shadows resemble hunched figures, perhaps with small horns, and maybe a hint of a stubby tail behind them. These figures will gravitate toward the shadows of those who are taking shelter in the cave. They may appear to stand over their sleeping forms. They may appear to be holding weapons, like spears or rough axes. Often, a lone traveller sheltering in the cave will never be seen or heard from again. Their fate will remain unknown. However, those travelling in a group will be woken by screams in the night. They will look for the source of the screams and find that one of their number is missing, their bedroll empty. If they happen to look at just the right place on the wall, they may see the wavering shadows of figures who are not present in the room, or at least not visible. The fire will be low and red, so the shadows dim and soft-edged, but it will appear that a struggling form is being speared and clubbed by multiple assailants, and then dragged away, out of the circle of firelight. The screams will fade slowly, seeming to sink into the rocks themselves. And is that a new cave painting on the wall the next morning? Surely not - the ochre it is painted in is just as old and dry as all the rest. No, no, that picture of a man being gutted by horned figures must have always been there. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-03-01T14:01:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Cave Paintings - SCP Foundation	72	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12834882	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cave-paintings
caveat-emptor	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Michaelson's coughing racked his wasted frame. He brought his handkerchief up to his mouth and hacked until his weak lungs stopped trying to clear themselves. Blood spotted the white fabric in places, some fresh, some dried. He didn't care about the blood. Absentmindedly, his hand touched his bald head, fingers searching for hair that was no longer there. It was stupid, really. Lung failure had become a part of life long after the hair loss, but he missed his locks more than he missed a properly functioning respiratory system.</p> <p>The doctors had given him six months, and he'd taken three years, but now it was all just coming apart. He was getting steadily worse, and the cancer just wouldn't go away this time. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair at all. He was thirty-five for fuck's sake! There were so many things he had yet to do. There was a lot of life left for him to live, and he'd never submit to illness, not when he had any kind of way out. Michaelson was determined to be great. He wouldn't let anything, not his so-called peers, not his superiors, not even death itself take that greatness from him. It had taken quite a while to set his plan in motion, but now all of his work was going to pay off. He didn't even care about the price anymore. Anything was better than the sick feeling of knowing he would die before forty, unaccomplished, nothing at all remarkable about him to be remembered. As he pressed the series of buttons in the observation booth that brought in the separate pieces of his salvation, another fit of coughing tore through his chest. It was worse than the last one, and this time, his handkerchief came away with more than a few spots of blood.</p> <p>Researcher Michaelson shuffled through the testing room door. Somewhere, a silent alarm had gone off warning… someone. A failsafe. Even when testing was scheduled ahead of time, that alarm went off. It had taken a lot of work to get even a hazy idea of who the alarm warned. If he was right, then he had successfully disabled it. If he was wrong, well, he would have time enough for this. Hopefully he could make his deal and be gone before security arrived. The cameras had already been rendered useless, and his heart pumped faster with fear. It was all well and good to go about preparations, but this was the real deal. Being discovered now would mean death. Admittedly, it would be a much faster death than what his own treacherous body had in store for him.</p> <p>Placing a shaking hand on the top of the straight-backed chair, Michaelson slumped down into it. Within seconds, there was someone sitting across the desk from him. It looked remarkably like the salesman who had fast talked him into his first piece of shit car years ago. His blond hair was slicked back severely, and a welcoming smile danced across pale lips.</p> <p>"Mr. Michaelson! How pleasant to see you. What can I offer you today?" The voice that came from the creature was a perfect facsimile of the salesman, down to his smooth baritone. It leaned back in its chair, rocking the elegant piece of furniture back on two legs. "Perhaps the love of a beautiful woman? Or no, you're an educated man, perchance you'd like all the knowledge of a P.h.D in Applied Physics? I'd be happy to offer you just about anything."</p> <p>Michaelson didn't have time for this. "No, I don't want either of those. I need you to heal my body and make it live longer than normal, and it needs to be done immediately!"</p> <p>The entity's smile took on a bit of a melancholy cast. "Longer life, hmm? It's been quite awhile since I've had someone request that one. And no one has ever been willing to pay the price. Strange, considering how much you frail creatures value your existence." A flawless mask of regretful reluctance passed across its face. "Well, in any case, I'm afraid the price for that is quite steep indeed. I'm sure we can work out some-"</p> <p>He was in no mood for haggling. Finally, the means to be well again was within his grasp, and the thing was wasting his time. "Do I look like I give a damn?! I don't care what abstract shit you take from me, just heal my body!"</p> <p>Shrugging, the entity replied serenely, "As you wish. I'll draw up the contract."</p> <p>Abruptly, two drawers on the desk opened of their own accord, and a few pieces of creamy parchment flew out of one, while a stylized golden pen rocketed from the other. The pen set to writing independently, furiously scratching clause after clause. Michaelson almost salivated at the sight. At last, he was going to be free of his illness, he was going to run again. Perhaps, most importantly he'd finally be able to earn the recognition he deserved. He wouldn't be sad Michaelson, the dying, pointless researcher. He'd be Michaelson the Triumphant, victor over sickness, brilliant doctor, accomplished SCP researcher. They would pin medals to his chest and sing his praises. He could see it all in his mind, and it was glorious.</p> <p>As suddenly as it had begun, the pen ceased its motion and fell limply to the desk. The entity leaned back forward, the legs of its throne landing with a soft click. It pushed the very last page of the contract across the desk and slid the pen along after it. Its finger rested gently on a blank line. "If you'd please sign here, the contract will become binding, and your body will be healed."</p> <p>He didn't even bother to give it a second thought. Normally he tried to slow down his writing, to accommodate his shaking hands. Now, he was too excited to bother slowing down. With the researcher's mangled signature scrawled along the bottom of the page, the entity smiled, took the contract, and placed it inside the desk, along with the ornate pen. It reached out one hand to the dying researcher in a jovial manner. "Shall we shake on it, Mr. Michaelson?"</p> <p>Without another word, Michaelson took the thing's hand in his own. It felt exactly as the salesman's had, slightly clammy with a firm grip.</p> <p>The second their hands separated, the researcher felt a burning heat suffuse his entire being. He would have screamed, but the pain seemed to radiate out from his lungs, and he could no more draw breath than he could catch the Sun. Before he could even begin to regret the deal he had made, the pain vanished. Slowly standing from the chair, Michaelson felt tears run down his face. He took a long, slow breath. Air fully filled his lungs in a way it had not in nearly three years. He felt like jumping, shouting, sprinting through the halls. It seemed like he was so full of vigor he would burst.</p> <p>Turning to stride from the testing room, he heard the entity say, in the same friendly voice, "Not so fast, Mr. Michaelson, you have yet to fulfill your end of the contract." Cold fear crawled down Researcher Michaelson's spine. Now that he was no longer knocking on death's door, he felt far more afraid of what the thing could take from him. Feeling more than a little panicky, he wondered just what he had agreed to. Racking his brains frantically, he couldn't remember ever hearing just what the price was for his returned good health, only that it had been "steep."</p> <p>Of its own volition, the contract he had signed came zooming back out of the drawer. "You'll see here in this clause, that in requesting the healing of your body, you did not specify what mind was to inhabit said product. Since said attribute of the post contract product was not enumerated directly in the initial agreement, it allows for ownership of said product to be transferred via a properly binding contract." The entity pressed a finger down on the parchment, running his finger under a line. "Now, normally the ex post facto change in ownership would null the agreement, but your phrasing was ambiguous enough to allow a proper change in ownership, -which was enumerated in page three, paragraph nine- while still retaining the positive gains of the contract."</p> <p>Michaelson couldn't even pretend to understand the hurricane of legal dogma being thrown at him. However, the mention of transferring ownership of his body was beginning to really sink in, and his pensive expression quickly soured into outright fear.</p> <p>The entity paused for emphasis, still smiling warmly at his pale face, "In this final clause you agreed that in return for the restoration of your physical form, and the following increase to your natural lifespan, that you would allow the being with which said deal was made, that's me, by the by, sole control over the repaired product." Its grin was becoming wider than the human face could stretch, going nearly from one ear to the other. "If you'll forgive my temporary lack of professionalism, I must say that I've been trying for <em>decades</em> to get someone to sign that particular clause. Usually, the rules prohibit me from even offering that as a price, but you are an exceptionally greedy man. Healing is nothing, but longevity? That is an entirely different order of magnitude." It beamed lovingly at the contract's last page. "Oh, how I have <em>waited</em> for this day. Thank you, Mr. Michaelson, for being the desperate fool I needed."</p> <p>Michaelson's slowly dawning horror was reply enough for the entity. A feverish light was in its eyes and it smiled at him again. Suddenly, he could see nothing pleasant or warm or even mirthful in that smile. Now, it was the rictus of a predator that has finally caught its prey. He had made a miscalculation. For all his schemes, all his ingenuity, Michaelson hadn't thought to account for the very element of the plan that he had thought would ensure his survival.</p> <p>"Really, Mr. Michaelson, did no one ever tell you to thoroughly read contracts before you signed them?"</p> <p>His mouth was dry. "I- I didn't- I didn't know, there was no- I mean, I couldn't have-"</p> <p>The entity silenced him with a glare, a sudden departure from its normal jovial expression. "Mr. Michaelson, really, show some dignity. If you find your end of the contract odious, maybe you should have read the deal before you signed it. I was even going to tell you what the price was and allow negotiation, before you so rudely interrupted me." It paused to take a deep, satisfied breath. "I am now the de facto owner of the merchandise I repaired. And I think I'll take possession of my property. I do so hope you enjoy whatever comes after death for your species." It tapped its chin thoughtfully. "Though I do seem to recall most of your belief systems tend to look down on deals like the one you just made." It chuckled quietly. "Well, I suppose you had best hope they're wrong."</p> <p>"Oh, don't look so worried, there's a warranty clause. Should the warranted property prove insufficiently restored, or if the malfunctions it was cured of should return, the whole contract becomes null and void." Its eyes danced with amusement. "Of course, the entire warranty clause in and of itself will become meaningless upon the cessation of life of either party, leaving the use of the property in question up to the sole discretion of the surviving party. Unfortunately, you humans are just so fragile without your leased containers. I'm afraid your demise will come rather swiftly after your eviction."</p> <p>He tried to run. It was a meaningless endeavor. The entity didn't even have to move to take him. It was all in the contract after all. Michaelson tried to scream one last time, but the words wouldn't pass his lips. They weren't even his lips anymore.</p> <p>The entity stretched slowly, popping every joint it could in its new body. Looking at the throne-like chair it had spent so many centuries in, it felt a slight twinge of sadness. A prison it might have been, but a gilded cage is still gilded. Still, freedom beckoned. Before it left, it opened two drawers of the desk and retrieved a large stack of parchment and several black pens. It could always make more, but waste not, want not. It pushed the drawers shut, and they seemed to close with a certain reluctant finality.</p> <p>Smiling slowly, it strolled quietly to the door of the testing room. As it walked out of the observation area and back into the general hallways, the entity began to whistle the tune to an old hymn heard often in the Cardinal's chambers. It was one of his old favorites.</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="/caveat-emptor">Caveat Emptor</a>" by Varian, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/caveat-emptor">https://scpwiki.com/caveat-emptor</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]] [[/>]] Michaelson's coughing racked his wasted frame. He brought his handkerchief up to his mouth and hacked until his weak lungs stopped trying to clear themselves. Blood spotted the white fabric in places, some fresh, some dried. He didn't care about the blood. Absentmindedly, his hand touched his bald head, fingers searching for hair that was no longer there. It was stupid, really. Lung failure had become a part of life long after the hair loss, but he missed his locks more than he missed a properly functioning respiratory system. The doctors had given him six months, and he'd taken three years, but now it was all just coming apart. He was getting steadily worse, and the cancer just wouldn't go away this time. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair at all. He was thirty-five for fuck's sake! There were so many things he had yet to do. There was a lot of life left for him to live, and he'd never submit to illness, not when he had any kind of way out. Michaelson was determined to be great. He wouldn't let anything, not his so-called peers, not his superiors, not even death itself take that greatness from him. It had taken quite a while to set his plan in motion, but now all of his work was going to pay off. He didn't even care about the price anymore. Anything was better than the sick feeling of knowing he would die before forty, unaccomplished, nothing at all remarkable about him to be remembered. As he pressed the series of buttons in the observation booth that brought in the separate pieces of his salvation, another fit of coughing tore through his chest. It was worse than the last one, and this time, his handkerchief came away with more than a few spots of blood. Researcher Michaelson shuffled through the testing room door. Somewhere, a silent alarm had gone off warning… someone. A failsafe. Even when testing was scheduled ahead of time, that alarm went off. It had taken a lot of work to get even a hazy idea of who the alarm warned. If he was right, then he had successfully disabled it. If he was wrong, well, he would have time enough for this. Hopefully he could make his deal and be gone before security arrived. The cameras had already been rendered useless, and his heart pumped faster with fear. It was all well and good to go about preparations, but this was the real deal. Being discovered now would mean death. Admittedly, it would be a much faster death than what his own treacherous body had in store for him. Placing a shaking hand on the top of the straight-backed chair, Michaelson slumped down into it. Within seconds, there was someone sitting across the desk from him. It looked remarkably like the salesman who had fast talked him into his first piece of shit car years ago. His blond hair was slicked back severely, and a welcoming smile danced across pale lips. "Mr. Michaelson! How pleasant to see you. What can I offer you today?" The voice that came from the creature was a perfect facsimile of the salesman, down to his smooth baritone. It leaned back in its chair, rocking the elegant piece of furniture back on two legs. "Perhaps the love of a beautiful woman? Or no, you're an educated man, perchance you'd like all the knowledge of a P.h.D in Applied Physics? I'd be happy to offer you just about anything." Michaelson didn't have time for this. "No, I don't want either of those. I need you to heal my body and make it live longer than normal, and it needs to be done immediately!" The entity's smile took on a bit of a melancholy cast. "Longer life, hmm? It's been quite awhile since I've had someone request that one. And no one has ever been willing to pay the price. Strange, considering how much you frail creatures value your existence." A flawless mask of regretful reluctance passed across its face. "Well, in any case, I'm afraid the price for that is quite steep indeed. I'm sure we can work out some-" He was in no mood for haggling. Finally, the means to be well again was within his grasp, and the thing was wasting his time. "Do I look like I give a damn?! I don't care what abstract shit you take from me, just heal my body!" Shrugging, the entity replied serenely, "As you wish. I'll draw up the contract." Abruptly, two drawers on the desk opened of their own accord, and a few pieces of creamy parchment flew out of one, while a stylized golden pen rocketed from the other. The pen set to writing independently, furiously scratching clause after clause. Michaelson almost salivated at the sight. At last, he was going to be free of his illness, he was going to run again. Perhaps, most importantly he'd finally be able to earn the recognition he deserved. He wouldn't be sad Michaelson, the dying, pointless researcher. He'd be Michaelson the Triumphant, victor over sickness, brilliant doctor, accomplished SCP researcher. They would pin medals to his chest and sing his praises. He could see it all in his mind, and it was glorious. As suddenly as it had begun, the pen ceased its motion and fell limply to the desk. The entity leaned back forward, the legs of its throne landing with a soft click. It pushed the very last page of the contract across the desk and slid the pen along after it. Its finger rested gently on a blank line. "If you'd please sign here, the contract will become binding, and your body will be healed." He didn't even bother to give it a second thought. Normally he tried to slow down his writing, to accommodate his shaking hands. Now, he was too excited to bother slowing down. With the researcher's mangled signature scrawled along the bottom of the page, the entity smiled, took the contract, and placed it inside the desk, along with the ornate pen. It reached out one hand to the dying researcher in a jovial manner. "Shall we shake on it, Mr. Michaelson?" Without another word, Michaelson took the thing's hand in his own. It felt exactly as the salesman's had, slightly clammy with a firm grip. The second their hands separated, the researcher felt a burning heat suffuse his entire being. He would have screamed, but the pain seemed to radiate out from his lungs, and he could no more draw breath than he could catch the Sun. Before he could even begin to regret the deal he had made, the pain vanished. Slowly standing from the chair, Michaelson felt tears run down his face. He took a long, slow breath. Air fully filled his lungs in a way it had not in nearly three years. He felt like jumping, shouting, sprinting through the halls. It seemed like he was so full of vigor he would burst. Turning to stride from the testing room, he heard the entity say, in the same friendly voice, "Not so fast, Mr. Michaelson, you have yet to fulfill your end of the contract." Cold fear crawled down Researcher Michaelson's spine. Now that he was no longer knocking on death's door, he felt far more afraid of what the thing could take from him. Feeling more than a little panicky, he wondered just what he had agreed to. Racking his brains frantically, he couldn't remember ever hearing just what the price was for his returned good health, only that it had been "steep." Of its own volition, the contract he had signed came zooming back out of the drawer. "You'll see here in this clause, that in requesting the healing of your body, you did not specify what mind was to inhabit said product. Since said attribute of the post contract product was not enumerated directly in the initial agreement, it allows for ownership of said product to be transferred via a properly binding contract." The entity pressed a finger down on the parchment, running his finger under a line. "Now, normally the ex post facto change in ownership would null the agreement, but your phrasing was ambiguous enough to allow a proper change in ownership, -which was enumerated in page three, paragraph nine- while still retaining the positive gains of the contract." Michaelson couldn't even pretend to understand the hurricane of legal dogma being thrown at him. However, the mention of transferring ownership of his body was beginning to really sink in, and his pensive expression quickly soured into outright fear. The entity paused for emphasis, still smiling warmly at his pale face, "In this final clause you agreed that in return for the restoration of your physical form, and the following increase to your natural lifespan, that you would allow the being with which said deal was made, that's me, by the by, sole control over the repaired product." Its grin was becoming wider than the human face could stretch, going nearly from one ear to the other. "If you'll forgive my temporary lack of professionalism, I must say that I've been trying for //decades// to get someone to sign that particular clause. Usually, the rules prohibit me from even offering that as a price, but you are an exceptionally greedy man. Healing is nothing, but longevity? That is an entirely different order of magnitude." It beamed lovingly at the contract's last page. "Oh, how I have //waited// for this day. Thank you, Mr. Michaelson, for being the desperate fool I needed." Michaelson's slowly dawning horror was reply enough for the entity. A feverish light was in its eyes and it smiled at him again. Suddenly, he could see nothing pleasant or warm or even mirthful in that smile. Now, it was the rictus of a predator that has finally caught its prey. He had made a miscalculation. For all his schemes, all his ingenuity, Michaelson hadn't thought to account for the very element of the plan that he had thought would ensure his survival. "Really, Mr. Michaelson, did no one ever tell you to thoroughly read contracts before you signed them?" His mouth was dry. "I- I didn't- I didn't know, there was no- I mean, I couldn't have-" The entity silenced him with a glare, a sudden departure from its normal jovial expression. "Mr. Michaelson, really, show some dignity. If you find your end of the contract odious, maybe you should have read the deal before you signed it. I was even going to tell you what the price was and allow negotiation, before you so rudely interrupted me." It paused to take a deep, satisfied breath. "I am now the de facto owner of the merchandise I repaired. And I think I'll take possession of my property. I do so hope you enjoy whatever comes after death for your species." It tapped its chin thoughtfully. "Though I do seem to recall most of your belief systems tend to look down on deals like the one you just made." It chuckled quietly. "Well, I suppose you had best hope they're wrong." "Oh, don't look so worried, there's a warranty clause. Should the warranted property prove insufficiently restored, or if the malfunctions it was cured of should return, the whole contract becomes null and void." Its eyes danced with amusement. "Of course, the entire warranty clause in and of itself will become meaningless upon the cessation of life of either party, leaving the use of the property in question up to the sole discretion of the surviving party. Unfortunately, you humans are just so fragile without your leased containers. I'm afraid your demise will come rather swiftly after your eviction." He tried to run. It was a meaningless endeavor. The entity didn't even have to move to take him. It was all in the contract after all. Michaelson tried to scream one last time, but the words wouldn't pass his lips. They weren't even his lips anymore. The entity stretched slowly, popping every joint it could in its new body. Looking at the throne-like chair it had spent so many centuries in, it felt a slight twinge of sadness. A prison it might have been, but a gilded cage is still gilded. Still, freedom beckoned. Before it left, it opened two drawers of the desk and retrieved a large stack of parchment and several black pens. It could always make more, but waste not, want not. It pushed the drawers shut, and they seemed to close with a certain reluctant finality. Smiling slowly, it strolled quietly to the door of the testing room. As it walked out of the observation area and back into the general hallways, the entity began to whistle the tune to an old hymn heard often in the Cardinal's chambers. It was one of his old favorites. [[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>]]	2012-11-06T08:33:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Caveat Emptor - SCP Foundation	37	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14909206	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/caveat-emptor
chains	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was Agent Johnson’s first day on the field. He was given patrol duty, nothing dangerous, but he was still extremely nervous about the entire affair. What if he wasn’t ready, he asked the commander, what if he screws things up? Commander said he shouldn’t worry, that they’re putting him under the supervision of one of their best.</p> <p>“You Johnson?” A voice came from a shiny black Dodge Charger that parked next to the bench Johnson was sitting on. Johnson nodded.</p> <p>“Hop in.”</p> <p>The driver was a middle aged, solidly built man in a wrinkled grey suit and a terrible green tie. Johnson didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.</p> <p>“Agent Cohen, I presume?”</p> <p>“The one and only. So, you’re the rookie they want me to babysit? No, don’t answer that, of course you are. Is this your first time on the streets?”</p> <p>“Yeah, sorry.”</p> <p>“Nothing to be sorry about, we all got to start somewhere, eh? Be a good kid and hand me a cigarette from that pack in the glove compartment. Take one for yourself, too.”</p> <p>“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”</p> <p>Cohen gave him an incredulous look. “A field agent not smoking? That’s a first. Well, to each his own, I suppose.”</p> <p>For some reason, Johnson felt the need to explain himself. “It’s just that, the wife doesn’t like me smoking, she says it stinks up the house.” He didn’t add that he didn't much care for the smell himself.</p> <p>Cohen nodded, giving him an empathic grin. “Women. Can’t live with them.”</p> <p>“Can’t live without them?”</p> <p>Cohen started the engine, and the Charger grumbled to life. “Your words, not mine.”</p> <p>Agent Johnson didn’t know what to make of this scruffy man, and Cohen didn’t seem to be the type to start a conversation. So, Johnston decided to take the initiative. “Say, Cohen, how did you start your career here?" He said, just trying to make conversation, "They recruited me straight out of the academy.” Johnson was proud of that; he was first in his class.</p> <p>“Argentina, 1955.”</p> <p>Johnson blinked. “Wait, twenty years ago, Argentina-” He suddenly went pale. “Your first case was the Maker of Chains!? Jesus Christ, Cohen!”</p> <p>Cohen just kept on driving, making several questionably legal maneuverings to get ahead in traffic. “Funny thing is, I wasn’t even a part of the Foundation back then. I just happened to come across the Maker while I was handling my own business.”</p> <p>“What business?”</p> <p>“Hunting.”</p> <p>“I didn’t know Argentina was a popular hunting ground.”</p> <p>“Not for animals, it wasn’t. C’mon kid, you look bright enough, do the math. I was a young, Jewish man hunting in Argentina in the 50’s. What do you think I was hunting?”</p> <p>“Oh. Were you in- Oh. I’m so sorry.”</p> <p>“Yeah, so am I. I was the only one left of my family. From a town of almost a thousand, less than fifty survived. I had nothing left in the world. Nothing but vengeance. I spent the first ten years after the war making life miserable for the monsters that took my family from me.”</p> <p>"You are being awfully open about this, Cohen. Doing what you did wasn't exactly legal."</p> <p>Cohen narrowed his eyes. "You think I care? I'd launch a fucking parade declaring I did it if I could, and to hell the consequences. Some people might tell you revenge is an empty emotion, that you get no satisfaction from it. Those people obviously never did what I did. Revenge is fucking fantastic."</p> <p>Seeing the expression on his face, Johnson knew it would be unwise to pursue this line of conversation any further. “So, you were in Argentina hunting…” he continued.</p> <p>The older man seemed to relax a bit. “Henrich Krause. He was a small fry, a petty piece of scum compared to some of the others I got. He used to command the confiscation of Jewish property in some parts of Hungary. A death clerk. I didn’t care. I wanted to end him, slowly and painfully. The Maker got to him first.”</p> <p>“Can you tell me what happened there? They wouldn’t tell us much at orientation, just that it was nasty.”</p> <p>“Krause was living in a small village about an hour’s drive from Buenos Aires. My sources told me he started a new life there, living under a pseudonym. He even had a new family to replace the one he left in Germany when he fled. A real piece of work, that guy was. It was late at night when I got to Fin del Camino de la Aldea. It wasn’t hard telling which house was his- it was the only one with a welcome sign in German. The bastard must have thought he was completely safe. How wrong he was.”</p> <p>Cohen parked the car in front of a greasy spoon diner, but made no move to exit the car. He took another smoke, fumbling with the car lighter. Nearly burning himself, he finally managed to get it lit, and took a long draw. He went on:</p> <p>“I could tell something was wrong the moment I stepped on his perfect front lawn. The door was open, but there were no lights inside. I thought someone could have gotten to him first, maybe some of those Mossad boys I’ve been hearing about, but for some reason I didn’t think that was the case. Something was rotten here. Drawing my gun, I got in. Krause must have had some obsession with clocks, because the place was full of them- cuckoo clocks, big grandfather clocks, you name it, he had it.”</p> <p>“And the Maker of Chains?”</p> <p>“Hold your horses, I’m getting to it. I scanned the entire house, and found nothing except more damn clocks. Only place left was the tool shed outside. I saw signs of struggle in the back yard, but not many. Whatever got Krause overwhelmed him pretty quickly. There was a trail leading to the shed, and a few drops of blood too. I kicked open the door.”</p> <p>Cohen stopped, and abruptly got up and stepped out of the car. Johnson hurried after him.</p> <p>“And what? What did you see?”</p> <p>Cohen sighed. “Kid, we're about to have lunch, and talking about what I saw in that shed is a sure-fire way to spoil my appetite. Suffice to say there were chains, and blood. The Maker wasn’t done with its meal, I caught him right in the middle of Krause’s wife. Krause himself was knocked out cold, but unharmed. His little girl, however…”</p> <p>Cohen gave Johnson a sour look. “See, now you’ve done it. I was looking forward to lunch, and you spoiled it. Might as well get on with the patrol, get back in the car.”</p> <p>Johnson complied, and Cohen took the Charger out to the road again. He opened the window and spat.</p> <p>“I was too late to save her. The Maker, it… already devoured her, transformed her. Made her its own. I don’t care if her father was what he was, no kid deserves that. She was still alive, in a manner, but even as inexperience as I was back then, I knew she was gone. The chains were everywhere- around her hands and legs, through her skin, her mouth, her eyes. I nearly wet myself, but I still had enough good sense in me to run for it. The Maker, not wanting to leave a meal behind, sent the child after me. As I ran I could hear the clinking of her chains, the sound of them dragging through the dirt. I have no idea how she-it managed to catch up to me, but it did. I turned around just in time to watch it-her lunge at me. You have to understand, I didn't have a choice. “</p> <p>“You shot her?”</p> <p>Cohen looked away from Johnson, pretending to adjust the side mirror.</p> <p>“Got her right between the eyes. The poor thing never stood a chance. Even though I was scared shitless, I couldn't just leave her like that. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I picked her up and brought her inside, to what I guessed was her room. I laid her amidst her toys and dolls, locked the door behind me, and sat there next to her with my gun pointed at the door. I could hear Krause screaming from the shed, for what seemed like hours. Despite myself, I eventually fell asleep, and when I woke up it was morning. I heard voices coming from the back yard, and saw men standing there, inspecting the shed. One of them noticed me and called me to come down, said that I had nothing to worry about, that they took care of everything. They were lying, of course, the Maker simply escaped during the night. It took us five more years to catch it, and plenty of sweat and blood. ”</p> <p>“And then?”</p> <p>“Their commander asked who I was, and for some reason, I told him the truth. I told him why I came there, told everything I saw the night before, and what I did. He just listened. When I was done, he said I had two choices: either I could come with him and get a job defending people from things like the creature I saw, or he could put a bullet through my head.”</p> <p>Johnson blinked. “That seems…harsh.”</p> <p>Cohen just shrugged. “They didn’t have those fancy amnestics back then, and recruitment was a lot more, well, straightforward at times- the Foundation was still hurting pretty bad from the war, you see. Naturally, I took the job. I don't regret it either."</p> <p>"Why do you think the commander recruited you?"</p> <p>"Besides my charm and good looks? Because I was a man with nothing to lose, with nothing tying him to the world. That's a useful quality to have in an agent- means nobody can't get much leverage on him," Suddenly, Cohen's expression changed, and for the first time Johnson could see real warmth on the man's face. "It didn't quite worked out the way they planned, though. I met my wife working for the Foundation. I still have no idea what a smart woman like her ever found in a moron like me, but I'm not complaining, that's for sure." Cohen looked back at Johnson and smiled. "My eldest can't be much younger than you."</p> <p>"I have some again."</p> <p>The hours passed, leisurely flowing with the rhythm of the Chargers' engine, until finally it was time to call it a day. Cohen gave Johnson a lift home. As Johnson was stepping out of the car, he turned back and asked: "How do you deal with all of that? Not just the Maker, everything you've been through? How could you move on, keep on going? How could anyone?"</p> <p>Cohen gave him a strange look. "Who said I ever moved on? In a way, it will always be 1955 for me. Like it will always be 1942. When you've been broken the way I was, you don't ever get whole again. You just have to try and glue what's left of you as best you can. "</p> <p>"Then how do you do it? Why?"</p> <p>"I do it because someone has to. And because I need to, for my own sanity. No one can protect humanity from itself, so the least we can do is protect it from everything else. Remember our words, son."</p> <p>"Secure, Contain, Protect."</p> <p>"Sometimes it can be easy to forget that last one. But really, it's the only one that counts. We took those chains on ourselves by choice. You remember that." With that, he drove away.</p> <p>As Johnson watched the Charger turn a corner and disappear, he knew he would.<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="/chains">Chains</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/chains">https://scpwiki.com/chains</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]] [[/>]] It was Agent Johnson’s first day on the field. He was given patrol duty, nothing dangerous, but he was still extremely nervous about the entire affair. What if he wasn’t ready, he asked the commander, what if he screws things up? Commander said he shouldn’t worry, that they’re putting him under the supervision of one of their best. “You Johnson?” A voice came from a shiny black Dodge Charger that parked next to the bench Johnson was sitting on. Johnson nodded. “Hop in.” The driver was a middle aged, solidly built man in a wrinkled grey suit and a terrible green tie. Johnson didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. “Agent Cohen, I presume?” “The one and only. So, you’re the rookie they want me to babysit? No, don’t answer that, of course you are. Is this your first time on the streets?” “Yeah, sorry.” “Nothing to be sorry about, we all got to start somewhere, eh? Be a good kid and hand me a cigarette from that pack in the glove compartment. Take one for yourself, too.” “No thanks, I don’t smoke.” Cohen gave him an incredulous look. “A field agent not smoking? That’s a first. Well, to each his own, I suppose.” For some reason, Johnson felt the need to explain himself. “It’s just that, the wife doesn’t like me smoking, she says it stinks up the house.” He didn’t add that he didn't much care for the smell himself. Cohen nodded, giving him an empathic grin. “Women. Can’t live with them.” “Can’t live without them?” Cohen started the engine, and the Charger grumbled to life. “Your words, not mine.” Agent Johnson didn’t know what to make of this scruffy man, and Cohen didn’t seem to be the type to start a conversation. So, Johnston decided to take the initiative. “Say, Cohen, how did you start your career here?" He said, just trying to make conversation, "They recruited me straight out of the academy.” Johnson was proud of that; he was first in his class. “Argentina, 1955.” Johnson blinked. “Wait, twenty years ago, Argentina-” He suddenly went pale. “Your first case was the Maker of Chains!? Jesus Christ, Cohen!” Cohen just kept on driving, making several questionably legal maneuverings to get ahead in traffic. “Funny thing is, I wasn’t even a part of the Foundation back then. I just happened to come across the Maker while I was handling my own business.” “What business?” “Hunting.” “I didn’t know Argentina was a popular hunting ground.” “Not for animals, it wasn’t. C’mon kid, you look bright enough, do the math. I was a young, Jewish man hunting in Argentina in the 50’s. What do you think I was hunting?” “Oh. Were you in- Oh. I’m so sorry.” “Yeah, so am I. I was the only one left of my family. From a town of almost a thousand, less than fifty survived. I had nothing left in the world. Nothing but vengeance. I spent the first ten years after the war making life miserable for the monsters that took my family from me.” "You are being awfully open about this, Cohen. Doing what you did wasn't exactly legal." Cohen narrowed his eyes. "You think I care? I'd launch a fucking parade declaring I did it if I could, and to hell the consequences. Some people might tell you revenge is an empty emotion, that you get no satisfaction from it. Those people obviously never did what I did. Revenge is fucking fantastic." Seeing the expression on his face, Johnson knew it would be unwise to pursue this line of conversation any further. “So, you were in Argentina hunting...” he continued. The older man seemed to relax a bit. “Henrich Krause. He was a small fry, a petty piece of scum compared to some of the others I got. He used to command the confiscation of Jewish property in some parts of Hungary. A death clerk. I didn’t care. I wanted to end him, slowly and painfully. The Maker got to him first.” “Can you tell me what happened there? They wouldn’t tell us much at orientation, just that it was nasty.” “Krause was living in a small village about an hour’s drive from Buenos Aires. My sources told me he started a new life there, living under a pseudonym. He even had a new family to replace the one he left in Germany when he fled. A real piece of work, that guy was. It was late at night when I got to Fin del Camino de la Aldea. It wasn’t hard telling which house was his- it was the only one with a welcome sign in German. The bastard must have thought he was completely safe. How wrong he was.” Cohen parked the car in front of a greasy spoon diner, but made no move to exit the car. He took another smoke, fumbling with the car lighter. Nearly burning himself, he finally managed to get it lit, and took a long draw. He went on: “I could tell something was wrong the moment I stepped on his perfect front lawn. The door was open, but there were no lights inside. I thought someone could have gotten to him first, maybe some of those Mossad boys I’ve been hearing about, but for some reason I didn’t think that was the case. Something was rotten here. Drawing my gun, I got in. Krause must have had some obsession with clocks, because the place was full of them- cuckoo clocks, big grandfather clocks, you name it, he had it.” “And the Maker of Chains?” “Hold your horses, I’m getting to it. I scanned the entire house, and found nothing except more damn clocks. Only place left was the tool shed outside. I saw signs of struggle in the back yard, but not many. Whatever got Krause overwhelmed him pretty quickly. There was a trail leading to the shed, and a few drops of blood too. I kicked open the door.” Cohen stopped, and abruptly got up and stepped out of the car. Johnson hurried after him. “And what? What did you see?” Cohen sighed. “Kid, we're about to have lunch, and talking about what I saw in that shed is a sure-fire way to spoil my appetite. Suffice to say there were chains, and blood. The Maker wasn’t done with its meal, I caught him right in the middle of Krause’s wife. Krause himself was knocked out cold, but unharmed. His little girl, however…” Cohen gave Johnson a sour look. “See, now you’ve done it. I was looking forward to lunch, and you spoiled it. Might as well get on with the patrol, get back in the car.” Johnson complied, and Cohen took the Charger out to the road again. He opened the window and spat. “I was too late to save her. The Maker, it… already devoured her, transformed her. Made her its own. I don’t care if her father was what he was, no kid deserves that. She was still alive, in a manner, but even as inexperience as I was back then, I knew she was gone. The chains were everywhere- around her hands and legs, through her skin, her mouth, her eyes. I nearly wet myself, but I still had enough good sense in me to run for it. The Maker, not wanting to leave a meal behind, sent the child after me. As I ran I could hear the clinking of her chains, the sound of them dragging through the dirt. I have no idea how she-it managed to catch up to me, but it did. I turned around just in time to watch it-her lunge at me. You have to understand, I didn't have a choice. “ “You shot her?” Cohen looked away from Johnson, pretending to adjust the side mirror. “Got her right between the eyes. The poor thing never stood a chance. Even though I was scared shitless, I couldn't just leave her like that. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I picked her up and brought her inside, to what I guessed was her room. I laid her amidst her toys and dolls, locked the door behind me, and sat there next to her with my gun pointed at the door. I could hear Krause screaming from the shed, for what seemed like hours. Despite myself, I eventually fell asleep, and when I woke up it was morning. I heard voices coming from the back yard, and saw men standing there, inspecting the shed. One of them noticed me and called me to come down, said that I had nothing to worry about, that they took care of everything. They were lying, of course, the Maker simply escaped during the night. It took us five more years to catch it, and plenty of sweat and blood. ” “And then?” “Their commander asked who I was, and for some reason, I told him the truth. I told him why I came there, told everything I saw the night before, and what I did. He just listened. When I was done, he said I had two choices: either I could come with him and get a job defending people from things like the creature I saw, or he could put a bullet through my head.” Johnson blinked. “That seems…harsh.” Cohen just shrugged. “They didn’t have those fancy amnestics back then, and recruitment was a lot more, well, straightforward at times- the Foundation was still hurting pretty bad from the war, you see. Naturally, I took the job. I don't regret it either." "Why do you think the commander recruited you?" "Besides my charm and good looks? Because I was a man with nothing to lose, with nothing tying him to the world. That's a useful quality to have in an agent- means nobody can't get much leverage on him," Suddenly, Cohen's expression changed, and for the first time Johnson could see real warmth on the man's face. "It didn't quite worked out the way they planned, though. I met my wife working for the Foundation. I still have no idea what a smart woman like her ever found in a moron like me, but I'm not complaining, that's for sure." Cohen looked back at Johnson and smiled. "My eldest can't be much younger than you." "I have some again." The hours passed, leisurely flowing with the rhythm of the Chargers' engine, until finally it was time to call it a day. Cohen gave Johnson a lift home. As Johnson was stepping out of the car, he turned back and asked: "How do you deal with all of that? Not just the Maker, everything you've been through? How could you move on, keep on going? How could anyone?" Cohen gave him a strange look. "Who said I ever moved on? In a way, it will always be 1955 for me. Like it will always be 1942. When you've been broken the way I was, you don't ever get whole again. You just have to try and glue what's left of you as best you can. " "Then how do you do it? Why?" "I do it because someone has to. And because I need to, for my own sanity. No one can protect humanity from itself, so the least we can do is protect it from everything else. Remember our words, son." "Secure, Contain, Protect." "Sometimes it can be easy to forget that last one. But really, it's the only one that counts. We took those chains on ourselves by choice. You remember that." With that, he drove away. As Johnson watched the Charger turn a corner and disappear, he knew he would. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-08T18:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Chains - SCP Foundation	70	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13730254	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/chains
challenge-accepted	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The sound of shrieking klaxons could be heard over the muffled shouts and dull thumps coming through the door. The interior of the chamber was still, the long rows of shelves filled with metal boxes and lockers remaining undisturbed by the chaos outside. The sound of thumps was getting louder however, as whatever was causing it grew nearer.</p> <p>Then one of the walls caved inwards.</p> <p>Through the dust and debris burst a large reptile, its head swinging left and right looking for any danger or people to eat. Finding nothing, it climbed over the pile of what was formerly a wall to check the room for any routes to the surface.</p> <p>The sound of gunfire from the other side of hole in the wall caused its head to snap upwards. It let out a deafening bellow as several bullets bit into its side. After the first few shots, its skin gained a metallic hue and the bullets began to ricochet off into the walls.</p> <p>"DISGUSTING FLESHBAGS, I SHALL FEAST UPON THE INNARDS OF YOUR REVOLTING SPAWN BEFORE SUCKING THE MARROW FROM YOUR BONES!"</p> <p>The reptile ran towards the opposite wall, knocking over shelves in its wake and sending their contents scattering. The wall ahead of it crumbled as it barreled through.</p> <p>A team of heavily armed men and women walked through the wall the reptile had entered from, advancing cautiously towards the other side of the room.</p> <p>"682 has entered Hallway B6-17, headed towards Research Labs, we are in pursuit. Prepare for ambush at intersection B6-17-103."</p> <p>The heavy boots of the squad crunched over broken masonry, glass and metal as they passed through to the other side of the room and the hole the beast had left through. After scouting the other side to ensure it wasn't lying in wait, the rest of the team left the room to pursue its quarry.</p> <p>The sound of roaring and gunshots became fainter again as the battle moved away. The dust in the chamber began to settle on the wreckage left in the wake of the carnage.</p> <p>The room was still.</p> <p>A quiet sound began, at first so faint it might not have even been there. If anyone <em>had</em> been there to hear it, they might have thought they heard a soft beeping coming from one of the safes that had been knocked to the floor. It was lying on its side, and one half of the door had been twisted from its hinges.</p> <p>"SELF-PRESERVATION MODE ACTIVATED. DO NOT DAMAGE ROBO-DUDE. DAMAGING ROBO-DUDE VOIDS THE DR. WONDERTAINMENT WARRANTY. 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 OR DESTRUCTION TO PERSONS OR PROPERTY RESULTING FROM IMPROPER HANDLING OF ROBO-DUDE. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL."</p> <p>The remaining hinge on the safe began to sizzle until, sufficiently weakened by the acid that had been applied, the weight of the mangled door caused it to break free.</p> <p>A toy robot shuffled out of the safe and stood amid the wreckage, looking for what had caused it to be activated. Its boxy plastic shape had trouble moving over the plaster and metal shards, but it eventually managed to find a section of flat ground without too many obstructions.</p> <p>"ROBO-PAL?"</p> <p>Another shape began to stir amid the dust. The toy robot turned towards the sound.</p> <p>"GREETINGS ROBO-PAL. HOW DO YOU WANT TO HAVE ROBO-FUN WITH ROBO-DUDE TODAY?"</p> <p>"Who dares to call me robo-pal. I am the Crushmaster, doom to all I survey. Gaze upon my might and weep. Identify yourself, that I might know whose destruction I shall sow."</p> <p>The shape advanced through the cloud of dust until it resolved itself. It too, appeared to be a robot, but assembled haphazardly from a collection of items that didn't seem like they should even form a functioning machine. Its head was a broken upside-down voltmeter, its arms were wrenches sticking out of flashlight bodies, and its legs seemed to be made from a combination of springs, metal piping, and sporks.</p> <p>"I AM ROBO-DUDE, ROBO-PAL. I AM EQUIPPED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED FUN ACCESSORIES TO MAXIMIZE PLAYTIME ENJOYMENT."</p> <p>The Crushmaster wobbled awkwardly over to the plastic toy, nearly tumbling over a few times, before stopping maybe a meter away. It stood a good four or five times taller than the diminutive Robo-Dude, and if anyone else had been watching, they might have thought that it tried to stand a little higher on its sporks than it had a moment ago.</p> <p>"I am Direfist the Bloodeater and I shall maximize my enjoyment by squashing you beneath my almighty boot. Prepare to face my wrath."</p> <p>Robo-Dude looked down at Direfist's sporks. It looked back up.</p> <p>"ROBO-DUDE SHALL ENGAGE IN ROBO-DANCE TO MAXIMIZE YOUR ROBO-FUN."</p> <p>Robo-Dude engaged its Robo-Dance.</p> <p>"Very well, puny weakling, I, Sparklord the Barbarian, shall defeat you at your Robo-Dancing to bring humiliations galore upon you and your ilk before I rend your soul into itty-bitty pieces."</p> <p>Sparklord began to gyrate precariously about its centre of mass, hopelessly out of tune with the tinny music emerging from a speaker somewhere on Robo-Dude's body.</p> <p>"ROBO-DUDE HAS RECOGNIZED A ROBO-DANCE CHALLENGE. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. ACTIVATING ROBO-DANCE-OFF MODE."</p> <p>"Activate all that you wish, but your fate is sealed. The Kill-o-tron can not be defeated. I shall render you unto dust with my mad dancing skills."</p> <p>The two mechanical men began to dance in earnest. Robo-Dude accessed its optimum dance programming, performing to its maximum abilities. Kill-o-tron stumbled around the open space, falling over no less than seven times, and somehow managed to lose one of its wrenches.</p> <p>After about thirty minutes, the music stopped, and the two robots ceased dancing. Kill-o-tron managed to untangle the tines of its spork from a metal wire it had caught in.</p> <p>"ROBO-DANCE IS COMPLETE, ROBO-PAL."</p> <p>"Ha. Pathetic one, you have been schooled in the art of the dance by none other than Mechanobasher, Scourge of a Thousand Worlds. Kneel before me before I end your worthless existence."</p> <p>Mechanobasher, Scourge of a Thousand Worlds, raised its arms up in victory, its remaining wrench waving to an imaginary crowd.</p> <p>"ROBO-DUDE HAS USED ITS ROBO-DANCE-JUDGE PROGRAMMING TO DETERMINE A WINNER. THE WINNER IS ROBO-DUDE. CONGRATULATIONS ROBO-DUDE."</p> <p>"What insolence. Prepare to feel the sting of Doctor Von Vroom, Purveyor of Doom."</p> <p>Von Vroom began to advance on Robo-Dude, its sole wrench twirling menacingly in its socket.</p> <p>"ROBO-DUDE HAS DETECTED A SORE LOSER. ROBO-DUDE DEPLOYING HYDROGEN CANNON TO EDUCATE ROBO-PAL ON BEING A GOOD SPORT."</p> <p>The compartment on Robo-Dude's chest opened, and a jet of water shot out at Von Vroom. Von Vroom's sporks lost traction on the wet floor, and it fell over onto its back.</p> <p>"How dare you. Right me immediately so that you may taste your destruction at the hands of the Supreme Stabbinator."</p> <p>Robo-Dude watched as the Supreme Stabbinator flailed around on its back as managing to make small circles on the floor, but it was unable to lift itself off of the wet concrete.</p> <p>"I shall obliterate you atom by atom until not a trace that your worthless form even existed upon this wretched planet if I am not righted immediately, so says I, Deathkill the Destructionator, King of Kings and Lord of Lords."</p> <p>"DO NOT INTIMIDATE ROBO-DUDE."<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="/challenge-accepted">Challenge Accepted!</a>" by doomsniffer, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/challenge-accepted">https://scpwiki.com/challenge-accepted</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 sound of shrieking klaxons could be heard over the muffled shouts and dull thumps coming through the door. The interior of the chamber was still, the long rows of shelves filled with metal boxes and lockers remaining undisturbed by the chaos outside. The sound of thumps was getting louder however, as whatever was causing it grew nearer. Then one of the walls caved inwards. Through the dust and debris burst a large reptile, its head swinging left and right looking for any danger or people to eat. Finding nothing, it climbed over the pile of what was formerly a wall to check the room for any routes to the surface. The sound of gunfire from the other side of hole in the wall caused its head to snap upwards. It let out a deafening bellow as several bullets bit into its side. After the first few shots, its skin gained a metallic hue and the bullets began to ricochet off into the walls. "DISGUSTING FLESHBAGS, I SHALL FEAST UPON THE INNARDS OF YOUR REVOLTING SPAWN BEFORE SUCKING THE MARROW FROM YOUR BONES!" The reptile ran towards the opposite wall, knocking over shelves in its wake and sending their contents scattering. The wall ahead of it crumbled as it barreled through. A team of heavily armed men and women walked through the wall the reptile had entered from, advancing cautiously towards the other side of the room. "682 has entered Hallway B6-17, headed towards Research Labs, we are in pursuit. Prepare for ambush at intersection B6-17-103." The heavy boots of the squad crunched over broken masonry, glass and metal as they passed through to the other side of the room and the hole the beast had left through. After scouting the other side to ensure it wasn't lying in wait, the rest of the team left the room to pursue its quarry. The sound of roaring and gunshots became fainter again as the battle moved away. The dust in the chamber began to settle on the wreckage left in the wake of the carnage. The room was still. A quiet sound began, at first so faint it might not have even been there. If anyone //had// been there to hear it, they might have thought they heard a soft beeping coming from one of the safes that had been knocked to the floor. It was lying on its side, and one half of the door had been twisted from its hinges. "SELF-PRESERVATION MODE ACTIVATED. DO NOT DAMAGE ROBO-DUDE. DAMAGING ROBO-DUDE VOIDS THE DR. WONDERTAINMENT WARRANTY. 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 OR DESTRUCTION TO PERSONS OR PROPERTY RESULTING FROM IMPROPER HANDLING OF ROBO-DUDE. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL." The remaining hinge on the safe began to sizzle until, sufficiently weakened by the acid that had been applied, the weight of the mangled door caused it to break free. A toy robot shuffled out of the safe and stood amid the wreckage, looking for what had caused it to be activated. Its boxy plastic shape had trouble moving over the plaster and metal shards, but it eventually managed to find a section of flat ground without too many obstructions. "ROBO-PAL?" Another shape began to stir amid the dust. The toy robot turned towards the sound. "GREETINGS ROBO-PAL. HOW DO YOU WANT TO HAVE ROBO-FUN WITH ROBO-DUDE TODAY?" "Who dares to call me robo-pal. I am the Crushmaster, doom to all I survey. Gaze upon my might and weep. Identify yourself, that I might know whose destruction I shall sow." The shape advanced through the cloud of dust until it resolved itself. It too, appeared to be a robot, but assembled haphazardly from a collection of items that didn't seem like they should even form a functioning machine. Its head was a broken upside-down voltmeter, its arms were wrenches sticking out of flashlight bodies, and its legs seemed to be made from a combination of springs, metal piping, and sporks. "I AM ROBO-DUDE, ROBO-PAL. I AM EQUIPPED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED FUN ACCESSORIES TO MAXIMIZE PLAYTIME ENJOYMENT." The Crushmaster wobbled awkwardly over to the plastic toy, nearly tumbling over a few times, before stopping maybe a meter away. It stood a good four or five times taller than the diminutive Robo-Dude, and if anyone else had been watching, they might have thought that it tried to stand a little higher on its sporks than it had a moment ago. "I am Direfist the Bloodeater and I shall maximize my enjoyment by squashing you beneath my almighty boot. Prepare to face my wrath." Robo-Dude looked down at Direfist's sporks. It looked back up. "ROBO-DUDE SHALL ENGAGE IN ROBO-DANCE TO MAXIMIZE YOUR ROBO-FUN." Robo-Dude engaged its Robo-Dance. "Very well, puny weakling, I, Sparklord the Barbarian, shall defeat you at your Robo-Dancing to bring humiliations galore upon you and your ilk before I rend your soul into itty-bitty pieces." Sparklord began to gyrate precariously about its centre of mass, hopelessly out of tune with the tinny music emerging from a speaker somewhere on Robo-Dude's body. "ROBO-DUDE HAS RECOGNIZED A ROBO-DANCE CHALLENGE. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. ACTIVATING ROBO-DANCE-OFF MODE." "Activate all that you wish, but your fate is sealed. The Kill-o-tron can not be defeated. I shall render you unto dust with my mad dancing skills." The two mechanical men began to dance in earnest. Robo-Dude accessed its optimum dance programming, performing to its maximum abilities. Kill-o-tron stumbled around the open space, falling over no less than seven times, and somehow managed to lose one of its wrenches. After about thirty minutes, the music stopped, and the two robots ceased dancing. Kill-o-tron managed to untangle the tines of its spork from a metal wire it had caught in. "ROBO-DANCE IS COMPLETE, ROBO-PAL." "Ha. Pathetic one, you have been schooled in the art of the dance by none other than Mechanobasher, Scourge of a Thousand Worlds. Kneel before me before I end your worthless existence." Mechanobasher, Scourge of a Thousand Worlds, raised its arms up in victory, its remaining wrench waving to an imaginary crowd. "ROBO-DUDE HAS USED ITS ROBO-DANCE-JUDGE PROGRAMMING TO DETERMINE A WINNER. THE WINNER IS ROBO-DUDE. CONGRATULATIONS ROBO-DUDE." "What insolence. Prepare to feel the sting of Doctor Von Vroom, Purveyor of Doom." Von Vroom began to advance on Robo-Dude, its sole wrench twirling menacingly in its socket. "ROBO-DUDE HAS DETECTED A SORE LOSER. ROBO-DUDE DEPLOYING HYDROGEN CANNON TO EDUCATE ROBO-PAL ON BEING A GOOD SPORT." The compartment on Robo-Dude's chest opened, and a jet of water shot out at Von Vroom. Von Vroom's sporks lost traction on the wet floor, and it fell over onto its back. "How dare you. Right me immediately so that you may taste your destruction at the hands of the Supreme Stabbinator." Robo-Dude watched as the Supreme Stabbinator flailed around on its back as managing to make small circles on the floor, but it was unable to lift itself off of the wet concrete. "I shall obliterate you atom by atom until not a trace that your worthless form even existed upon this wretched planet if I am not righted immediately, so says I, Deathkill the Destructionator, King of Kings and Lord of Lords." "DO NOT INTIMIDATE ROBO-DUDE." @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-05-13T03:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "comedy", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "tale" ]	Challenge Accepted! - SCP Foundation	176	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13325384	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/challenge-accepted
christmas-dinner	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>After Action Report, Incident MC-643<br/> Agents Samuels, Perkins, and Flanders were assigned to infiltrate and gather information regarding a Christmas masquerade believed to have been held by Foundation group of interest Marshall, Carter, and Dark on October 2█, 20██ at ██ ██████ Drive, the location of an estate believed to be owned by one of the founding members of Marshall, Carter, and Dark.</p> </blockquote> <p>Samuels spoke with a woman wearing a silver Venetian mask, her eyes hidden behind the grey film of her disguise. She was snacking on what Samuels believed to be a wafer of dried human heart, but he wasn't absolutely certain.</p> <p>"Dearie, you simply <em>must</em> try the punch. It is simply <em>fabulous</em> if I do say so myself, simply to <em>die</em> for. I do believe I will have some more, join me?"</p> <p>Samuels had already identified the table from which the punch, and most of the food at the party, were coming from. He didn't want the punch.</p> <p>"I think I'll pass, but thank you ma'am. If you'll excuse me, I must speak with that man over there about acquiring a new contortionist. My last seems to have broken herself, quite tragic."</p> <p>Samuels strode briskly away from the woman and towards Flanders, ignoring the parting suggestion that he make use of the local bone regrowth facility.</p> <blockquote> <p>Agents successfully infiltrated the masquerade, all wearing copies of a black full-face mask. Access was gained through a window in the east wing of the mansion after Agent Perkins drilled through the lock.</p> </blockquote> <p>Perkins was trying to catalog all the anomalous items in the room, and having a hard time of it. In the corner by the door a woman, apparently a nurse, was eating pomegranate seeds. She didn't seem to notice that she never ran out. In the opposite corner, a man entertaining a crowd by changing breadsticks to meat. To Perkins' left, a golden fountain ran out of the wall, a small plaque listing the health hazards associated with it. And across the room-</p> <p>Perkins cursed under his breath.</p> <p>"Flanders you fool, what were you <em>thinking</em>?"</p> <blockquote> <p>Mission integrity was apparently compromised by Agent Flanders twenty minutes after entering the room in which the main event was hosted.</p> </blockquote> <p>Flanders was in love with the cheese, savoring every bite. The aroma was rich and filling, the savory taste coating his tongue, the soft dairy parting between his teeth in an experience he had never felt anything like before. He would never leave this table again if it meant leaving his cheese, not for anything. The cheese was his world, and nothing else mattered.</p> <blockquote> <p>Agent Flanders came under the effect of a portion of human liver seemingly affected by <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-643">SCP-643</a>. Attempted intervention by his fellow agents led to a brief physical confrontation, followed by the loss of Flanders life when an instance of SCP-643 came in contact with his skin. Several other attendees were coated by SCP-643, but did not cease consumption of Agent Flanders to save themselves.</p> </blockquote> <p>Samuels stumbled out of the hall, his sleeve held up against his bloodstained mouth, his mask askew. Flanders' tortured screams followed him, echoing through the doorway. Samuels nibbled on the finger he had managed to scavenge, and watched as a table was carried past him and into the hall by several huge men. A thick sheet covered whatever was within, golden fluid spilling out from beneath the sheet and turning the carpet to a cheesy yellow substance. He coughed as a piece of bone and fingernail caught in the back of his throat, but he couldn't bear to waste anything by spitting it out.</p> <blockquote> <p>Agent Samuels was unable to recall any events following his final encounter with Agent Flanders.</p> </blockquote> <p>Perkins moaned in ecstasy as he bit down on a muscle. Flanders wasn't wriggling too badly anymore, and he was much easier to hold down. He would twitch every now and again when Perkins made a grab for an organ, and he'd <em>really</em> start jerking whenever he tried scooping a bit of brain, but Perkins didn't care.</p> <p>The hot rush of blood over his tongue was beginning to slow, and he almost cried knowing that his dessert was nearly gone. But then Perkins was distracted by the wonderfully diverse taste of human spleen, and then the hot pulsing of the heart, and then the marrow, <em>oh</em> the bone marrow, the sweet crack of bone, the rush of hot delicious slurry, the wet flopping of juicy muscles struggling to contract with nothing to pull against.</p> <blockquote> <p>Agent Perkins was found dead the following morning. Autopsies suggest that his body was unable to process the amount of substance consumed the previous evening. This, combined with substantial damage received to his face by unknown means, led to Perkins' death from both excessive bleeding and rupturing of the internal digestive tract.</p> </blockquote> <p>Samuels staggered back into the hall, his mask tilted diagonally against his face, red blood slashed across the mouth, and a piece of cotton shoved against his nostrils. He fought his way through the orgy of dead and dying cannibals, still trying to force as much of each other as possible down their mouths, and tumbled to the ground where Flanders lay with Perkins inert by his corpse. He shoveled a few more handfuls of Flanders flesh into his mouth, gagged as his stomach protested, grabbed the other agent's earpieces, and crawled out of the hall, a piece of somebody's kidney clutched in his other hand.</p> <p>And behind him a man smiled, hand pressed against his still-bleeding arm, cut by his own hand. Soon, all who were here would know Their light, would know the joy of giving to the unenlightened that which was most precious, their own flesh. He loved these sorts of functions, the kind he could pin on some outside group as hosting. This time of year was always the easiest time to spread, with its focus on food, and the sharing of it. He felt the worms wriggling through his veins, felt them in the people surrounding him who had been eating his meat throughout the dinner.</p> <p>He felt a great satisfaction at his missionary work for the evening.</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="/christmas-dinner">Christmas Dinner</a>" by Snowshoe, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/christmas-dinner">https://scpwiki.com/christmas-dinner</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]] [[/>]] > After Action Report, Incident MC-643 > > > Agents Samuels, Perkins, and Flanders were assigned to infiltrate and gather information regarding a Christmas masquerade believed to have been held by Foundation group of interest Marshall, Carter, and Dark on October 2█, 20██ at ██ ██████ Drive, the location of an estate believed to be owned by one of the founding members of Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Samuels spoke with a woman wearing a silver Venetian mask, her eyes hidden behind the grey film of her disguise. She was snacking on what Samuels believed to be a wafer of dried human heart, but he wasn't absolutely certain. "Dearie, you simply //must// try the punch. It is simply //fabulous// if I do say so myself, simply to //die// for. I do believe I will have some more, join me?" Samuels had already identified the table from which the punch, and most of the food at the party, were coming from. He didn't want the punch. "I think I'll pass, but thank you ma'am. If you'll excuse me, I must speak with that man over there about acquiring a new contortionist. My last seems to have broken herself, quite tragic." Samuels strode briskly away from the woman and towards Flanders, ignoring the parting suggestion that he make use of the local bone regrowth facility. > Agents successfully infiltrated the masquerade, all wearing copies of a black full-face mask. Access was gained through a window in the east wing of the mansion after Agent Perkins drilled through the lock. Perkins was trying to catalog all the anomalous items in the room, and having a hard time of it. In the corner by the door a woman, apparently a nurse, was eating pomegranate seeds. She didn't seem to notice that she never ran out. In the opposite corner, a man entertaining a crowd by changing breadsticks to meat. To Perkins' left, a golden fountain ran out of the wall, a small plaque listing the health hazards associated with it. And across the room- Perkins cursed under his breath. "Flanders you fool, what were you //thinking//?" > Mission integrity was apparently compromised by Agent Flanders twenty minutes after entering the room in which the main event was hosted. Flanders was in love with the cheese, savoring every bite. The aroma was rich and filling, the savory taste coating his tongue, the soft dairy parting between his teeth in an experience he had never felt anything like before. He would never leave this table again if it meant leaving his cheese, not for anything. The cheese was his world, and nothing else mattered. > Agent Flanders came under the effect of a portion of human liver seemingly affected by [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-643 SCP-643]. Attempted intervention by his fellow agents led to a brief physical confrontation, followed by the loss of Flanders life when an instance of SCP-643 came in contact with his skin. Several other attendees were coated by SCP-643, but did not cease consumption of Agent Flanders to save themselves. Samuels stumbled out of the hall, his sleeve held up against his bloodstained mouth, his mask askew. Flanders' tortured screams followed him, echoing through the doorway. Samuels nibbled on the finger he had managed to scavenge, and watched as a table was carried past him and into the hall by several huge men. A thick sheet covered whatever was within, golden fluid spilling out from beneath the sheet and turning the carpet to a cheesy yellow substance. He coughed as a piece of bone and fingernail caught in the back of his throat, but he couldn't bear to waste anything by spitting it out. > Agent Samuels was unable to recall any events following his final encounter with Agent Flanders. Perkins moaned in ecstasy as he bit down on a muscle. Flanders wasn't wriggling too badly anymore, and he was much easier to hold down. He would twitch every now and again when Perkins made a grab for an organ, and he'd //really// start jerking whenever he tried scooping a bit of brain, but Perkins didn't care. The hot rush of blood over his tongue was beginning to slow, and he almost cried knowing that his dessert was nearly gone. But then Perkins was distracted by the wonderfully diverse taste of human spleen, and then the hot pulsing of the heart, and then the marrow, //oh// the bone marrow, the sweet crack of bone, the rush of hot delicious slurry, the wet flopping of juicy muscles struggling to contract with nothing to pull against. > Agent Perkins was found dead the following morning. Autopsies suggest that his body was unable to process the amount of substance consumed the previous evening. This, combined with substantial damage received to his face by unknown means, led to Perkins' death from both excessive bleeding and rupturing of the internal digestive tract. Samuels staggered back into the hall, his mask tilted diagonally against his face, red blood slashed across the mouth, and a piece of cotton shoved against his nostrils. He fought his way through the orgy of dead and dying cannibals, still trying to force as much of each other as possible down their mouths, and tumbled to the ground where Flanders lay with Perkins inert by his corpse. He shoveled a few more handfuls of Flanders flesh into his mouth, gagged as his stomach protested, grabbed the other agent's earpieces, and crawled out of the hall, a piece of somebody's kidney clutched in his other hand. And behind him a man smiled, hand pressed against his still-bleeding arm, cut by his own hand. Soon, all who were here would know Their light, would know the joy of giving to the unenlightened that which was most precious, their own flesh. He loved these sorts of functions, the kind he could pin on some outside group as hosting. This time of year was always the easiest time to spread, with its focus on food, and the sharing of it. He felt the worms wriggling through his veins, felt them in the people surrounding him who had been eating his meat throughout the dinner. He felt a great satisfaction at his missionary work for the evening. [[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>]]	2012-12-08T21:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "christmas", "horror", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Christmas Dinner - SCP Foundation	49	[ "scp-643", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "holiday-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15326590	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/christmas-dinner
class-omega	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I saw the doctors again yesterday. They told me to write down anything interesting I remember, and anything weird that happens to me. Give it to them the next time they see me. Said it would help them know how my recovery is going. That's the problem, I can't remember much of anything. They told me I was in the Army for 22 years, until my transport got blown up by an IED. Lucky to be alive, they say. Maybe so, but I hit my head so hard I don't remember a day of it, except in little bits every so often. It's funny, when I remember those little bits, I don't think it was the Army, even though I remember carrying a gun. I don't know what it was though. One day, I was in a comic book store, I like the comics, they're easy to read and the pictures help you figure out what's going on. There was a comic called "Weird Science Fantasy" and I was reading a little bit in the store. All of a sudden, I looked at the thing in the comic and said "SCP-1841! We contained that last year!" I got all excited, and the guy in the shop wanted to know what the hell I was talking about. I tried to explain, but must not have done a good job, because he thought I was a nut for thinking the things in comic books are real. He asked me what an "SCP" is supposed to be, and I didn't know, it just jumped in my head, that's how those bits of memory work. He just thinks I'm weird and stupid but didn't throw me out because I buy lots of comics.</p> <p>I don't catch things out of the comic book anymore. If I ever did, I'm not really sure. Now I'm a Security Guard at this big warehouse. They got me a job there when I got out of the hospital. Southwestern Cryptobiotic Products! I can spell that because it's on the flyers I give out. If someone comes in and they don't have a key card, I'm supposed to give them one of those, tell them "We're not open to the public yet" and get them to leave. It's a funny place, they don't even give me a key card and I've never been in the back to see what they do. Something to keep food from spoiling for a long time, that's what the flyers say. I don't know why it has to be such a big secret.</p> <p>I used to carry a gun, now I ride the bus. The bus is full of weird people these days. A person can bring any damn thing on a bus. Some guy got on at 15th street this morning with a thing in an old broken baby carriage. I don't know what it was, it had a big plastic trash bag on it covering it up. It didn't fit right, the thing was poking at it in all kinds of strange angles. He wheeled it right up next to me and I tensed up and thought "Jesus Christ, that thing might be Keter!" Keter? What does Keter even mean? Something you shouldn't be allowed to bring on the bus, I guess. A couple times I thought the thing moved, and I reached for the gun I don't have any more. Last year, I would have known what to do about that thing. Now I don't, and the guy and his thing got off at 36th St. I shouldn't have to know, they should train the bus driver to know what to do when something Keter gets on her bus.</p> <p>Dr. Meadows scanned the file summary:</p> <blockquote> <p>Subject K-1215-B<br/> Name: Andrew James Stark</p> <p>Age: 45</p> <p>History: Field Agent for 22 years (MTFs: [REDACTED]). Remanded for Class Omega amnestic therapy and supervised reassignment after [REDACTED] and failure to [REDACTED]. Subject is to have field knowledge removed, but remain functional for low-level assignment.</p> <p>Tested IQ upon hire: 139<br/> Tested IQ post-therapy: 82</p> <p>Current Assignment: Southwestern Cryptobiotic Products, cover organization for Site-87. Security Clearance 0.</p> </blockquote> <p>He added a new entry:</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>5/11/2012:</strong> Subject continues to perform under acceptable parameters for Class Omega therapy.<br/> Although he experiences flashback memory of potentially classified information, his general demeanor and inability to articulate thoughts provide reasonable deniability of any sensitive material subject may reveal.</p> </blockquote> <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="/class-omega">Class Omega</a>" by eric_h, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/class-omega">https://scpwiki.com/class-omega</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 saw the doctors again yesterday. They told me to write down anything interesting I remember, and anything weird that happens to me. Give it to them the next time they see me. Said it would help them know how my recovery is going. That's the problem, I can't remember much of anything. They told me I was in the Army for 22 years, until my transport got blown up by an IED. Lucky to be alive, they say. Maybe so, but I hit my head so hard I don't remember a day of it, except in little bits every so often. It's funny, when I remember those little bits, I don't think it was the Army, even though I remember carrying a gun. I don't know what it was though. One day, I was in a comic book store, I like the comics, they're easy to read and the pictures help you figure out what's going on. There was a comic called "Weird Science Fantasy" and I was reading a little bit in the store. All of a sudden, I looked at the thing in the comic and said "SCP-1841! We contained that last year!" I got all excited, and the guy in the shop wanted to know what the hell I was talking about. I tried to explain, but must not have done a good job, because he thought I was a nut for thinking the things in comic books are real. He asked me what an "SCP" is supposed to be, and I didn't know, it just jumped in my head, that's how those bits of memory work. He just thinks I'm weird and stupid but didn't throw me out because I buy lots of comics. I don't catch things out of the comic book anymore. If I ever did, I'm not really sure. Now I'm a Security Guard at this big warehouse. They got me a job there when I got out of the hospital. Southwestern Cryptobiotic Products! I can spell that because it's on the flyers I give out. If someone comes in and they don't have a key card, I'm supposed to give them one of those, tell them "We're not open to the public yet" and get them to leave. It's a funny place, they don't even give me a key card and I've never been in the back to see what they do. Something to keep food from spoiling for a long time, that's what the flyers say. I don't know why it has to be such a big secret. I used to carry a gun, now I ride the bus. The bus is full of weird people these days. A person can bring any damn thing on a bus. Some guy got on at 15th street this morning with a thing in an old broken baby carriage. I don't know what it was, it had a big plastic trash bag on it covering it up. It didn't fit right, the thing was poking at it in all kinds of strange angles. He wheeled it right up next to me and I tensed up and thought "Jesus Christ, that thing might be Keter!" Keter? What does Keter even mean? Something you shouldn't be allowed to bring on the bus, I guess. A couple times I thought the thing moved, and I reached for the gun I don't have any more. Last year, I would have known what to do about that thing. Now I don't, and the guy and his thing got off at 36th St. I shouldn't have to know, they should train the bus driver to know what to do when something Keter gets on her bus. ====== Dr. Meadows scanned the file summary: > > Subject K-1215-B > Name: Andrew James Stark > > Age: 45 > > History: Field Agent for 22 years (MTFs: [REDACTED]). Remanded for Class Omega amnestic therapy and supervised reassignment after [REDACTED] and failure to [REDACTED]. Subject is to have field knowledge removed, but remain functional for low-level assignment. > > Tested IQ upon hire: 139 > Tested IQ post-therapy: 82 > > Current Assignment: Southwestern Cryptobiotic Products, cover organization for Site-87. Security Clearance 0. > He added a new entry: > 5/11/2012: Subject continues to perform under acceptable parameters for Class Omega therapy. > Although he experiences flashback memory of potentially classified information, his general demeanor and inability to articulate thoughts provide reasonable deniability of any sensitive material subject may reveal. ---------------------------- [[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>]]	2012-05-15T16:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "featured", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Class Omega - SCP Foundation	205	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	13338888	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/class-omega
classicalinterlude	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <strong>March 18, 1997</strong> <p>Dr. Connor Gerry was counting gears. As of three thirty-four in the afternoon, having started at eleven minutes past noon, he had counted one thousand seven hundred and nineteen of them. By his best estimation, he would finish counting in nine to twelve hours, with a total of eight to ten thousand gears.</p> <p>He continued counting.</p> <p>The machine kept time, though not in such a simple way as a clock. It was an orchestra: Tempo shifts, key changes, harmonies, all of which were marked and memorized by the man counting the gears.</p> <p>Were there anyone in that room to watch, they would have noticed that he was tapping his foot in time with the clockwork.</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>June 1, 1997</strong></p> <p>“Well that’s that. There’s nothin’ more I can do for this.” Pat leaned back in his chair. “Should be ready to go.”</p> <p>‘If you’ll do the honors.” Crow gave an approving nod. Gerry stood there and watched from the background.</p> <p>Pat cracked his knuckles.</p> <p>“Now if things go Skynet, what you need to do is smash it repeatedly until it stops doing whatever is not supposed to be happening and find another computer support guy, probably one from ten to thirty years in the future.”</p> <p>A few keystrokes and clicks later, and everything came together. Many long nights of feeding components through the Clockwork on fine, figuring out how it worked, hooking it all up into an over-wired, room-filling monstrosity decades more advanced than the best computers available…Pat loved it. It made dealing with everyone’s problems tolerable, or it at least lessened the pain of hearing about how someone managed to get dolphin semen on their keyboards or make their monitors explode.</p> <p>Lines of text with meaning only to those versed in the arcane arts of the motherboard scrolled up the screen, almost distressingly fast. Pat’s eyes skimmed it. He didn’t know what half of it meant himself: this entire project was flailing about in the dark.</p> <p>The text disappeared from the screen, replaced with a single input line. Deceivingly primitive.</p> <p>A string of letters wrote themselves out on screen.</p> <blockquote> <p>Overseer O5-1 “Crom” online</p> </blockquote> <p>“Did it work?”</p> <p>“It worked.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>Date: 6/8/97<br/> To: Site 19 Senior Staff<br/> From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow<br/> Subject: Administration Changes</p> <p>Dear friends:</p> <p>The subject of administration has come up again and again in recent months, and several of you have spoken to me of the difficulties in juggling overseeing both research of items and administration of the Foundation itself. With the recent influx of items and staff, as well as our current partnership with the Global Occult Coalition, I share your concerns.</p> <p>As such, I will make official my position as Administrator of the Foundation, and with the aid of Dr. Gerry, will select proven individuals for the new O5 Overseer Board. Nominations from senior staff will also be considered.</p> <p>The Overseer Board will serve as Foundation-wide administration, overseeing all projects across the scope of the Foundation without direct involvement, allowing research staff more time and freedom to focus on more in-depth study.</p> <p>For security purposes, appointments to the O5 board and the identities of the appointees will not be made public.</p> <p>The Advisory Committee will remain intact under the A4 designation, and we will be meeting as usual this upcoming Monday.</p> <p>-With sincerity,</p> <p>Administrator Crow.</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>September 23, 1997</strong></p> <p>“Nemo’s in, so is Fats.”</p> <p>“I’m not surprised. Do you have the list I asked you to make?”</p> <p>“Yeah. 408 and 953 are on the table, Nemo thinks we can take him out without using anything special.”</p> <p>“The butterflies, they can work. Not the fox. Keep looking.”</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>October 20, 1997</strong></p> <p>The little feeling at the back of his subconscious assured him that the scenes in his minds eye were dreams, not memories. The haze of half-sleep made it difficult to tell. He felt the need to do something, that there were people he needed to talk to about…something…with, but these events weren’t real. He knew that. He’d never been to these places. He’d never met these people. He was no stranger to dead bodies, of course, but these visions were just excessive.</p> <p>He brushed away the fake thoughts and made to wake himself up, the mental equivalent of swimming through pudding.</p> <p>Eyes open, ears open. Hospital bed. Safety. An orderly standing nearby, reading charts.</p> <p>Some slurred mess of sound dribbled out of his mouth. It hadn’t been properly used in some time. The orderly looked up. He didn’t recognize her, but the little feeling at the back of his subconscious claimed he had nothing to fear here.</p> <p>“Good to see you back in the land of the living, Agent Clef.”<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="/classicalinterlude">Interlude 1: Patches</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/classicalinterlude">https://scpwiki.com/classicalinterlude</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]] [[/>]] March 18, 1997 Dr. Connor Gerry was counting gears. As of three thirty-four in the afternoon, having started at eleven minutes past noon, he had counted one thousand seven hundred and nineteen of them. By his best estimation, he would finish counting in nine to twelve hours, with a total of eight to ten thousand gears. He continued counting. The machine kept time, though not in such a simple way as a clock. It was an orchestra: Tempo shifts, key changes, harmonies, all of which were marked and memorized by the man counting the gears. Were there anyone in that room to watch, they would have noticed that he was tapping his foot in time with the clockwork. -- June 1, 1997 “Well that’s that. There’s nothin’ more I can do for this.” Pat leaned back in his chair. “Should be ready to go.” ‘If you’ll do the honors.” Crow gave an approving nod. Gerry stood there and watched from the background. Pat cracked his knuckles. “Now if things go Skynet, what you need to do is smash it repeatedly until it stops doing whatever is not supposed to be happening and find another computer support guy, probably one from ten to thirty years in the future.” A few keystrokes and clicks later, and everything came together. Many long nights of feeding components through the Clockwork on fine, figuring out how it worked, hooking it all up into an over-wired, room-filling monstrosity decades more advanced than the best computers available…Pat loved it. It made dealing with everyone’s problems tolerable, or it at least lessened the pain of hearing about how someone managed to get dolphin semen on their keyboards or make their monitors explode. Lines of text with meaning only to those versed in the arcane arts of the motherboard scrolled up the screen, almost distressingly fast. Pat’s eyes skimmed it. He didn’t know what half of it meant himself: this entire project was flailing about in the dark. The text disappeared from the screen, replaced with a single input line. Deceivingly primitive. A string of letters wrote themselves out on screen. > Overseer O5-1 “Crom” online “Did it work?” “It worked.” -- Date: 6/8/97 To: Site 19 Senior Staff From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow Subject: Administration Changes Dear friends: The subject of administration has come up again and again in recent months, and several of you have spoken to me of the difficulties in juggling overseeing both research of items and administration of the Foundation itself. With the recent influx of items and staff, as well as our current partnership with the Global Occult Coalition, I share your concerns. As such, I will make official my position as Administrator of the Foundation, and with the aid of Dr. Gerry, will select proven individuals for the new O5 Overseer Board. Nominations from senior staff will also be considered. The Overseer Board will serve as Foundation-wide administration, overseeing all projects across the scope of the Foundation without direct involvement, allowing research staff more time and freedom to focus on more in-depth study. For security purposes, appointments to the O5 board and the identities of the appointees will not be made public. The Advisory Committee will remain intact under the A4 designation, and we will be meeting as usual this upcoming Monday. -With sincerity, Administrator Crow. -- September 23, 1997 “Nemo’s in, so is Fats.” “I’m not surprised. Do you have the list I asked you to make?” “Yeah. 408 and 953 are on the table, Nemo thinks we can take him out without using anything special.” “The butterflies, they can work. Not the fox. Keep looking.” -- October 20, 1997 The little feeling at the back of his subconscious assured him that the scenes in his minds eye were dreams, not memories. The haze of half-sleep made it difficult to tell. He felt the need to do something, that there were people he needed to talk to about…something…with, but these events weren’t real. He knew that. He’d never been to these places. He’d never met these people. He was no stranger to dead bodies, of course, but these visions were just excessive. He brushed away the fake thoughts and made to wake himself up, the mental equivalent of swimming through pudding. Eyes open, ears open. Hospital bed. Safety. An orderly standing nearby, reading charts. Some slurred mess of sound dribbled out of his mouth. It hadn’t been properly used in some time. The orderly looked up. He didn’t recognize her, but the little feeling at the back of his subconscious claimed he had nothing to fear here. “Good to see you back in the land of the living, Agent Clef.” @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-08-21T15:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "classical-revival", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "kain-pathos-crow", "slice-of-life", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	Interlude 1: Patches - SCP Foundation	59	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	14089325	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/classicalinterlude
classicalinterlude2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>June 21, 2003</strong></p> <p>Summer solstice today. That means, if I’ve been counting right, that today is my five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-seventh birthday.</p> <p>Happy birthday to me.</p> <p>I can barely believe it’s been almost two months since I recorded one of these journals. They've been running us ragged. We just got back to Nineteen maybe two hours ago. It was the Church of the Broken God again. We keep trying to stamp them out and they always end up hitting back harder. Four agents died today.</p> <p>I didn’t know their names. I don’t bother anymore. Numbers work, because they’re going to get slaughtered anyway. <em>sigh</em>… It’s gotten to me. I can write off someone as a number to be shot down and turned into clockwork and not care. I don’t feel anything about it anymore. I want to be disgusted with myself, but I <em>can’t</em>.</p> <p>I’m too tired. We all are. We’re still moving, but I don’t think we’re alive anymore. Able tries to keep everything going, never complains, carries the whole group on his shoulders, but its grinding him down and we can all see it. He isn’t who he used to be. Iris never talks anymore, and they can barely get her out of bed without pumping her full of drugs. She barely eats, barely sleeps, barely ever leaves her quarters. A few days ago I managed to catch her out in the hall, and when I asked if everything was okay, she just started crying. She’s making mistakes in the field: two weeks ago she forgot to refill her supply photographs, leaving us without any medical supplies or extra ammunition. I don’t know what to do. She won’t let anyone close enough to help.</p> <p>Clef’s had it worst, though. They have him under lock and key now. He’s become too unstable to let him wander around freely, they say. I still try to talk with him when I can, but…half the time he doesn’t seem like he’s there. When he is aware enough to talk… he scares me. The voices are getting worse, happening more and more often, and sometimes he can’t fight them back. He’ll lose control and start spewing all sort of foul things, or he’ll curl up in a ball and beg to be put out of his pain.</p> <p>It hurts me to see him like this. I can still feel that much.</p> <p>…</p> <p>I spoke with Director Dodridge on the way back here. He said that he’ll try talking to the Overseers again, try to get them to listen to sense and disband us, but I doubt it’ll do any good. They never listen.</p> <p>What was the point of all this? This task force has the highest casualty rate in the Foundation. Was what we did against the Insurgency <em>that</em> impressive? Enough to throw us at every little thing that pokes its head above the ground?</p> <p>Why am I even asking this? It’s not like I’m going to get an answer. They’ve never answered it before, why would they do it now.</p> <p>…</p> <p>I’m going to sleep. Hopefully someone will wake me up when all of this is over.</p> <p><strong>June 22, 2003</strong></p> <p>Iris killed herself last night. Slit her wrists. Snuck in a razor blade, did it right there under the covers, right under surveillance’s nose.</p> <p>I feel hollow. Not sad, not angry, just empty and numb.</p> <p>Wherever she is, it's probably better than here.</p> <p><strong>June 23, 2003</strong></p> <p>He did it. Jason did it. The Overseers saw reason, <em>finally</em>.</p> <p>Pandora’s Box is closed, six to one in favor. "Unacceptable losses", they said.</p> <p>It's still hard to feel happy, but I think I might. Just a little bit.</p> <p>Iris’ funeral is today. It won’t be much, just a chance to say goodbye. Probably just going to be myself and Able and the chaplain. Clef won’t be joining us. He’s having an episode.</p> <p><strong>July 6, 2003</strong></p> <p>Apparently they’re using what’s left of Mother to birth test subjects. Apparently they’ve been doing this for years and it was just now decided that I should find out about it.</p> <p>I say let them. If they want to have sex with a chunk of flesh from a dead goddess, by all means, go ahead. I don’t really care.</p> <p><strong>August 15, 2003</strong></p> <p>I had the displeasure of coming across Dr. Jack Bright today. I’ve managed to avoid him for some time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later.</p> <p>It's been so long since I've been truly <em>angry</em>… it feels good.</p> <p>The man is completely mad, and why he’s still around baffles me. He does nothing productive anything at all, has the maturity of a boy who has just figured out what sex is, causes headaches on a near-daily basis, and the Overseers <em>outright refuse</em> to get rid of him. They outright refuse to decrease his clearance, even. They just let him go on his way, completely untouched.</p> <p>Just wipe his memory, encase him in concrete and bury him somewhere and be done with him. I’d love to kick in his head myself, but he’d be back. He always comes back.</p> <p>No, death is too good for him. He wants that. Oh, I’m so sorry you’re immortal boo-fucking-hoo, let me sing you a sad song <em>fuck off</em> and suck a nice fat horse cock. You don’t see Able or me doing this insipid attention whoring and blatant harassment routine. Take a fucking hint that I'm not interested or I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll piss out your ass.</p> <p><em>sigh…</em></p> <p>I’ve filed a complaint with human resources. They said they’d take care of it.</p> <p><strong>August 17, 2003</strong></p> <p>Another entry on that damned list is not “taking care of it”.</p> <p><strong>September 1, 2003</strong></p> <p>I was able to talk with Clef today, and he was all there. No voices, no shouting, nothing like that, we just talked. It was like it used to be.</p> <p>I can’t believe how bitter I’ve become. Listening to some of my old recordings and all, I know I had a reason to be like that, but…I don’t know. It’s this place. It gets to you, drags you down into the muck, and it’s nasty and bitter and toxic and you just slog through the same trenches. If fills you until that’s all you know, just hate and anger and empty bitterness and you don’t even realize it, until you step back and think about it a bit.</p> <p>It’s not just me. It’s everyone. All the agents, all the researchers, everyone. We’re all completely mad.<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="/classicalinterlude2">Notes From the Great Mare</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/classicalinterlude2">https://scpwiki.com/classicalinterlude2</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]] [[/>]] June 21, 2003 Summer solstice today. That means, if I’ve been counting right, that today is my five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-seventh birthday. Happy birthday to me. I can barely believe it’s been almost two months since I recorded one of these journals. They've been running us ragged. We just got back to Nineteen maybe two hours ago. It was the Church of the Broken God again. We keep trying to stamp them out and they always end up hitting back harder. Four agents died today. I didn’t know their names. I don’t bother anymore. Numbers work, because they’re going to get slaughtered anyway. //sigh//… It’s gotten to me. I can write off someone as a number to be shot down and turned into clockwork and not care. I don’t feel anything about it anymore. I want to be disgusted with myself, but I //can’t//. I’m too tired. We all are. We’re still moving, but I don’t think we’re alive anymore. Able tries to keep everything going, never complains, carries the whole group on his shoulders, but its grinding him down and we can all see it. He isn’t who he used to be. Iris never talks anymore, and they can barely get her out of bed without pumping her full of drugs. She barely eats, barely sleeps, barely ever leaves her quarters. A few days ago I managed to catch her out in the hall, and when I asked if everything was okay, she just started crying. She’s making mistakes in the field: two weeks ago she forgot to refill her supply photographs, leaving us without any medical supplies or extra ammunition. I don’t know what to do. She won’t let anyone close enough to help. Clef’s had it worst, though. They have him under lock and key now. He’s become too unstable to let him wander around freely, they say. I still try to talk with him when I can, but…half the time he doesn’t seem like he’s there. When he is aware enough to talk… he scares me. The voices are getting worse, happening more and more often, and sometimes he can’t fight them back. He’ll lose control and start spewing all sort of foul things, or he’ll curl up in a ball and beg to be put out of his pain. It hurts me to see him like this. I can still feel that much. … I spoke with Director Dodridge on the way back here. He said that he’ll try talking to the Overseers again, try to get them to listen to sense and disband us, but I doubt it’ll do any good. They never listen. What was the point of all this? This task force has the highest casualty rate in the Foundation. Was what we did against the Insurgency //that// impressive? Enough to throw us at every little thing that pokes its head above the ground? Why am I even asking this? It’s not like I’m going to get an answer. They’ve never answered it before, why would they do it now. … I’m going to sleep. Hopefully someone will wake me up when all of this is over. June 22, 2003 Iris killed herself last night. Slit her wrists. Snuck in a razor blade, did it right there under the covers, right under surveillance’s nose. I feel hollow. Not sad, not angry, just empty and numb. Wherever she is, it's probably better than here. June 23, 2003 He did it. Jason did it. The Overseers saw reason, //finally//. Pandora’s Box is closed, six to one in favor. "Unacceptable losses", they said. It's still hard to feel happy, but I think I might. Just a little bit. Iris’ funeral is today. It won’t be much, just a chance to say goodbye. Probably just going to be myself and Able and the chaplain. Clef won’t be joining us. He’s having an episode. July 6, 2003 Apparently they’re using what’s left of Mother to birth test subjects. Apparently they’ve been doing this for years and it was just now decided that I should find out about it. I say let them. If they want to have sex with a chunk of flesh from a dead goddess, by all means, go ahead. I don’t really care. August 15, 2003 I had the displeasure of coming across Dr. Jack Bright today. I’ve managed to avoid him for some time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later. It's been so long since I've been truly //angry//... it feels good. The man is completely mad, and why he’s still around baffles me. He does nothing productive anything at all, has the maturity of a boy who has just figured out what sex is, causes headaches on a near-daily basis, and the Overseers //outright refuse// to get rid of him. They outright refuse to decrease his clearance, even. They just let him go on his way, completely untouched. Just wipe his memory, encase him in concrete and bury him somewhere and be done with him. I’d love to kick in his head myself, but he’d be back. He always comes back. No, death is too good for him. He wants that. Oh, I’m so sorry you’re immortal boo-fucking-hoo, let me sing you a sad song //fuck off// and suck a nice fat horse cock. You don’t see Able or me doing this insipid attention whoring and blatant harassment routine. Take a fucking hint that I'm not interested or I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll piss out your ass. //sigh...// I’ve filed a complaint with human resources. They said they’d take care of it. August 17, 2003 Another entry on that damned list is not “taking care of it”. September 1, 2003 I was able to talk with Clef today, and he was all there. No voices, no shouting, nothing like that, we just talked. It was like it used to be. I can’t believe how bitter I’ve become. Listening to some of my old recordings and all, I know I had a reason to be like that, but…I don’t know. It’s this place. It gets to you, drags you down into the muck, and it’s nasty and bitter and toxic and you just slog through the same trenches. If fills you until that’s all you know, just hate and anger and empty bitterness and you don’t even realize it, until you step back and think about it a bit. It’s not just me. It’s everyone. All the agents, all the researchers, everyone. We’re all completely mad. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-12-30T03:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "bleak", "classical-revival", "doctor-bright", "doctor-clef", "first-person", "iris-thompson", "journal", "tale" ]	Notes From the Great Mare - SCP Foundation	64	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	15793933	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/classicalinterlude2
cleaning-larry	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>They started giving us oxygen tanks after the fifth cleaning. We would vomit too much, and get Larry all dirty again. God forbid we have a dirty Larry.</p> <p>I remember when we didn't have the tanks and we had to clean out the suit. The smells that hit your nose all at once - encrusted shit, stagnant piss, aging vomit, liters of sweat. But the worst of all was the smell of rot and death that pervaded the air around the costume. I always remember a documentary I watched on the US invasion of Okinawa during World war II. There was one hill both sides were trying to secure, and rotting corpses littered either side. They said that if you charged down the hill, you'd throw up from the stench before you hit the bottom. It was a terrible, gut-wrenching smell that hit my nostrils every time I cleaned this thing. Of course, now I have a skin-tight scuba suit on, so hopefully I'll be fine.</p> <p>The first thing I remove is the head. Underneath, your typical d-class. His lips are rasped and puffy, and his chin is covered in dried-up vomit. The inside of the costume's mouth is caked over in barf. They say the d-class almost immediately start tossing their cookies when they get in the suit, because of the smell. It's horrible, because Larry tries to talk to you even while they're vomiting, and all you hear is a garbled mess of spit and choking. A quarter of the people who wear the suit die in the first 5 minutes from this.</p> <p>I start removing the rest of the front half. The torso's always the easiest, just a bunch of sweat and some vomit that's dribbled down. It's funny when you look at the corpses afterwards, everything else is absolutely disgusting, but the torso is always in pristine condition. Sometimes right before the d-class expires they take him out of the costume and remove his organs, which they donate to hospitals. I mean, we have to be at least somewhat humane, right?</p> <p>I start getting to the waist and pelvis. Typically the smell makes you barf right away. We always throw out the jumpsuits from Larry's testers after the test. I can't help but feel bad for whatever pedophile murderer rapist they've put in the back. Can you imagine having somebody fart in your face for 3 days until you die? They did one test where the d-class were completely naked. The guy in the back choked to death after one day. When they opened up the costume they found the guy in the front had shit all over the guy in the back's face, and it was encrusted over in the stuff. Apparently he had choked to death on the other guy's shit.</p> <p>However, this time they were both wearing jumpsuits. The jumpsuit was stained in the front with urine and in the back with shit. Nothing too bad, but the rashes that form after the first day always make me cringe when I get a good look at them. Typically the guy's nuts are pussy and swollen, and his ass is bleeding and cracked. We had a few cases where women had their periods while inside the suit. I gag whenever I think about those.</p> <p>The worst part is the boots. When we first did testing, researchers noticed a slish-slosh noise after the first day. It took them a moment to realize that it was the boots. You see, Larry's boots are rubber, and so do not absorb but only collect fluids. All the piss and shit and vomit and sweat and blood running off the people wearing the suit drains into Larry's boots. It collects into this viscous fluid, mostly brown and yellow, with the occasional flecking of period blood. The person's feet becomes caked in this fluid, which slowly turns into a muck. And when you have to remove their feet from the boots, it makes this loud sucking noise like pulling a flip-flop out of mud.</p> <p>And that's only the <em>first</em> guy.</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="/cleaning-larry">Cleaning Larry</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cleaning-larry">https://scpwiki.com/cleaning-larry</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]] [[/>]] They started giving us oxygen tanks after the fifth cleaning. We would vomit too much, and get Larry all dirty again. God forbid we have a dirty Larry. I remember when we didn't have the tanks and we had to clean out the suit. The smells that hit your nose all at once - encrusted shit, stagnant piss, aging vomit, liters of sweat. But the worst of all was the smell of rot and death that pervaded the air around the costume. I always remember a documentary I watched on the US invasion of Okinawa during World war II. There was one hill both sides were trying to secure, and rotting corpses littered either side. They said that if you charged down the hill, you'd throw up from the stench before you hit the bottom. It was a terrible, gut-wrenching smell that hit my nostrils every time I cleaned this thing. Of course, now I have a skin-tight scuba suit on, so hopefully I'll be fine. The first thing I remove is the head. Underneath, your typical d-class. His lips are rasped and puffy, and his chin is covered in dried-up vomit. The inside of the costume's mouth is caked over in barf. They say the d-class almost immediately start tossing their cookies when they get in the suit, because of the smell. It's horrible, because Larry tries to talk to you even while they're vomiting, and all you hear is a garbled mess of spit and choking. A quarter of the people who wear the suit die in the first 5 minutes from this. I start removing the rest of the front half. The torso's always the easiest, just a bunch of sweat and some vomit that's dribbled down. It's funny when you look at the corpses afterwards, everything else is absolutely disgusting, but the torso is always in pristine condition. Sometimes right before the d-class expires they take him out of the costume and remove his organs, which they donate to hospitals. I mean, we have to be at least somewhat humane, right? I start getting to the waist and pelvis. Typically the smell makes you barf right away. We always throw out the jumpsuits from Larry's testers after the test. I can't help but feel bad for whatever pedophile murderer rapist they've put in the back. Can you imagine having somebody fart in your face for 3 days until you die? They did one test where the d-class were completely naked. The guy in the back choked to death after one day. When they opened up the costume they found the guy in the front had shit all over the guy in the back's face, and it was encrusted over in the stuff. Apparently he had choked to death on the other guy's shit. However, this time they were both wearing jumpsuits. The jumpsuit was stained in the front with urine and in the back with shit. Nothing too bad, but the rashes that form after the first day always make me cringe when I get a good look at them. Typically the guy's nuts are pussy and swollen, and his ass is bleeding and cracked. We had a few cases where women had their periods while inside the suit. I gag whenever I think about those. The worst part is the boots. When we first did testing, researchers noticed a slish-slosh noise after the first day. It took them a moment to realize that it was the boots. You see, Larry's boots are rubber, and so do not absorb but only collect fluids. All the piss and shit and vomit and sweat and blood running off the people wearing the suit drains into Larry's boots. It collects into this viscous fluid, mostly brown and yellow, with the occasional flecking of period blood. The person's feet becomes caked in this fluid, which slowly turns into a muck. And when you have to remove their feet from the boots, it makes this loud sucking noise like pulling a flip-flop out of mud. And that's only the //first// guy. [[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>]]	2012-10-07T20:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "body-horror", "horror", "tale" ]	Cleaning Larry - SCP Foundation	70	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14584190	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cleaning-larry
clock-is-ticking	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Shit. That one almost got me. I'll be fine as long as they keep their distance, though. For now at least.</p> <p>Why? Why the fuck did I have to stumble upon that cave when I was a kid? Why did I go and touch that weird glowing thing?</p> <p>Sure, it was cool at first. Being able to manipulate time? It's the ultimate advantage. At first, I could only slow down little objects, but I got better over time. Soon, I was able to stop things completely in their tracks. Then I could stop bigger things, and more of them at a time. Eventually, I could stop everything-</p> <p>Fuck. That one came from behind. It's okay. Just gotta keep the distance.</p> <p>I'll admit, I abused my powers. I humiliated jerks, teachers, and bad bosses (without giving myself away, of course). I casually strolled into women's locker rooms as they were suspended under the shower heads. I even robbed a bank a few times. I felt like nothing could stop me-</p> <p>Goddammit, was that a sniper? Shit, I need to find a place to hide. I have no idea how long I can keep this up.</p> <p>That's the thing. My powers are apparently only temporary. About a year ago, I lost the ability to control how long time is stopped. Suddenly, I could only hold it for so long, and "so long" has been becoming shorter and shorter every since. Now? I can only stop certain objects again. Sometimes, things around me just slow down or stop at random. I'm losing all my control…</p> <p>…I think they've stopped shooting. Please, god, let them be gone.</p> <p>But one of the worst things isn't even about losing control. In the periods when I froze time, <em>I still aged</em>. I'm seven years older than my big sister. Jesus, all the wasted hours just fucking around…</p> <p>No one else knew about my abilities. I started going a little crazy when my powers began to fade. That, coupled along with my age, made my family want to get help, but I didn't want it. No one would understand, and if word got out I'd probably be kidnapped and locked up in some government lab, too weak to do anything about it. One night, my parents confronted me directly. They said they were taking me to a doctor that instant, for my own good. I was so frustrated that I just froze them in time on the spot.</p> <p>I couldn't get them to move again.</p> <p>I ran away. I felt bad for leaving my sister, but I wasn't going to drag her into this. I decided that I would rob the bank one last time, just to get enough so I could get out of the country. I still had just enough control over my powers to pull it off. I kinda fucked it up, though. The police arrived before I could grabbed enough cash, and this time I could only manipulate their bullets. I can't even believe I got away without any major injury.</p> <p>I hid out in this abandoned building with the money. I stole stuff to make a number of traps I learned about online just in case they found me. Good thing, cause they sure fucking did. The traps bought me time, though, and now I've been on the move for the past few days. Obviously, that wasn't enough to lose them, seeing as how I almost got my brains blown out back there.</p> <p>Oh fuck oh fuck I think I hear them again. Okay, I see a shed. Looks like a safe place to hide.</p> <p>God, I don't even care about this fucking money anymore. I just wish things were normal aga</p> <p><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1899">-</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="/clock-is-ticking">Out of Time</a>" by Goodwill, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/clock-is-ticking">https://scpwiki.com/clock-is-ticking</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]] [[/>]] Shit. That one almost got me. I'll be fine as long as they keep their distance, though. For now at least. Why? Why the fuck did I have to stumble upon that cave when I was a kid? Why did I go and touch that weird glowing thing? Sure, it was cool at first. Being able to manipulate time? It's the ultimate advantage. At first, I could only slow down little objects, but I got better over time. Soon, I was able to stop things completely in their tracks. Then I could stop bigger things, and more of them at a time. Eventually, I could stop everything- Fuck. That one came from behind. It's okay. Just gotta keep the distance. I'll admit, I abused my powers. I humiliated jerks, teachers, and bad bosses (without giving myself away, of course). I casually strolled into women's locker rooms as they were suspended under the shower heads. I even robbed a bank a few times. I felt like nothing could stop me- Goddammit, was that a sniper? Shit, I need to find a place to hide. I have no idea how long I can keep this up. That's the thing. My powers are apparently only temporary. About a year ago, I lost the ability to control how long time is stopped. Suddenly, I could only hold it for so long, and "so long" has been becoming shorter and shorter every since. Now? I can only stop certain objects again. Sometimes, things around me just slow down or stop at random. I'm losing all my control... ...I think they've stopped shooting. Please, god, let them be gone. But one of the worst things isn't even about losing control. In the periods when I froze time, //I still aged//. I'm seven years older than my big sister. Jesus, all the wasted hours just fucking around... No one else knew about my abilities. I started going a little crazy when my powers began to fade. That, coupled along with my age, made my family want to get help, but I didn't want it. No one would understand, and if word got out I'd probably be kidnapped and locked up in some government lab, too weak to do anything about it. One night, my parents confronted me directly. They said they were taking me to a doctor that instant, for my own good. I was so frustrated that I just froze them in time on the spot. I couldn't get them to move again. I ran away. I felt bad for leaving my sister, but I wasn't going to drag her into this. I decided that I would rob the bank one last time, just to get enough so I could get out of the country. I still had just enough control over my powers to pull it off. I kinda fucked it up, though. The police arrived before I could grabbed enough cash, and this time I could only manipulate their bullets. I can't even believe I got away without any major injury. I hid out in this abandoned building with the money. I stole stuff to make a number of traps I learned about online just in case they found me. Good thing, cause they sure fucking did. The traps bought me time, though, and now I've been on the move for the past few days. Obviously, that wasn't enough to lose them, seeing as how I almost got my brains blown out back there. Oh fuck oh fuck I think I hear them again. Okay, I see a shed. Looks like a safe place to hide. God, I don't even care about this fucking money anymore. I just wish things were normal aga [[[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1899 \|-]]] [[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>]]	2012-07-18T05:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Out of Time - SCP Foundation	21	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13817173	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/clock-is-ticking
clockwork-time	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The Fabergé bastard was raging. Tools flew, doors slammed, the walls and floorboards rattled. Through it all, he loosed a stream of profanity so acidic it threatened to peel the already faded paint. Rejected. Him. HIM. Heir to the most prestigious jewelers in the world, makers of wonders only seen in dreams, tossed out like some beggar at the gate. What's more, it was done by some pathetic, overpuffed lackwit of a servant, his offering never even reaching the edge of the Czar's gaze.</p> <p>He threw a hammer hard enough to lodge it in a wall, fuming and drooling with vitriolic rage. His egg, a perfect representation of the legendary Fabergé eggs presented to the young princes and princesses, lay shattered in a fine dust around the floor. It had taken nearly a full year to create, at no small cost to his personal finances, relationships and nerves. Glittering and gilded, inscribed around every inch were miniature scenes and tales of Baba Yaga and Koshchey the Deathless, the cold eyes of clear diamond, the fearful children of soft pearl.</p> <p>Behind a tiny hidden catch in the painting of the chicken-footed home of Baba Yaga, there opened a tiny clockwork pageant of horror. As the tiny, delicate doors swung open, the battle between hero and villain unwound, the bright clear-faced lad battling the eternally old Koshchey. Gruesome, but just the thing for a bloody-minded boy, as the youngest prince was well known to be. All this, dashed to splinters because some worthless advisor was “offended” and would not have it “upsetting the delicate sensibilities of the young lord.” Pigeon-hearted swine, he'd had the audacity to have the guard escort him none too softly outside the gate.</p> <p>His rage ebbed, head throbbing as he slouched against a wall. The workshop/living quarters was in shambles, only the highest shelves remaining somewhat untouched. He panted, starting to quietly sob, looking down at his worthless hands. It was his best work, and he knew he'd never make its equal again. His eyes rolled to the rafters, absently seeking out the stoutest, the most likely to bear his weight. Suddenly, his eye settled on the clockwork rose resting in the high corner. With a twist, it would bloom open, then fold in on itself to become a chirping bird. He stared, eyes red-rimmed and feverish, as an idea started to slowly writhe.</p> <p>He stood, taking down the rose, winding it and watching the ballet of change. It was always the change that amused. The secret unfolding. With the eggs, the outside was almost ignored, in the hunt of the secret inside. Secrets. Change. He slowly smiled, an unwholesome expression on his gaunt, grim face. He would build them a wonder, the likes of which the world had never seen, and would never see again. He would create a treasure that would be kept and passed down ages after the Czars were dead, gone and forgotten.</p> <p>He started with smashed clocks. Crawling from workshops and rubbish heaps, he gathered every toy, tool or clock he could find with so much as a cog in it. His workshop filled quickly, with stacks and stacks of gears, belts, flywheels and springs, all ordered and stacked to the rafters. His blueprints grew as well, from two sheets to five, then eight, then twenty. Soon, he'd taken to jotting outlines on the walls, scribbling notations on the floor of the narrow walkways through the gears.</p> <p>What few friends he'd had started to talk. He'd grown impossibly more gaunt and haggard, his eyes feverish and driven, and seldom spoke above a mumble. The few who stopped to check on him could barely squeeze in his door, and were quickly choked by the smell of oil and rust. His already limited output of jewelery and clockworks stopped completely, along with his income. He took to selling furniture, clothes, anything that could buy the little food he needed. Whispers of possession and dark arts started to follow him.</p> <p>The shunning was nothing new to him, and in a way was almost welcome. He had a suspicion of those who were too nice, too open, and the constant, nagging drain of interaction slowed down the Work. Since discarding the frivolity of sleep, he'd gained even more time to devote to the Work, the petty whining of his neighbors over the night noise silenced by his grim stare. The assembly started to take shape, the millions of parts starting to move from pile to the growing mass that took up most of his small room. He drowsed in its silent heart, as close to sleep as he had been in weeks, and listened to the phantom ticking of the coming birth.</p> <p>He poured all that he had, all that he was into the Work. He spoke to it, cajoling, cursing, whispering, shouting. He lost flesh to slipped bolts and suddenly engaged cogs. He poured blood and pus over chisels, awls and screwdrivers as his hands split, blistered, healed, then split again. He asked the mass its opinion on its slowly forming wooden skin. Should this window go here, or perhaps a tower? A rabbit or a rat behind this tree? The first time it started, the clanking and rattling causing dust to pour from the roof, he embraced and kissed the wood and metal horror with more passion than he had ever shown a woman.</p> <p>Finally, it was ready. So large he would have to batter down a wall, so heavy it would take thirty stout men to hoist it out, he touched it with all the delicacy and adoration of a father touching the tiny fingers of his new child. It had gone beyond a simple gift, an offering to the mighty. It was all he had never known. Lover, child, mother, he had wrung out all that his pinched soul had, to this beautiful, terrible creation.</p> <hr/> <p>The parade was a grand affair, if boring. In the five years since a gaunt, grim man was turned away carrying an ornamental egg, the Czar and his family had changed very little. Perhaps a little more fat on the Lord and Lady, a little more firmness of feature to the princes, and some suggestive curves to the princess, but otherwise an identical portrait. Even the birthday parade had the same tired floats, the same gilded carriages. When the procession came to a road blocked by a massive shape and an emaciated horror, the princess actually had to be nudged awake from a light doze.</p> <p>The mad Fabergé stood before a hill covered in grimy tarps. He had not spent the years in idle suspension. His limbs were as thin as a scarecrow, muscles like thin cables writhing beneath. His head was a pinched skull with some expression, and his smile nearly sent the queen into a swoon. The worn, tattered clothes hung from him like a sack, puffing and swaying as he made a low bow. His voice was a brittle, harsh rasp as he spoke: “My Lord, may I present, on this glorious day, my gift.”</p> <p>The tarps fell away, and the whole square lost its breath. A fairytale kingdom had sprouted in the center of the street. Around the base were small trees and shrubs, thick with cavorting faeries and goblins. Tiny brooks and lakes held glittering mermaids and smiling fish. Deeper, a tiny gnome village rested against a lilliputian mountain range, the men frozen in work and play. Songbirds and dragons nestled in the high places, and dark, suggestive shapes lurked in caves and burrows.</p> <p>All this paled, however, to the castle. With spires rising nearly twenty feet in the air, it shone like a vision of another world. Two large, stout gates stood open, armored knights guarding the way in plumed helms. Balconies held ladies of unearthly beauty, their suitors bent to a knee in devotion, or shielding them from horrors spawned from the darkest dreams of man. Grand balls and feasts were frozen in the inner halls, and a king with a visage radiating power presided over a trial. The moat swarmed with beasts, and every pinnacle played roost to all manner of wings.</p> <p>Speech was impossible. Every inch glittered and shone with gems and gilding. Crystals radiated rainbows along every surface, pearl and gold shimmered like a dream. The creator stooped to an alleyway and drew forth a mangy dog, gently jostling it up the shimmering walkway of silver to the left castle gateway. He closed it, then stepped over to a fairy ring of silver mushrooms. In it were arranged tiny statues, and he lifted one up, fitting it into a small stone altar above the ring. He then slotted a polished brass key into a slot below the stone, and twisted.</p> <p>Suddenly, the kingdom came to life. The whole square, until now struck dumb, almost screamed with delight. The fish swam, the birds sang, the knights marched, the gnomes dug. Everywhere was movement, sound, light. The trees swayed, the dragons brooded, from the dungeon depths came a small, chilling moan. The king held court, pronouncing judgment as the Czar and his family clapped and watched in pleasure. The world suddenly froze again, and the scarecrow man opened the left gateway, to reveal it empty. He smiled wickedly, then opened the right gateway, releasing a sudden burst of tiny, pure-white doves.</p> <p>Man and machine were bundled back to the palace with all haste. His repellent, almost demonic appearance was almost immediately forgotten in the wash of this new amusement. A ballroom was cleared, walls razed and rebuilt to admit the massive piece. Items were found, placed, and reborn. Wonders beyond imagination were born from the most base objects; Glittering threads from a stone, a clockwork kitten from an old clock, a wobbling jelly that could not be punctured or torn, no matter how abused, from a simple ceramic jug.</p> <p>The young prince had to be stopped twice, carrying one of the royal cats. Things entered through one gate, and left the other, and never again could they be returned to their former shape. Still, a canary was sacrificed to the cause, and emerged a peacock in perfect miniature. The Czar was delighted beyond words, and embraced the reeking, horrid wreck of the device's creator like a brother. Dinners were planned, rooms were made ready, and in the black heart of the bastard Fabergé there stirred the alien feelings of true, honest joy.</p> <hr/> <p>It was in the dim of the night that two small forms slipped into the ballroom. One in nightshirt, the other a soft white nightgown, the two forms stole silently through the dark up to the fairy tale castle. The night-shirted figure, the young prince, whispered and pinched, prodding the princess up to the gate of the castle. He had whispered wicked things in her ear in the night, and threatened to reveal two unpleasant secrets to their parents if she did not accompany him and do as he said.</p> <p>He was not a truly wicked boy, no more so than any young boy is. The same impulse that made him put frogs in his sister's toybox, chase her about with snakes, and kick her shins at dinner, also drove him to see what would happen to her in the castle. The princess pleaded at the gate, begging her brother in a whisper to let her go back to bed. He pushed harder, sneering as he threatened to tell their father the true way his favorite clothes had been ruined. She paled, shivered, and silently went into the gate, tears rolling in cold silence.</p> <p>He pulled shut the gate, his little daemon heart dancing with naughty glee. He hopped to the ring, selecting the frog with a barely suppressed giggle. As he turned the key, he settled accounts for many of his sister's tattling, her clever remarks and finger-pointing. As the castle sang and clanked, the prince grew afraid. If someone should wake up, he'd be blamed for sure. He started working up a hazy lie as the figures danced, practicing a half-asleep blink and a story of being woken up just moments before the first to arrive. He was still practicing when the castle stopped and he opened the other gate.</p> <p>The screaming awoke the Czar and his wife first, even with their rooms so far from the ballroom. In the way of parents, they seemed to know without question their children were in danger. They passed servants and drowsy footmen, the Czar a grim-faced ghost in pale robes. He burst into the ballroom, servants quick on his heels, the door cracking the plaster behind it with the force. The young prince was curled a short pace from the castle, sobbing and gibbering, shuddering as if with great cold. As the Czar went to his young son, he heard a sound from the castle. He looked, and his son was forgotten.</p> <p>Hell had been born in the fairy wood. A blubbering, writhing mass worked to push through the trees, hard nibs of what looked like teeth scraping as it crawled. Oozing pools that might have been eyes drooled hissing pus, the bloating wound-like mouth working in soft horror. The soggy, dripping paws pulled and plucked at the shining ground, tubes, and strings waving along the heaving back. It squealed at the assembled men and women, the tatters of the princess's nightgown still hanging, trapped in the folds of its flesh, the little tiara sunken near the hollow pit of a nose. The servants were dumbstruck, frozen by fear, none even stirring as the Czar's wife swooned and hit the floor with a heavy thud. The Czar rose, slowly, too shocked to be afraid, and went to comfort his daughter.</p> <p>The princess took hours to die. Her room was sealed, the doorway plastered over, the body within too twisted and misshapen to bury. The young prince was broken, a mindless shell. His ability to speak decayed over several months, finally little more than a shambling ghost, left to stare for hours at windows and walls. The Czar fared little better. He wandered, staring at his throne at times as if he had no idea what it was, suddenly prone to fits of sobs or acidic rage. The public was told little to nothing, the servants in attendance that hellish night threatened with death for the merest breath of the truth.</p> <p>The mad Fabergé fared worst of all. Besides the princess. He was bundled from his bed by six guards, a bag thrown over his head and an armored fist in his belly. He was dumped in a cold cellar and left, bound and bagged, for a full day. Soiled and exhausted, he was drawn up and the bag removed, only to face the haggard, manic stare of the Czar. The mad Fabergé hardly had time to speak, and when the Czar's fist shattered his already cracked teeth and sent them lacerating into his tongue, it was impossible anyway. He beat him off and on for nearly two days. Finally he had the man's fingerless palms hacked off, his remaining eye gouged out, and locked him in the deepest, blackest pit to rot.</p> <p>The fairy palace was removed. For all the Czar's wrath, he could not simply destroy it. The very sight of it overwhelmed him, the mention of it enough to give him shudders and migraines. It was shifted painfully along to a basement in a disused wing of the palace, and forgotten. Over time, the gilding was peeled, the gems worked free, the statues stolen. Years came and went, the now-bare wooden shell slowly warping and splitting with age and season. It was moved, then moved again, finally coming to rest in a vacation home of the royalty, buried alongside other unknown and uncared for treasures.</p> <p>A legend rose around the wooden forest and castle. The great-grandchildren of the now long-dead Czar scared each other with stories about it, daring each other to slip into the dank, dark store room and touch it. An ancient, crumbling butler finally spilled an age-faded copy of the story, and delicious scandal rolled through the bars and boarding houses for days. However, other concerns took precedence, and during some uprising or another, the summer palace was burned to the foundation. Along with it went many great works of art, and the twisted, warped shell of the wooden palace and forest. As the embers cooled above it, buried deep in the rubble the ancient, charred clockworks lay unnoticed and unknown.</p> <hr/> <p>The scholar discovered the clockworks in a book. The forgotten diaries of a servant, left to rot in the University archives, acquired as part of a lot from an estate sale. He never doubted the truth of it, even when he presented his proposal to the derision of the faculty. He pooled his own funds, tapped other resources of varying levels of legality, and set out to find it. After eight weeks of searching and excavation, the scholar stood, reeking and filthy, over the unearthed sorrow of a Czar.</p> <p>Two more weeks were devoted to the planning of transport. The device was impossible to disassemble, and the scholar would not risk any more damage than the device had already taken. It was lifted whole-cloth from the pit, boxed and padded lovingly, and flown back to the scholar's home at a maximum of expense. There, two rooms were gutted and hollowed out, and the monstrous metal hulk was shifted into place.</p> <p>For weeks, the scholar pried and probed at the mass of clockwork…but could divine nothing. Tentative, safe experiments soon gave way to more dramatic and less well-reasoned theories, even as he had a large panel fitted over the long-destroyed one, with much more simple and direct notations on it. His classwork and other research projects suffered, and were ignored. He became more and more prone to rambling and outbursts of disjointed theories, always mumbling “I've almost got it cracked.”</p> <p>Others drew away from him, as if he carried a plague they could catch. The scholar ignored his shunning, the letters promising first reprimand, then eventually dismissal. Always, always, the next turn of the key would give the last shard of the puzzle, and cement his place in history…always the next one, the next vase, the next dog, the next fabric…the next one would finally reveal the pattern. And if not that, then the one after. Or the next one, surely.</p> <p>He wasted away, eaten from the inside by first obsession, then rage. He would force the reason from the hulk of metal, it would repay all the pain he had poured out for it. One way or another.</p> <p>The police found him almost by accident. Three ladies of the evening had vanished over the last week, and two patrolmen were making rounds with little hope or interest. The door swung open silently under their knock, the silence inside drawing them in, guns drawn. They found him in the kitchen, hanging from a stout rope. Pinned to his chest was a note:</p> <p>I have touched the hand of God<br/> And found it the same as the Fiend<br/> Hell is all around us<br/> Forgive what I have done.</p> <p>The two patrolmen swept the house as they called back for help, expecting little but the boredom and numb regret of any suicide process. Nobody knows what exactly it was that was found in the basement. Only one of the officers came back up, and he never spoke again during his short remaining years. Whatever it was left masses of strange, swooping scars over his face, and left his bones as brittle as glass. The other police who responded said the house was already burning when they arrived, surely the result of an electrical outage, or a stove left on by a distraught suicide victim. The moaning and bubbling wailing that seemed to rock from the base of the fire was without a doubt simply escaping gas or warping metal.</p> <p>They didn't know what to make of the mass of charred clockworks once the rubble was cleared. When the men from the government came, they were all too relieved to turn it over to them. It may have been that relief that caused them not to look at the ID cards too long, or follow up the case too closely. The story faded as well, just another tragic fire from a victim of professional stress.</p> <hr/> <p>The Foundation was most pleased, all the more so with the knowledge that they'd swooped the item mere hours ahead of Marshall, Carter and Dark.</p> <p>Now they sit, poking and prodding in careful, controlled isolation, musing at this wonder of madness. More and more they learn, and as they do, the less they understand. They slip into confusion and anger slower, the madness spread evenly over many…but still they slip. They push and prod, trying to force meaning on insanity.</p> <p>Trying to divine the secrets of the universe from a child's toy.</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="/clockwork-time">Clockwork Time</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/clockwork-time">https://scpwiki.com/clockwork-time</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 Fabergé bastard was raging. Tools flew, doors slammed, the walls and floorboards rattled. Through it all, he loosed a stream of profanity so acidic it threatened to peel the already faded paint. Rejected. Him. HIM. Heir to the most prestigious jewelers in the world, makers of wonders only seen in dreams, tossed out like some beggar at the gate. What's more, it was done by some pathetic, overpuffed lackwit of a servant, his offering never even reaching the edge of the Czar's gaze. He threw a hammer hard enough to lodge it in a wall, fuming and drooling with vitriolic rage. His egg, a perfect representation of the legendary Fabergé eggs presented to the young princes and princesses, lay shattered in a fine dust around the floor. It had taken nearly a full year to create, at no small cost to his personal finances, relationships and nerves. Glittering and gilded, inscribed around every inch were miniature scenes and tales of Baba Yaga and Koshchey the Deathless, the cold eyes of clear diamond, the fearful children of soft pearl. Behind a tiny hidden catch in the painting of the chicken-footed home of Baba Yaga, there opened a tiny clockwork pageant of horror. As the tiny, delicate doors swung open, the battle between hero and villain unwound, the bright clear-faced lad battling the eternally old Koshchey. Gruesome, but just the thing for a bloody-minded boy, as the youngest prince was well known to be. All this, dashed to splinters because some worthless advisor was “offended” and would not have it “upsetting the delicate sensibilities of the young lord.” Pigeon-hearted swine, he'd had the audacity to have the guard escort him none too softly outside the gate. His rage ebbed, head throbbing as he slouched against a wall. The workshop/living quarters was in shambles, only the highest shelves remaining somewhat untouched. He panted, starting to quietly sob, looking down at his worthless hands. It was his best work, and he knew he'd never make its equal again. His eyes rolled to the rafters, absently seeking out the stoutest, the most likely to bear his weight. Suddenly, his eye settled on the clockwork rose resting in the high corner. With a twist, it would bloom open, then fold in on itself to become a chirping bird. He stared, eyes red-rimmed and feverish, as an idea started to slowly writhe. He stood, taking down the rose, winding it and watching the ballet of change. It was always the change that amused. The secret unfolding. With the eggs, the outside was almost ignored, in the hunt of the secret inside. Secrets. Change. He slowly smiled, an unwholesome expression on his gaunt, grim face. He would build them a wonder, the likes of which the world had never seen, and would never see again. He would create a treasure that would be kept and passed down ages after the Czars were dead, gone and forgotten. He started with smashed clocks. Crawling from workshops and rubbish heaps, he gathered every toy, tool or clock he could find with so much as a cog in it. His workshop filled quickly, with stacks and stacks of gears, belts, flywheels and springs, all ordered and stacked to the rafters. His blueprints grew as well, from two sheets to five, then eight, then twenty. Soon, he'd taken to jotting outlines on the walls, scribbling notations on the floor of the narrow walkways through the gears. What few friends he'd had started to talk. He'd grown impossibly more gaunt and haggard, his eyes feverish and driven, and seldom spoke above a mumble. The few who stopped to check on him could barely squeeze in his door, and were quickly choked by the smell of oil and rust. His already limited output of jewelery and clockworks stopped completely, along with his income. He took to selling furniture, clothes, anything that could buy the little food he needed. Whispers of possession and dark arts started to follow him. The shunning was nothing new to him, and in a way was almost welcome. He had a suspicion of those who were too nice, too open, and the constant, nagging drain of interaction slowed down the Work. Since discarding the frivolity of sleep, he'd gained even more time to devote to the Work, the petty whining of his neighbors over the night noise silenced by his grim stare. The assembly started to take shape, the millions of parts starting to move from pile to the growing mass that took up most of his small room. He drowsed in its silent heart, as close to sleep as he had been in weeks, and listened to the phantom ticking of the coming birth. He poured all that he had, all that he was into the Work. He spoke to it, cajoling, cursing, whispering, shouting. He lost flesh to slipped bolts and suddenly engaged cogs. He poured blood and pus over chisels, awls and screwdrivers as his hands split, blistered, healed, then split again. He asked the mass its opinion on its slowly forming wooden skin. Should this window go here, or perhaps a tower? A rabbit or a rat behind this tree? The first time it started, the clanking and rattling causing dust to pour from the roof, he embraced and kissed the wood and metal horror with more passion than he had ever shown a woman. Finally, it was ready. So large he would have to batter down a wall, so heavy it would take thirty stout men to hoist it out, he touched it with all the delicacy and adoration of a father touching the tiny fingers of his new child. It had gone beyond a simple gift, an offering to the mighty. It was all he had never known. Lover, child, mother, he had wrung out all that his pinched soul had, to this beautiful, terrible creation. ------ The parade was a grand affair, if boring. In the five years since a gaunt, grim man was turned away carrying an ornamental egg, the Czar and his family had changed very little. Perhaps a little more fat on the Lord and Lady, a little more firmness of feature to the princes, and some suggestive curves to the princess, but otherwise an identical portrait. Even the birthday parade had the same tired floats, the same gilded carriages. When the procession came to a road blocked by a massive shape and an emaciated horror, the princess actually had to be nudged awake from a light doze. The mad Fabergé stood before a hill covered in grimy tarps. He had not spent the years in idle suspension. His limbs were as thin as a scarecrow, muscles like thin cables writhing beneath. His head was a pinched skull with some expression, and his smile nearly sent the queen into a swoon. The worn, tattered clothes hung from him like a sack, puffing and swaying as he made a low bow. His voice was a brittle, harsh rasp as he spoke: “My Lord, may I present, on this glorious day, my gift.” The tarps fell away, and the whole square lost its breath. A fairytale kingdom had sprouted in the center of the street. Around the base were small trees and shrubs, thick with cavorting faeries and goblins. Tiny brooks and lakes held glittering mermaids and smiling fish. Deeper, a tiny gnome village rested against a lilliputian mountain range, the men frozen in work and play. Songbirds and dragons nestled in the high places, and dark, suggestive shapes lurked in caves and burrows. All this paled, however, to the castle. With spires rising nearly twenty feet in the air, it shone like a vision of another world. Two large, stout gates stood open, armored knights guarding the way in plumed helms. Balconies held ladies of unearthly beauty, their suitors bent to a knee in devotion, or shielding them from horrors spawned from the darkest dreams of man. Grand balls and feasts were frozen in the inner halls, and a king with a visage radiating power presided over a trial. The moat swarmed with beasts, and every pinnacle played roost to all manner of wings. Speech was impossible. Every inch glittered and shone with gems and gilding. Crystals radiated rainbows along every surface, pearl and gold shimmered like a dream. The creator stooped to an alleyway and drew forth a mangy dog, gently jostling it up the shimmering walkway of silver to the left castle gateway. He closed it, then stepped over to a fairy ring of silver mushrooms. In it were arranged tiny statues, and he lifted one up, fitting it into a small stone altar above the ring. He then slotted a polished brass key into a slot below the stone, and twisted. Suddenly, the kingdom came to life. The whole square, until now struck dumb, almost screamed with delight. The fish swam, the birds sang, the knights marched, the gnomes dug. Everywhere was movement, sound, light. The trees swayed, the dragons brooded, from the dungeon depths came a small, chilling moan. The king held court, pronouncing judgment as the Czar and his family clapped and watched in pleasure. The world suddenly froze again, and the scarecrow man opened the left gateway, to reveal it empty. He smiled wickedly, then opened the right gateway, releasing a sudden burst of tiny, pure-white doves. Man and machine were bundled back to the palace with all haste. His repellent, almost demonic appearance was almost immediately forgotten in the wash of this new amusement. A ballroom was cleared, walls razed and rebuilt to admit the massive piece. Items were found, placed, and reborn. Wonders beyond imagination were born from the most base objects; Glittering threads from a stone, a clockwork kitten from an old clock, a wobbling jelly that could not be punctured or torn, no matter how abused, from a simple ceramic jug. The young prince had to be stopped twice, carrying one of the royal cats. Things entered through one gate, and left the other, and never again could they be returned to their former shape. Still, a canary was sacrificed to the cause, and emerged a peacock in perfect miniature. The Czar was delighted beyond words, and embraced the reeking, horrid wreck of the device's creator like a brother. Dinners were planned, rooms were made ready, and in the black heart of the bastard Fabergé there stirred the alien feelings of true, honest joy. ------ It was in the dim of the night that two small forms slipped into the ballroom. One in nightshirt, the other a soft white nightgown, the two forms stole silently through the dark up to the fairy tale castle. The night-shirted figure, the young prince, whispered and pinched, prodding the princess up to the gate of the castle. He had whispered wicked things in her ear in the night, and threatened to reveal two unpleasant secrets to their parents if she did not accompany him and do as he said. He was not a truly wicked boy, no more so than any young boy is. The same impulse that made him put frogs in his sister's toybox, chase her about with snakes, and kick her shins at dinner, also drove him to see what would happen to her in the castle. The princess pleaded at the gate, begging her brother in a whisper to let her go back to bed. He pushed harder, sneering as he threatened to tell their father the true way his favorite clothes had been ruined. She paled, shivered, and silently went into the gate, tears rolling in cold silence. He pulled shut the gate, his little daemon heart dancing with naughty glee. He hopped to the ring, selecting the frog with a barely suppressed giggle. As he turned the key, he settled accounts for many of his sister's tattling, her clever remarks and finger-pointing. As the castle sang and clanked, the prince grew afraid. If someone should wake up, he'd be blamed for sure. He started working up a hazy lie as the figures danced, practicing a half-asleep blink and a story of being woken up just moments before the first to arrive. He was still practicing when the castle stopped and he opened the other gate. The screaming awoke the Czar and his wife first, even with their rooms so far from the ballroom. In the way of parents, they seemed to know without question their children were in danger. They passed servants and drowsy footmen, the Czar a grim-faced ghost in pale robes. He burst into the ballroom, servants quick on his heels, the door cracking the plaster behind it with the force. The young prince was curled a short pace from the castle, sobbing and gibbering, shuddering as if with great cold. As the Czar went to his young son, he heard a sound from the castle. He looked, and his son was forgotten. Hell had been born in the fairy wood. A blubbering, writhing mass worked to push through the trees, hard nibs of what looked like teeth scraping as it crawled. Oozing pools that might have been eyes drooled hissing pus, the bloating wound-like mouth working in soft horror. The soggy, dripping paws pulled and plucked at the shining ground, tubes, and strings waving along the heaving back. It squealed at the assembled men and women, the tatters of the princess's nightgown still hanging, trapped in the folds of its flesh, the little tiara sunken near the hollow pit of a nose. The servants were dumbstruck, frozen by fear, none even stirring as the Czar's wife swooned and hit the floor with a heavy thud. The Czar rose, slowly, too shocked to be afraid, and went to comfort his daughter. The princess took hours to die. Her room was sealed, the doorway plastered over, the body within too twisted and misshapen to bury. The young prince was broken, a mindless shell. His ability to speak decayed over several months, finally little more than a shambling ghost, left to stare for hours at windows and walls. The Czar fared little better. He wandered, staring at his throne at times as if he had no idea what it was, suddenly prone to fits of sobs or acidic rage. The public was told little to nothing, the servants in attendance that hellish night threatened with death for the merest breath of the truth. The mad Fabergé fared worst of all. Besides the princess. He was bundled from his bed by six guards, a bag thrown over his head and an armored fist in his belly. He was dumped in a cold cellar and left, bound and bagged, for a full day. Soiled and exhausted, he was drawn up and the bag removed, only to face the haggard, manic stare of the Czar. The mad Fabergé hardly had time to speak, and when the Czar's fist shattered his already cracked teeth and sent them lacerating into his tongue, it was impossible anyway. He beat him off and on for nearly two days. Finally he had the man's fingerless palms hacked off, his remaining eye gouged out, and locked him in the deepest, blackest pit to rot. The fairy palace was removed. For all the Czar's wrath, he could not simply destroy it. The very sight of it overwhelmed him, the mention of it enough to give him shudders and migraines. It was shifted painfully along to a basement in a disused wing of the palace, and forgotten. Over time, the gilding was peeled, the gems worked free, the statues stolen. Years came and went, the now-bare wooden shell slowly warping and splitting with age and season. It was moved, then moved again, finally coming to rest in a vacation home of the royalty, buried alongside other unknown and uncared for treasures. A legend rose around the wooden forest and castle. The great-grandchildren of the now long-dead Czar scared each other with stories about it, daring each other to slip into the dank, dark store room and touch it. An ancient, crumbling butler finally spilled an age-faded copy of the story, and delicious scandal rolled through the bars and boarding houses for days. However, other concerns took precedence, and during some uprising or another, the summer palace was burned to the foundation. Along with it went many great works of art, and the twisted, warped shell of the wooden palace and forest. As the embers cooled above it, buried deep in the rubble the ancient, charred clockworks lay unnoticed and unknown. ------ The scholar discovered the clockworks in a book. The forgotten diaries of a servant, left to rot in the University archives, acquired as part of a lot from an estate sale. He never doubted the truth of it, even when he presented his proposal to the derision of the faculty. He pooled his own funds, tapped other resources of varying levels of legality, and set out to find it. After eight weeks of searching and excavation, the scholar stood, reeking and filthy, over the unearthed sorrow of a Czar. Two more weeks were devoted to the planning of transport. The device was impossible to disassemble, and the scholar would not risk any more damage than the device had already taken. It was lifted whole-cloth from the pit, boxed and padded lovingly, and flown back to the scholar's home at a maximum of expense. There, two rooms were gutted and hollowed out, and the monstrous metal hulk was shifted into place. For weeks, the scholar pried and probed at the mass of clockwork...but could divine nothing. Tentative, safe experiments soon gave way to more dramatic and less well-reasoned theories, even as he had a large panel fitted over the long-destroyed one, with much more simple and direct notations on it. His classwork and other research projects suffered, and were ignored. He became more and more prone to rambling and outbursts of disjointed theories, always mumbling “I've almost got it cracked.” Others drew away from him, as if he carried a plague they could catch. The scholar ignored his shunning, the letters promising first reprimand, then eventually dismissal. Always, always, the next turn of the key would give the last shard of the puzzle, and cement his place in history...always the next one, the next vase, the next dog, the next fabric...the next one would finally reveal the pattern. And if not that, then the one after. Or the next one, surely. He wasted away, eaten from the inside by first obsession, then rage. He would force the reason from the hulk of metal, it would repay all the pain he had poured out for it. One way or another. The police found him almost by accident. Three ladies of the evening had vanished over the last week, and two patrolmen were making rounds with little hope or interest. The door swung open silently under their knock, the silence inside drawing them in, guns drawn. They found him in the kitchen, hanging from a stout rope. Pinned to his chest was a note: I have touched the hand of God And found it the same as the Fiend Hell is all around us Forgive what I have done. The two patrolmen swept the house as they called back for help, expecting little but the boredom and numb regret of any suicide process. Nobody knows what exactly it was that was found in the basement. Only one of the officers came back up, and he never spoke again during his short remaining years. Whatever it was left masses of strange, swooping scars over his face, and left his bones as brittle as glass. The other police who responded said the house was already burning when they arrived, surely the result of an electrical outage, or a stove left on by a distraught suicide victim. The moaning and bubbling wailing that seemed to rock from the base of the fire was without a doubt simply escaping gas or warping metal. They didn't know what to make of the mass of charred clockworks once the rubble was cleared. When the men from the government came, they were all too relieved to turn it over to them. It may have been that relief that caused them not to look at the ID cards too long, or follow up the case too closely. The story faded as well, just another tragic fire from a victim of professional stress. ------ The Foundation was most pleased, all the more so with the knowledge that they'd swooped the item mere hours ahead of Marshall, Carter and Dark. Now they sit, poking and prodding in careful, controlled isolation, musing at this wonder of madness. More and more they learn, and as they do, the less they understand. They slip into confusion and anger slower, the madness spread evenly over many...but still they slip. They push and prod, trying to force meaning on insanity. Trying to divine the secrets of the universe from a child's toy. [[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>]]	2012-01-14T23:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "fantasy", "featured", "historical", "horror", "period-piece", "tale" ]	Clockwork Time - SCP Foundation	416	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "discovering-scp-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "experiment-log-914-hub" ]	[]	12517119	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/clockwork-time
clouds	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Looking at clouds from the ground is a rather absorbing experience. The educated human mind sees the majestic plumes of white as mere wisps of crystallised water vapour and dust particles in the higher atmosphere, but deep inside, there remains an early spark of curiosity and wonder, such as displayed by advanced apes and very small children. This spark does not see wisps of vapour and complex crystalline formations, but birds and beasts and faces, carriages and palaces, entire mountains and fortresses on the move across the azure-blue sky.</p> <p>From above, this feeling only grows. As one rides in a rickety metal tube ten thousand metres above the ground, soaring into the sky, the educated human mind gives way to the childlike blossom of wonder. Below you, a sea of clouds wave and ripple to the shores of a distant land, and vague shapes of arcane gods drift past the triple-paned glass, where you are safe and pressurised and sound. And all the while, undefined smoky cumulonimboid beings watch from afar, their anvil-shaped tops spiralling yet higher into space.</p> <p>This was what I told my seatmate on the two o'clock flight to Sydney, as I rolled up the windows and marveled at the view. The flight had so far been uneventful, with the only amusement being Greg's unfortunate incident at check-in, so any distraction from the plain sterile interior of the plane was very welcome to me. Greg, however, did not share my enthusiasm and appreciation of such natural wonders, and merely grunted in reply before taking a long sip of God knows what he managed to smuggle onto the plane.</p> <p>Soon, even the clouds failed to entertain me and I slid the shutter down just as the plane made a left swerve over the Pacific, catching the glaring sunlight between panes of glass. From then on I resorted to browsing the in-flight magazine, fiddling with the remote, and staring at my hands to pass the time. Time drew on, nothing of note happened, and I fell asleep nodding on the tray table.</p> <p>It was Greg who woke me up when the trouble started. "Hey. Hey, man," he whispered, lightly slapping me awake. "Up, up, up. Captain said something about bad turbulence, so tray table, remote, window shades, all of them up. And wipe your mouth."</p> <p>I sat up blearily, swiping a hand across my chin. "How long's it been?"</p> <p>"West Coast time reads seven twenty-three, so that'd make it about four hours. I think we crossed the date line or something, it's still bright out there."</p> <p>I returned my seat to the upright position and took a peek out of the window. Sure enough, orange half-light streamed in through the crack. "I don't think that's how the date line works, Greg." Still, the long daylight hours were odd. I made a mental note to look it up once we reached solid land and an internet connection.</p> <p>Greg obviously was not lying, for as I stowed the table and remote, the plane began to shake. I drew up the window shades to a grandly terrifying sight: the majestic white sea was now black and choppy, swirling and churning in silent twists and twirls. The sun still shone, but it was blazing through a gap in the top of a sparking dark cloud, too close to the wingtip for comfort. The wind must have been extraordinary, because the cloud did not drift aimlessly, but kept close pace with the wingtip. For a moment my imagination took over, and the sun shone like a red ominous eye, blazing amidst black tentacles of vapor and lightning, reaching out towards the plane like a predator out of the abyss.</p> <p>Through the P.A, the captain reminded us to keep calm and strap down. Overhead and underfoot, aluminum plating and stray luggage hummed and shook. The on-screen flight information showed discouraging numbers— altitude, 13 000 metres. Airspeed, 900 km/h. Headwind, 110 km/h.</p> <p>Hold on a moment. If the cloud was following the plane, then <em>how in God's blue sky was it drifting against a hurricane-force wind?</em></p> <p>This thought coincided with an equally dreadful noise: like pebbles in a hubcap, but coarser, and louder, enveloping the entire titanium frame of the plane until even the blast of the engines was drowned out in this surreal static. The cloud now had swelled to a frightfully enormous size, with angry electric whips flashing all around the aircraft. The sun was barely visible, merely a spot of red haze amidst swirling, sparking black. The plane was suddenly lifted up, up, up, and the PA system exploded in a screeching whine. Greg was pressed against the front seat, hands cupping his head, while I clung to the armrest, hunched almost double. Several someones screamed. There was a cry of thunder, and the entire plane was flung like a mere toy, reeling from an unseen impact. Then another scream, this time from the seat in front of me.</p> <p>I turned to look at the thin, manicured finger madly pressed against the window, following the contour of flesh towards the 3-layered pane of glass ("Vacuum-sealed Grade Diamond A", proclaimed the dealer's mark), dragging my gaze out to the unknown air beyond. There was something inside me that protested not to look, never to look, but it was too late and my eyes were firmly planted on a thing outside the plane. At first I saw nothing. Then a little switch went on in my mind, and everything snapped into place.</p> <p>Some <em>thing</em> was plastered against the glass, milky and flaccid, the complexion of an engorged slug. Lining it was a good number of suckers, pressed hungrily against the window and pulsating to the tune of an alien heartbeat. Looking closer, the suckers were teethed, and terrifyingly so, for those were far too sharp, and far too many. Then the thing at the window <em>shivered</em>, and the numerous teeth clawed against the glass like hungry cats, and the screaming started up again, this time from my own throat. I scrambled away from the window, pressing my body as far in as possible, and slammed the window shutter down with a snap. Around me, panic and terror took hold as the plane groaned and compressed under the chattering static sound. Greg was crying.</p> <p>The next part remains hazy in my memory. I remember a mighty crack running along aisle 32, as pressurised air whistled out and scores of pulsating, cloudy <em>things</em> hissed into the fuselage, innumerable little mouths clattering and snapping. I remember passengers being picked out of seats like grapes, as the slippery <em>things</em> coiled and chewed around them. The section I was in began to fall, tumbling out of the terrible gnashing cloud, and I caught a glimpse of the body behind the thing:, half-smoke, half-flesh, grotesquely inflated with unknown wispy gas. And the eyes, large and horrible and <em>human</em>, peering through the dark mists, intently examining its prey. Then I fell further, through the cloudy sea and into a blue, shattered sky.</p> <p>I think I might have somehow undone my seatbelt, for all of a sudden I was falling alone, down towards the foaming ocean. The impact with the water left me unconscious, and the next thing I remember is sitting up in a bed, back in a brace and leg in a splint. They told me it was a true miracle that I was found by a lone fishing vessel, delirious and babbling about living clouds and toothed tentacles. It was in the hospital that I started having nightmares, and occasionally wake up screaming from a terror in a dreamscaped sky.</p> <p>There were no other survivors, nor bodies recovered. Much of the wreckage was carried away by the current, but a sizable fragment washed up on a Fijian shore several weeks after the incident. The part which made me throw up in my newspaper was the picture, showing a line of small holes neatly punched along the metal. Tooth marks.</p> <p>I keep myself indoors if I can help it, and my roommate brings me groceries every week. She hasn't heard the full story of the attack in the skies and the thing in the clouds, and neither will anyone else, with the exception being several weary fishermen in the middle of the Pacific. This manuscript will remain sealed until my time of death, which I believe will be upon me soon and swiftly. Until then, I shall take my pills, say my prayers to whatever God that remains up there, and keep well away from the windows.</p> <p>There was a thunderstorm directly overhead since yesterday morning, and it hasn't cleared up yet<a href="/scp-312">.</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="/clouds">Clouds</a>" by minmin, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/clouds">https://scpwiki.com/clouds</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]] [[/>]] Looking at clouds from the ground is a rather absorbing experience. The educated human mind sees the majestic plumes of white as mere wisps of crystallised water vapour and dust particles in the higher atmosphere, but deep inside, there remains an early spark of curiosity and wonder, such as displayed by advanced apes and very small children. This spark does not see wisps of vapour and complex crystalline formations, but birds and beasts and faces, carriages and palaces, entire mountains and fortresses on the move across the azure-blue sky. From above, this feeling only grows. As one rides in a rickety metal tube ten thousand metres above the ground, soaring into the sky, the educated human mind gives way to the childlike blossom of wonder. Below you, a sea of clouds wave and ripple to the shores of a distant land, and vague shapes of arcane gods drift past the triple-paned glass, where you are safe and pressurised and sound. And all the while, undefined smoky cumulonimboid beings watch from afar, their anvil-shaped tops spiralling yet higher into space. This was what I told my seatmate on the two o'clock flight to Sydney, as I rolled up the windows and marveled at the view. The flight had so far been uneventful, with the only amusement being Greg's unfortunate incident at check-in, so any distraction from the plain sterile interior of the plane was very welcome to me. Greg, however, did not share my enthusiasm and appreciation of such natural wonders, and merely grunted in reply before taking a long sip of God knows what he managed to smuggle onto the plane. Soon, even the clouds failed to entertain me and I slid the shutter down just as the plane made a left swerve over the Pacific, catching the glaring sunlight between panes of glass. From then on I resorted to browsing the in-flight magazine, fiddling with the remote, and staring at my hands to pass the time. Time drew on, nothing of note happened, and I fell asleep nodding on the tray table. It was Greg who woke me up when the trouble started. "Hey. Hey, man," he whispered, lightly slapping me awake. "Up, up, up. Captain said something about bad turbulence, so tray table, remote, window shades, all of them up. And wipe your mouth." I sat up blearily, swiping a hand across my chin. "How long's it been?" "West Coast time reads seven twenty-three, so that'd make it about four hours. I think we crossed the date line or something, it's still bright out there." I returned my seat to the upright position and took a peek out of the window. Sure enough, orange half-light streamed in through the crack. "I don't think that's how the date line works, Greg." Still, the long daylight hours were odd. I made a mental note to look it up once we reached solid land and an internet connection. Greg obviously was not lying, for as I stowed the table and remote, the plane began to shake. I drew up the window shades to a grandly terrifying sight: the majestic white sea was now black and choppy, swirling and churning in silent twists and twirls. The sun still shone, but it was blazing through a gap in the top of a sparking dark cloud, too close to the wingtip for comfort. The wind must have been extraordinary, because the cloud did not drift aimlessly, but kept close pace with the wingtip. For a moment my imagination took over, and the sun shone like a red ominous eye, blazing amidst black tentacles of vapor and lightning, reaching out towards the plane like a predator out of the abyss. Through the P.A, the captain reminded us to keep calm and strap down. Overhead and underfoot, aluminum plating and stray luggage hummed and shook. The on-screen flight information showed discouraging numbers-- altitude, 13 000 metres. Airspeed, 900 km/h. Headwind, 110 km/h. Hold on a moment. If the cloud was following the plane, then //how in God's blue sky was it drifting against a hurricane-force wind?// This thought coincided with an equally dreadful noise: like pebbles in a hubcap, but coarser, and louder, enveloping the entire titanium frame of the plane until even the blast of the engines was drowned out in this surreal static. The cloud now had swelled to a frightfully enormous size, with angry electric whips flashing all around the aircraft. The sun was barely visible, merely a spot of red haze amidst swirling, sparking black. The plane was suddenly lifted up, up, up, and the PA system exploded in a screeching whine. Greg was pressed against the front seat, hands cupping his head, while I clung to the armrest, hunched almost double. Several someones screamed. There was a cry of thunder, and the entire plane was flung like a mere toy, reeling from an unseen impact. Then another scream, this time from the seat in front of me. I turned to look at the thin, manicured finger madly pressed against the window, following the contour of flesh towards the 3-layered pane of glass ("Vacuum-sealed Grade Diamond A", proclaimed the dealer's mark), dragging my gaze out to the unknown air beyond. There was something inside me that protested not to look, never to look, but it was too late and my eyes were firmly planted on a thing outside the plane. At first I saw nothing. Then a little switch went on in my mind, and everything snapped into place. Some //thing// was plastered against the glass, milky and flaccid, the complexion of an engorged slug. Lining it was a good number of suckers, pressed hungrily against the window and pulsating to the tune of an alien heartbeat. Looking closer, the suckers were teethed, and terrifyingly so, for those were far too sharp, and far too many. Then the thing at the window //shivered//, and the numerous teeth clawed against the glass like hungry cats, and the screaming started up again, this time from my own throat. I scrambled away from the window, pressing my body as far in as possible, and slammed the window shutter down with a snap. Around me, panic and terror took hold as the plane groaned and compressed under the chattering static sound. Greg was crying. The next part remains hazy in my memory. I remember a mighty crack running along aisle 32, as pressurised air whistled out and scores of pulsating, cloudy //things// hissed into the fuselage, innumerable little mouths clattering and snapping. I remember passengers being picked out of seats like grapes, as the slippery //things// coiled and chewed around them. The section I was in began to fall, tumbling out of the terrible gnashing cloud, and I caught a glimpse of the body behind the thing:, half-smoke, half-flesh, grotesquely inflated with unknown wispy gas. And the eyes, large and horrible and //human//, peering through the dark mists, intently examining its prey. Then I fell further, through the cloudy sea and into a blue, shattered sky. I think I might have somehow undone my seatbelt, for all of a sudden I was falling alone, down towards the foaming ocean. The impact with the water left me unconscious, and the next thing I remember is sitting up in a bed, back in a brace and leg in a splint. They told me it was a true miracle that I was found by a lone fishing vessel, delirious and babbling about living clouds and toothed tentacles. It was in the hospital that I started having nightmares, and occasionally wake up screaming from a terror in a dreamscaped sky. There were no other survivors, nor bodies recovered. Much of the wreckage was carried away by the current, but a sizable fragment washed up on a Fijian shore several weeks after the incident. The part which made me throw up in my newspaper was the picture, showing a line of small holes neatly punched along the metal. Tooth marks. I keep myself indoors if I can help it, and my roommate brings me groceries every week. She hasn't heard the full story of the attack in the skies and the thing in the clouds, and neither will anyone else, with the exception being several weary fishermen in the middle of the Pacific. This manuscript will remain sealed until my time of death, which I believe will be upon me soon and swiftly. Until then, I shall take my pills, say my prayers to whatever God that remains up there, and keep well away from the windows. There was a thunderstorm directly overhead since yesterday morning, and it hasn't cleared up yet[[[scp-312 \|.]]] [[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>]]	2012-01-29T06:02:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Clouds - SCP Foundation	46	[ "scp-312", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12625682	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/clouds
command-performance	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Fuck! Mother fucking…</p> <p>Open fire! Open fire!</p> <p>Shit! It's still coming.</p> <p>Don't shoot it in the head. I… Kimura! Fuck!</p> <p>Shoot the legs! Shoot the fucking legs!</p> <p>Shin, get the blast doors! Pull back, you sons of bitches!</p> <p>Okay. We got some breathin' space. Let's see the damage.</p> <p>Kimura, yer gonna be okay. I seen worse. Just lie back a few. We'll see to ya.</p> <p>Awright, hunker down, you assholes. Sir, orders?</p> <p>Sir? Boys, secure the perimeter. Me an' the Captain need to have a chat.</p> <p>Sir, you gonna be okay? No, excuse me. With all due respect, sir, you <strong>are</strong> gonna be okay. Because my boys are countin' on you to get us outta this. So what are yer goddamn orders.</p> <p>Okay. Get things secured. I'm gonna go do that. You just get yer head right, okay? First time on a bug hunt like this, yer bound to get a little freaked. It's okay.</p> <p>Jones, Hammouddi. Report.</p> <p>Backup power's gonna last at least another hour. Plenty of time. Don't worry. We got this. Ain't we the baddest motherfuckers in the land? Keep yer eyes sharp, your heads down, an' we'll make it out okay.</p> <p>Jackson, how's Kimura? Okay. Just stick with him, long as possible. We'll keep you covered. Don't leave him alone until… Well. He shouldn't oughtta be alone right now.</p> <p>Zimmer, keep workin' on comms. We gotta figure out what the fuck the rest of the site's up to. See if they're workin' on power, or if we're on our own.</p> <p>Awright, Captain. How ya doin'?</p> <p>Look. Didja think this shit was gonna be easy? I'm gonna be frank with ya. This is what the real world's like. This is what me an' my boys deal with. You wanted combat experience, this is it. You maybe thought you'd just keep yer head down, get enough experience t'get promoted, but that just ain't gonna happen. Yer in this unit, you get in the blender, just like the rest of us.</p> <p>So, here's the situation. We ain't seen the insurgents since the first attack. We've heard lots of gunfire, though, so whatever they're after, they ain't got it yet. I think they're on this level, but I can't be sure until we make contact. The ugly fucker's tryin' to get through the blast doors. I don't think it'll manage for a while. Even when the aux power goes out completely, the blast doors'll be sealed shut. However, I don't wanna count on it bein' stopped cold. More, if it can't get through this way, it's gonna go somewhere else, maybe get away. Aux power's gonna go down in maybe forty-five minutes, an' we'll have even more breaches. We need to get power back online, an' keep its attention so it doesn't try t'get offsite. Once we got power, the automatic systems should let us trap it pretty easy until help arrives.</p> <p>So, what're your orders?</p> <p>The… Sir, we can't set off the fuckin' nuke. That's a last fuckin' resort. Even if we get a major breach, we ain't the only assets in the area. Site 34's…</p> <p>No, sir, we haven't been able to contact 'em, but that's because we're underground, an' the comm system's out. Yes, I'm sure they're… Yes sir. Yes, I understand. I'll give the orders.</p> <p>Jones, yer squad's goin' with the Captain. You gotta get him to the shelter. Take him through the tunnels. It'll take longer, but the fucker can't fit through there, so you should be safer. Keep yer heads down, though. We got insurgents runnin' around, and God only knows what the fuck else they let outta their cages. The rest of you are gonna move down to Hall 42. Make a ruckus, get fugly's attention. Be ready to shut the blast doors soon as it gets close. Barnes, yer with me.</p> <p>Yes, Captain? No, sir. I ain't goin' with you. I'm gonna go make one more try to fix the power. An' then I won't get into the fuckin' shelter until every last one of my boys is there.</p> <p>Yes sir. I see. I still ain't goin'. Don't give that order. We'll both regret it.</p> <p>Thank you, sir. I'll have power back up by the time you get to the shelter. I don't, then you can think about settin' off the nuke.</p> <hr/> <p>So, after that, me an' Barnes, we went to get the power turned on. It was a longshot, but if the Captain wasn't gonna wait for my boys, I was gonna give 'em the best chance possible.</p> <p>Yes sir, I know my place is with my men, especially with our commandin' officer out. But I'm an engineer. I was the only one who could get the power runnin'. Like I said, the best chance they had. Barnes was with me every step… Well, almost every step.</p> <p>Yes, I did leave him, but it was for ten, fifteen minutes tops. I had to get some breakers reset, an' I needed him watchin' the doors.</p> <p>Anyway, it took us some time, but we got the power back on. Once we did, we were able to get ugly contained pretty easy, an' the reinforcements from Site 34 cleaned up the insurgents.</p> <p>Jones told me he was ordered by the Captain to cover his retreat down the tunnels after he got pinned down by insurgents. We found the Captain dead in the shelter. Never got to the button, doesn't look like.</p> <p>No sir, I didn't know the shelter's cameras were workin'. What'd they pick up?</p> <p>Tall fucker in a trenchcoat. Sounds like Nobody. Wonder what the fuck he was doin' there? I'll talk to security, get a rundown of everything missin'. No sir, I don't know how he got through all of us. I'll talk to the boys, see if anyone saw anything. Take it from me, though, I bet they didn't. You don't see Nobody unless he wants you to see him.</p> <p>Almost like he was tryin' to make a point or somethin'.</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="/command-performance">Command Performance</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/command-performance">https://scpwiki.com/command-performance</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]] [[/>]] Fuck! Mother fucking... Open fire! Open fire! Shit! It's still coming. Don't shoot it in the head. I... Kimura! Fuck! Shoot the legs! Shoot the fucking legs! Shin, get the blast doors! Pull back, you sons of bitches! Okay. We got some breathin' space. Let's see the damage. Kimura, yer gonna be okay. I seen worse. Just lie back a few. We'll see to ya. Awright, hunker down, you assholes. Sir, orders? Sir? Boys, secure the perimeter. Me an' the Captain need to have a chat. Sir, you gonna be okay? No, excuse me. With all due respect, sir, you are gonna be okay. Because my boys are countin' on you to get us outta this. So what are yer goddamn orders. Okay. Get things secured. I'm gonna go do that. You just get yer head right, okay? First time on a bug hunt like this, yer bound to get a little freaked. It's okay. Jones, Hammouddi. Report. Backup power's gonna last at least another hour. Plenty of time. Don't worry. We got this. Ain't we the baddest motherfuckers in the land? Keep yer eyes sharp, your heads down, an' we'll make it out okay. Jackson, how's Kimura? Okay. Just stick with him, long as possible. We'll keep you covered. Don't leave him alone until... Well. He shouldn't oughtta be alone right now. Zimmer, keep workin' on comms. We gotta figure out what the fuck the rest of the site's up to. See if they're workin' on power, or if we're on our own. Awright, Captain. How ya doin'? Look. Didja think this shit was gonna be easy? I'm gonna be frank with ya. This is what the real world's like. This is what me an' my boys deal with. You wanted combat experience, this is it. You maybe thought you'd just keep yer head down, get enough experience t'get promoted, but that just ain't gonna happen. Yer in this unit, you get in the blender, just like the rest of us. So, here's the situation. We ain't seen the insurgents since the first attack. We've heard lots of gunfire, though, so whatever they're after, they ain't got it yet. I think they're on this level, but I can't be sure until we make contact. The ugly fucker's tryin' to get through the blast doors. I don't think it'll manage for a while. Even when the aux power goes out completely, the blast doors'll be sealed shut. However, I don't wanna count on it bein' stopped cold. More, if it can't get through this way, it's gonna go somewhere else, maybe get away. Aux power's gonna go down in maybe forty-five minutes, an' we'll have even more breaches. We need to get power back online, an' keep its attention so it doesn't try t'get offsite. Once we got power, the automatic systems should let us trap it pretty easy until help arrives. So, what're your orders? The... Sir, we can't set off the fuckin' nuke. That's a last fuckin' resort. Even if we get a major breach, we ain't the only assets in the area. Site 34's... No, sir, we haven't been able to contact 'em, but that's because we're underground, an' the comm system's out. Yes, I'm sure they're... Yes sir. Yes, I understand. I'll give the orders. Jones, yer squad's goin' with the Captain. You gotta get him to the shelter. Take him through the tunnels. It'll take longer, but the fucker can't fit through there, so you should be safer. Keep yer heads down, though. We got insurgents runnin' around, and God only knows what the fuck else they let outta their cages. The rest of you are gonna move down to Hall 42. Make a ruckus, get fugly's attention. Be ready to shut the blast doors soon as it gets close. Barnes, yer with me. Yes, Captain? No, sir. I ain't goin' with you. I'm gonna go make one more try to fix the power. An' then I won't get into the fuckin' shelter until every last one of my boys is there. Yes sir. I see. I still ain't goin'. Don't give that order. We'll both regret it. Thank you, sir. I'll have power back up by the time you get to the shelter. I don't, then you can think about settin' off the nuke. ------ So, after that, me an' Barnes, we went to get the power turned on. It was a longshot, but if the Captain wasn't gonna wait for my boys, I was gonna give 'em the best chance possible. Yes sir, I know my place is with my men, especially with our commandin' officer out. But I'm an engineer. I was the only one who could get the power runnin'. Like I said, the best chance they had. Barnes was with me every step... Well, almost every step. Yes, I did leave him, but it was for ten, fifteen minutes tops. I had to get some breakers reset, an' I needed him watchin' the doors. Anyway, it took us some time, but we got the power back on. Once we did, we were able to get ugly contained pretty easy, an' the reinforcements from Site 34 cleaned up the insurgents. Jones told me he was ordered by the Captain to cover his retreat down the tunnels after he got pinned down by insurgents. We found the Captain dead in the shelter. Never got to the button, doesn't look like. No sir, I didn't know the shelter's cameras were workin'. What'd they pick up? Tall fucker in a trenchcoat. Sounds like Nobody. Wonder what the fuck he was doin' there? I'll talk to security, get a rundown of everything missin'. No sir, I don't know how he got through all of us. I'll talk to the boys, see if anyone saw anything. Take it from me, though, I bet they didn't. You don't see Nobody unless he wants you to see him. Almost like he was tryin' to make a point or somethin'. [[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>]]	2012-02-17T00:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "first-person", "lombardi", "military-fiction", "nobody", "tale" ]	Command Performance - SCP Foundation	148	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-lombardi-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "nobody-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	12748781	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/command-performance
conclusions-red-173-2263-incident	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">As you know, my reason for requesting this footage were the strange findings of my autopsies of subjects 173-2263, -2264, and -2267.</span></p> <blockquote> <p>> To: Dr. Delano Smascher ( <span class="wiki-email">pcs.41a\|rehcsamsd#pcs.41a\|rehcsamsd</span> )<br/> > From: Dr. Django Bridge ( <span class="wiki-email">pcs.66s\|egdirbd#pcs.66s\|egdirbd</span> )<br/> > Subject: D-173-2263, -2264, -2267 Incident footage</p> <hr/> <p>Here's the footage you requested. Two versions of each sent; first versions were edited for brevity, second versions are complete recordings. I look forward to reviewing your findings. Good luck.</p> <p>Dr. Bridge, Site-66, Clearance 4 Archivist.</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Four attachments found.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Close</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p><br/> CAM173_1_085314_██-██-19██.zip<br/> CAM173_2_085314_██-██-19██.zip<br/> CAM173_1_085314_██-██-19██e.zip<br/> CAM173_2_085314_██-██-19██e.zip</p> </div> </div> </div> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>> To: Dr. Django Bridge ( <span class="wiki-email">pcs.66s\|egdirbd#pcs.66s\|egdirbd</span> )<br/> > From: Dr. Delano Smascher ( <span class="wiki-email">pcs.41a\|rehcsamsd#pcs.41a\|rehcsamsd</span> )<br/> > Subject: Conclusions RE: D-173-2263, -2264, -2267 Incident</p> <hr/> <p>As you know, my reason for requesting this footage were the strange findings of my autopsies of subjects 173-2263, -2264, and -2267. After reviewing the footage provided, I’m now confident enough of my suspicions to elaborate on them further.</p> <p>During my autopsies, I found no evidence of external physical trauma to the aforementioned subjects’ necks or craniums, as one would expect to find in instances of strangulation or vertebral torsion. This was not unexpected; I’ve long felt it asinine to assume that an entity with no digits or prehensile appendages could physically manipulate individuals in such a manner. My review of provided footage, in addition to confirming an average speed of 20 to 22 meters per second while unobserved, also strongly suggests that subject SCP-173 does not make physical contact with its victims.</p> <p>My frame by frame review finds that at frame 235 938 of camera two’s edited log, SCP-173 closes to within 10 cm of D-173-2267. D-173-2267’s eyes remain fully closed; SCP-173’s arms remain fixed in their usual “at rest” positions. At frame 235 939, less than 0.00001 seconds later, subject D-173-2267’s head is turned upward such that it stares directly into subject SCP-173’s “eyes,” and -2267’s eyes are now fully open. D-173-2267 collapses shortly thereafter. Death appears to be due to, at least in this instance, a combination of trauma caused by the rapidity of motion SCP-173 inflicts and the severing of the spinal cord due to separation between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and not physical torsion or strangulation, a conclusion supported by my autopsy findings. This also potentially explains the strange bruising and hemorrhaging present in the soft tissues of SCP-173’s victims around the eyes; a transient, violent, non-specific, non-physical force ripping its victims’ eyelids open.</p> <p>I have furthermore found that the positioning of its victims’ bodies may be significant. D-173-2267’s body collapses such that its head faces D-173-2263 and D-173-2264. The bodies of the latter two individuals may be seen collapsing in similar fashion at frames 333 777 and 940 052 respectively. All face toward the northern side of SCP-173’s containment cell, allowing what would be a clear view of SCP-173 in its preferred position resting against the western wall of the northwestern corner of its cell.</p> <p>Additionally, I can confirm beyond reasonable doubt that the rumored “dead man’s stare” exhibited by victims of SCP-173, so-called because the eyes of ostensibly dead victims continue to track SCP-173’s movements postmortem, are not a product of “nerves” or general paranoia but a genuine phenomenon, as may be seen by magnification and slow-motion review of D-173-2267’s eyes following his expiration and demonstrated by -2263 and -2264 as well.</p> <p>My complete findings, appended video logs, autopsy footage, and autopsy reports are attached to this message for review, distribution, and archival. Thank you for your swift response.</p> <p>Dr. Smascher, Area-14, Clearance 4 Unit Director</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Eight attachments found.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Close</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p><br/> CAM173_1_██-██-19██_085314_append.zip<br/> CAM173_2_██-██-19██_085314_append.zip<br/> CAM173_1_██-██-19██_085314e_append.zip<br/> CAM173_2_██-██-19██_085314e_append.zip<br/> AUTOP_D-173-2263██-██-19██.zip<br/> AUTOP_D-173-2264██-██-19██.zip<br/> AUTOP_D-173-2267██-██-19██.zip<br/> 173_ INC██-██-19██_REP.zip</p> </div> </div> </div> </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="/conclusions-red-173-2263-incident">Conclusions RE: D-173-2263 Incident</a>" by Adam Smascher, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conclusions-red-173-2263-incident">https://scpwiki.com/conclusions-red-173-2263-incident</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%]]As you know, my reason for requesting this footage were the strange findings of my autopsies of subjects 173-2263, -2264, and -2267.[[/size]] > > To: Dr. Delano Smascher ( [email protected] ) > > From: Dr. Django Bridge ( [email protected] ) > > Subject: D-173-2263, -2264, -2267 Incident footage > ---- > Here's the footage you requested. Two versions of each sent; first versions were edited for brevity, second versions are complete recordings. I look forward to reviewing your findings. Good luck. > > Dr. Bridge, Site-66, Clearance 4 Archivist. > [[collapsible show="Four attachments found." hide="Close"]] > CAM173_1_085314_██-██-19██.zip > CAM173_2_085314_██-██-19██.zip > CAM173_1_085314_██-██-19██e.zip > CAM173_2_085314_██-██-19██e.zip > [[/collapsible]] > > To: Dr. Django Bridge ( [email protected] ) > > From: Dr. Delano Smascher ( [email protected] ) > > Subject: Conclusions RE: D-173-2263, -2264, -2267 Incident > ---- > As you know, my reason for requesting this footage were the strange findings of my autopsies of subjects 173-2263, -2264, and -2267. After reviewing the footage provided, I’m now confident enough of my suspicions to elaborate on them further. > > During my autopsies, I found no evidence of external physical trauma to the aforementioned subjects’ necks or craniums, as one would expect to find in instances of strangulation or vertebral torsion. This was not unexpected; I’ve long felt it asinine to assume that an entity with no digits or prehensile appendages could physically manipulate individuals in such a manner. My review of provided footage, in addition to confirming an average speed of 20 to 22 meters per second while unobserved, also strongly suggests that subject SCP-173 does not make physical contact with its victims. > > My frame by frame review finds that at frame 235 938 of camera two’s edited log, SCP-173 closes to within 10 cm of D-173-2267. D-173-2267’s eyes remain fully closed; SCP-173’s arms remain fixed in their usual “at rest” positions. At frame 235 939, less than 0.00001 seconds later, subject D-173-2267’s head is turned upward such that it stares directly into subject SCP-173’s “eyes,” and -2267’s eyes are now fully open. D-173-2267 collapses shortly thereafter. Death appears to be due to, at least in this instance, a combination of trauma caused by the rapidity of motion SCP-173 inflicts and the severing of the spinal cord due to separation between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and not physical torsion or strangulation, a conclusion supported by my autopsy findings. This also potentially explains the strange bruising and hemorrhaging present in the soft tissues of SCP-173’s victims around the eyes; a transient, violent, non-specific, non-physical force ripping its victims’ eyelids open. > > I have furthermore found that the positioning of its victims’ bodies may be significant. D-173-2267’s body collapses such that its head faces D-173-2263 and D-173-2264. The bodies of the latter two individuals may be seen collapsing in similar fashion at frames 333 777 and 940 052 respectively. All face toward the northern side of SCP-173’s containment cell, allowing what would be a clear view of SCP-173 in its preferred position resting against the western wall of the northwestern corner of its cell. > > Additionally, I can confirm beyond reasonable doubt that the rumored “dead man’s stare” exhibited by victims of SCP-173, so-called because the eyes of ostensibly dead victims continue to track SCP-173’s movements postmortem, are not a product of “nerves” or general paranoia but a genuine phenomenon, as may be seen by magnification and slow-motion review of D-173-2267’s eyes following his expiration and demonstrated by -2263 and -2264 as well. > > My complete findings, appended video logs, autopsy footage, and autopsy reports are attached to this message for review, distribution, and archival. Thank you for your swift response. > > Dr. Smascher, Area-14, Clearance 4 Unit Director > [[collapsible show="Eight attachments found." hide="Close"]] > CAM173_1_██-██-19██_085314_append.zip > CAM173_2_██-██-19██_085314_append.zip > CAM173_1_██-██-19██_085314e_append.zip > CAM173_2_██-██-19██_085314e_append.zip > AUTOP_D-173-2263██-██-19██.zip > AUTOP_D-173-2264██-██-19██.zip > AUTOP_D-173-2267██-██-19██.zip > 173_ INC██-██-19██_REP.zip > [[/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>]]	2012-04-11T12:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "correspondence", "horror", "murder-monster", "tale", "the-sculpture" ]	Conclusions RE: D-173-2263 Incident - SCP Foundation	183	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	13132772	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conclusions-red-173-2263-incident
conspiracy-epilogue	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Checkmate</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Monday, 26 December 1988, 2130 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> This time, it was Harper waiting for Seven in the darkened conference room. Alone, she entered the dimly lit room to find the counterintelligence officer facing her from by the window, casually smoking a cigarette. "Ma'am," he said quietly.</p> <p>"Mr. Harper," Seven replied. "Do you have a status report on your investigation?"</p> <p>"I have," he said, blowing a puff of smoke. "Initially, it appeared as though some vast and unknown conspiracy had managed to penetrate every major organization operating behind the Veil. But that turned out not to be true. The information discovered in the warehouse was carefully prepared bait, gathered by a few individuals with access to nearly omniscient intelligence apparatuses. After one of the key conspirators called Director McDonnell's direct line from an untraceable number, Robert swallowed it hook line and sinker. Being the by-the-book operative he has always been, he reported it to his direct superior: O5-5. Five had, for years, handled counterintelligence, while you handled intelligence collection, until his untimely demise left a skill vacuum on the Council you offered to satisfy until the appointment of a replacement Overseer could occur, likely after the holidays."</p> <p>Seven frowned slightly. The report was not going as expected.</p> <p>Taking a breath on his cigarette, Harper continued, "The death of Five and Director McDonnell was easy enough for the conspirators to arrange, for they had knowledge of a device which could explosively detonate a mundane-looking object from half a world away. This device, the explosive coins and their associated atlas, had been used by the Foundation once before to destroy an American naval vessel, causing a war that directly benefited this organization. Unfortunately, the coins had been stolen by Marshall, Carter and Dark after Fidel Castro had nationalized the site where they were stored. This presented little obstacle for the plotters, however, for they had inside access to the club's records. Whether Lord George Smith-Cumming was a willing member of the plot or an unlucky pawn sacrificed for the game, or even, indeed, if he had actually ever owned the coins at all, we may never know. But the red herring was there to confuse anyone who made it that far."</p> <p>Seven swallowed. Her right hand ever so slowly slid towards the pistol concealed in the small of her back, moving carefully to avoid notice.</p> <p>Harper exhaled, and said, "The conspirators were clever, really, for they held positions from whence they could not only monitor the investigations, but they could direct it. They could play both sides off the middle, and for a while it worked. My investigation took me to Europe, the Middle East, and the Soviet Union, while I'm sure the Global Occult Coalition's investigations required similar globetrotting. I was sent chasing the illusive C. In the meantime, the conspirators worked to either secure, or look as though they were securing, some SCPs with the capacity to not only inflict significant collateral damage if turned loose in a populated area, but also lacked stringent protective measures preventing their being seized with relative ease."</p> <p>Seven's fingers felt the grip of her pistol.</p> <p>"I would rather you didn't do that," Harper said, producing a weapon of his own with his right hand, his left still holding a cigarette. "I'm not finished yet," he said coolly. "You came to an agreement with Regional Deputy Director Keith Bain at the GOC, another of the key conspirators," Harper continued, "having him hire a drunk to kill my family ten years ago, so that I would agree to take a promotion that would eventually land me here: as the investigator who would be keeping you apprised of your own conspiracy to seize control of the Foundation. Unfortunately, Bain made a mistake. The drunk he hired was his bodyguard's twin brother - the same bodyguard he used to assassinate O5-3 and his own direct superior as part of the conspiracy. By shooting his bodyguard, he neatly prevented the assassin from giving up the secret of his employer, while simultaneously becoming the hero of the situation for the GOC."</p> <p>"Foundation-Coalition relations will be set back decades because of this," Cornelia said.</p> <p>Harper shook his head, "Possible, but unlikely, given that the O5 Council provided the Coalition's leadership with incontestable financial proof of Bain's treachery. Greedy bastard, Bain. I understand they have placed him under arrest." Cornelia looked slightly ashen. Harper paused to take a breath on his cigarette, then continued. "I don't know who in the Chaos Insurgency you were in bed with, but having them hit Research Site-29 right after I left was a nice touch, as was leaving Ford around to say what had been taken. And, if he took the blame for the attack, so much the better."</p> <p>If looks could kill, Harper would long since have been blasted backwards through the tinted window behind him. He was relatively unconcerned with dirty looks, however, as his pistol was leveled neatly at his adversary's chest. "I have been cleared to know the truth about SCP-006. Clever bit of acting, buying Sir James' service in the conspiracy with water from the fountain of youth. Unfortunately for you, I determined the real identity of C, Cornelia."</p> <p>Cornelia Dark let out a quick, barking laugh, "You know nothing."</p> <p>Harper smiled, "Sir James mentioned how you and he had first met: 'in university, one giving a lecture the other attended,' he said. I realize now that you were the lecturer, not him, despite the appearances of your ages. You've been planning this for a very long time. It's over now. You will spend the remainder of your natural life in as cold, dark, and damp a hole as the Foundation can find."</p> <p>"Like Hell!" Cornelia snarled. With astonishing speed, a tiny pistol appeared in her hand out of the sleeve of her suit jacket. She raised her arm to fire. Two shots rang out, and Cornelia Dark, <em>née</em> Roosevelt, formerly O5-7, fell to the floor dead, two bullet holes through her heart.</p> <p>"A pity," said a low voice. "It would have been nice to know who her contact in the Insurgency was." A figure stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. A nondescript man, unremarkable in nearly every facet of his appearance, he was O5-1, the first among equals of the O5 Council.</p> <p>"I apologize, sir," Harper said respectfully.</p> <p>O5-1 replied, "You need not worry, it was self defense. The cleaning crew has had more substantial messes than this to clean - they are getting quite remarkable at getting blood out of carpet."</p> <p>"Yes, sir," Harper said.</p> <p>"Now, Mr. Harper, I have spoken with the other Overseers," O5-1 said, "and we would like you to assume the duties of O5-7, effective immediately. Do you accept?"</p> <p><em>Me? An Overseer?</em> Harper thought to himself in surprise. He took a long moment to consider, then answered, "Yes."</p> <p>"Very well," O5-1 said, producing a black identification card with a gold border, Harper's photograph, and 'O5-7' printed in gold. "Welcome aboard, Seven. The Council's first assignment for you is to oversee the closure of this conspiracy investigation. Allow me to make something perfectly clear: this never happened. There was never a plot to overthrow the Council or to seize control of the world behind the Veil. Your predecessor was not shot; she retired. Please see to it that Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel understand how events took place, and see to it that all documentation reflects what happened accurately."</p> <p>"Yes, sir," the Foundation's newest Overseer said.</p> <p>"One more thing, Seven," O5-1 said, turning to leave. "Make sure you got them all."</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-xii">Part XII</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| Epilogue »</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> <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="/conspiracy-epilogue">Conspiracy, Epilogue</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-epilogue">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-epilogue</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]] [[/>]] + Checkmate [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Command-02, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 2130 hours local time}}// [[/span]] This time, it was Harper waiting for Seven in the darkened conference room. Alone, she entered the dimly lit room to find the counterintelligence officer facing her from by the window, casually smoking a cigarette. "Ma'am," he said quietly. "Mr. Harper," Seven replied. "Do you have a status report on your investigation?" "I have," he said, blowing a puff of smoke. "Initially, it appeared as though some vast and unknown conspiracy had managed to penetrate every major organization operating behind the Veil. But that turned out not to be true. The information discovered in the warehouse was carefully prepared bait, gathered by a few individuals with access to nearly omniscient intelligence apparatuses. After one of the key conspirators called Director McDonnell's direct line from an untraceable number, Robert swallowed it hook line and sinker. Being the by-the-book operative he has always been, he reported it to his direct superior: O5-5. Five had, for years, handled counterintelligence, while you handled intelligence collection, until his untimely demise left a skill vacuum on the Council you offered to satisfy until the appointment of a replacement Overseer could occur, likely after the holidays." Seven frowned slightly. The report was not going as expected. Taking a breath on his cigarette, Harper continued, "The death of Five and Director McDonnell was easy enough for the conspirators to arrange, for they had knowledge of a device which could explosively detonate a mundane-looking object from half a world away. This device, the explosive coins and their associated atlas, had been used by the Foundation once before to destroy an American naval vessel, causing a war that directly benefited this organization. Unfortunately, the coins had been stolen by Marshall, Carter and Dark after Fidel Castro had nationalized the site where they were stored. This presented little obstacle for the plotters, however, for they had inside access to the club's records. Whether Lord George Smith-Cumming was a willing member of the plot or an unlucky pawn sacrificed for the game, or even, indeed, if he had actually ever owned the coins at all, we may never know. But the red herring was there to confuse anyone who made it that far." Seven swallowed. Her right hand ever so slowly slid towards the pistol concealed in the small of her back, moving carefully to avoid notice. Harper exhaled, and said, "The conspirators were clever, really, for they held positions from whence they could not only monitor the investigations, but they could direct it. They could play both sides off the middle, and for a while it worked. My investigation took me to Europe, the Middle East, and the Soviet Union, while I'm sure the Global Occult Coalition's investigations required similar globetrotting. I was sent chasing the illusive C. In the meantime, the conspirators worked to either secure, or look as though they were securing, some SCPs with the capacity to not only inflict significant collateral damage if turned loose in a populated area, but also lacked stringent protective measures preventing their being seized with relative ease." Seven's fingers felt the grip of her pistol. "I would rather you didn't do that," Harper said, producing a weapon of his own with his right hand, his left still holding a cigarette. "I'm not finished yet," he said coolly. "You came to an agreement with Regional Deputy Director Keith Bain at the GOC, another of the key conspirators," Harper continued, "having him hire a drunk to kill my family ten years ago, so that I would agree to take a promotion that would eventually land me here: as the investigator who would be keeping you apprised of your own conspiracy to seize control of the Foundation. Unfortunately, Bain made a mistake. The drunk he hired was his bodyguard's twin brother - the same bodyguard he used to assassinate O5-3 and his own direct superior as part of the conspiracy. By shooting his bodyguard, he neatly prevented the assassin from giving up the secret of his employer, while simultaneously becoming the hero of the situation for the GOC." "Foundation-Coalition relations will be set back decades because of this," Cornelia said. Harper shook his head, "Possible, but unlikely, given that the O5 Council provided the Coalition's leadership with incontestable financial proof of Bain's treachery. Greedy bastard, Bain. I understand they have placed him under arrest." Cornelia looked slightly ashen. Harper paused to take a breath on his cigarette, then continued. "I don't know who in the Chaos Insurgency you were in bed with, but having them hit Research Site-29 right after I left was a nice touch, as was leaving Ford around to say what had been taken. And, if he took the blame for the attack, so much the better." If looks could kill, Harper would long since have been blasted backwards through the tinted window behind him. He was relatively unconcerned with dirty looks, however, as his pistol was leveled neatly at his adversary's chest. "I have been cleared to know the truth about SCP-006. Clever bit of acting, buying Sir James' service in the conspiracy with water from the fountain of youth. Unfortunately for you, I determined the real identity of C, Cornelia." Cornelia Dark let out a quick, barking laugh, "You know nothing." Harper smiled, "Sir James mentioned how you and he had first met: 'in university, one giving a lecture the other attended,' he said. I realize now that you were the lecturer, not him, despite the appearances of your ages. You've been planning this for a very long time. It's over now. You will spend the remainder of your natural life in as cold, dark, and damp a hole as the Foundation can find." "Like Hell!" Cornelia snarled. With astonishing speed, a tiny pistol appeared in her hand out of the sleeve of her suit jacket. She raised her arm to fire. Two shots rang out, and Cornelia Dark, //née// Roosevelt, formerly O5-7, fell to the floor dead, two bullet holes through her heart. "A pity," said a low voice. "It would have been nice to know who her contact in the Insurgency was." A figure stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. A nondescript man, unremarkable in nearly every facet of his appearance, he was O5-1, the first among equals of the O5 Council. "I apologize, sir," Harper said respectfully. O5-1 replied, "You need not worry, it was self defense. The cleaning crew has had more substantial messes than this to clean - they are getting quite remarkable at getting blood out of carpet." "Yes, sir," Harper said. "Now, Mr. Harper, I have spoken with the other Overseers," O5-1 said, "and we would like you to assume the duties of O5-7, effective immediately. Do you accept?" //Me? An Overseer?// Harper thought to himself in surprise. He took a long moment to consider, then answered, "Yes." "Very well," O5-1 said, producing a black identification card with a gold border, Harper's photograph, and 'O5-7' printed in gold. "Welcome aboard, Seven. The Council's first assignment for you is to oversee the closure of this conspiracy investigation. Allow me to make something perfectly clear: this never happened. There was never a plot to overthrow the Council or to seize control of the world behind the Veil. Your predecessor was not shot; she retired. Please see to it that Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel understand how events took place, and see to it that all documentation reflects what happened accurately." "Yes, sir," the Foundation's newest Overseer said. "One more thing, Seven," O5-1 said, turning to leave. "Make sure you got them all." ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part XII\| Part XII]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| Epilogue >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Epilogue - SCP Foundation	68	[ "conspiracy-part-xii", "conspiracy", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	14030333	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-epilogue
conspiracy-part-i	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Ramifications</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Thursday, 22 December 1988, 0755 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The early morning sun illuminated the large lobby as Timothy Harper strode into the the Foundation's Command-02 Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Though it could not compare to Overwatch HQ, its proximity to one of the world's most powerful capitals ensured it was one of the Foundation's main decision-making nexuses. It was a relatively unremarkable seven-story limestone office building like so many others in the city. Faceless, nameless drones in the vast bureaucracy flitted in and out of the building, not unlike the other buildings in the Federal Triangle.</p> <p>After passing speedily through the obligatory security checkpoint, Harper browsed the headlines of his paper as he made his way to his tiny office on the third floor. A plane bombing in the UK was the leading story. <em>Nasty business, international terrorism</em>, Harper thought. Not his area of concern, though. Probably. He was one of the Foundation's top counterintelligence investigators. Pushing fifty, his black hair was streaked with gray from many late nights spent on the job. The job nearly cost him his family as well: though a drunk driver had taken away his family ten years ago Christmas Day, he discovered going through his late wife's papers that she was planning to file for divorce and seek custody of the children. With his family's death, he'd thrown himself into his work, finally accepting a promotion as Section Chief, followed a couple years later by a further promotion to his present job of Roving Special Investigator.</p> <p>"Morning, Troy," Harper grunted. He and Troy Muir, a former intelligence case officer invalided out of field operations when he lost his right leg, shared the cramped office. "Where's Monica?" he asked, referring to Monica Daniel, the grad student from GWU who was interning in the CI Directorate. Always on the lookout for talent, the Foundation was more than happy to pay for someone's education, assuming they passed a thorough background check, signed a four hundred page non-disclosure agreement, and agreed to work three years for every year of schooling the Foundation funded.</p> <p>"Errand to the Ethics Committee Clerk's Office, I think." His one-legged office-mate looked up. "Tim, they want you on the seventh floor ASAP," Muir reported with a frown.</p> <p>"Any idea which way the wind was blowing?" Harper asked. A summons to the seventh floor, domain of the directors and overseers, was rarely a happy prospect.</p> <p>"They didn't say," Muir replied. Harper nodded, and left.</p> <p>Harper was met on the seventh floor by a security officer. Only those with Level 5 security clearance were permitted on the floor without an escort. The guard led him to a darkened conference room and ushered him in. A severe dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties stood alone, looking out the heavily-tinted window at the Capital Building. Harper recognized her as O5-7, one of the Overseers. Though none of the Overseers had an assigned specialization, it was Harper's understanding that Seven tended to take particular interest in the Foundation's intelligence matters. He'd seen her speaking with Director McDonnell before, but had never actually met her himself.</p> <p>"Mr. Harper," Seven said quietly in greeting, not turning around. "Leave us." The security guard excused himself.</p> <p>"Ma'am," Harper said.</p> <p>"The Foundation is under attack, Mr. Harper," the Overseer stated, her back still to him. "Two nights ago, acting on an anonymous tip, under Counterintelligence Director McDonnell's personal supervision, MTF Xi-13 raided a warehouse outside London. They recovered a large number of classified documents relating to the Foundation and several groups-of-interest. Some of these documents apparently suggested the existence of a plot to assassinate several members of the O5 Council, including myself."</p> <p>"I assume plans are in place to handle the situation, ma'am?" Harper asked, hiding his alarm.</p> <p>"There are plans in place, yes, Mr. Harper. The Foundation has plans for everything," Seven replied. "More concerning than the apparent plot is the implication of these documents. According to Director McDonnell's initial report, the Foundation documents found indicated the breach was caused by someone with at least Level 4 clearance, if not Level 5. The penetrations of the GOC, Serpent's Hand, Chaos Insurgency, IRG, Factory, Prometheus Labs, Wondertainment, Church of the Broken God, and MC&D appear to all comparably high level."</p> <p>At this revelation, Harper's eyes widened. Somebody had top level penetrations of nearly every major player behind the Veil, including the Foundation, and this was the first they were finding out about it? Nobody was <em>that</em> good.</p> <p>As if sensing his thoughts despite having her back turned to him, Seven continued, "I hardly believe it myself, Mr. Harper, but as you no doubt realize, we cannot dismiss the possibility of such a turn of events out of hand simply because it is unlikely or unpleasant. After all, this organization deals with the impossible and the unthinkable every day. The Council decided to hold an emergency meeting where Director McDonnell could present the documents personally. Unfortunately, this is no longer possible. Last night, Overseer Five and his bodyguard, Counterintelligence Director McDonnell, and two American intelligence officers who have assisted our Middle Eastern operations were killed when an on-board explosion brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Scotland. McDonnell had the original copies of the seized documents in a diplomatic pouch. Moments later, a Foundation document repository in Manchester was bombed. That document repository held the only existing copies of the seized documents. Our recovery teams report no evidence that either version of the documents survived."</p> <p>"Which both lends credence to the reality of this penetration's threat, and suggests the plotters were responsible for the attacks," Harper observed. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut - McDonnell had been an old friend, someone he could trust in a business where trust was the scarcest of commodities, but there would be time for grieving later.</p> <p>"The surviving members of the Council drew the same conclusion, Mr. Harper," Seven nodded, finally turning to face him. Her narrowed eyes flashed dangerously over high cheekbones. To call the Overseer angry would have been no small understatement. "We have already taken measures to ensure our personal protection. The other Overseers believe this will be sufficient; I disagree. I have convinced them we need to investigate this apparent conspiracy, fully but also quietly. If the conspirators believe they are about to be discovered, it is not at all unreasonable for them to either go to ground and disappear, or decide to cut their losses and attempt even more direct action. Right now, the Council has no idea what the ultimate goal of the conspirators is. This makes them even more dangerous in the Council's eyes. And while you and I both have enough experience in the intelligence hall of mirrors to take that in stride, most of my fellow Overseers are scared. They are mainly former scientists and uncomfortable when dealing with the uncertainties of political intrigue." Seven moved to the conference table separating them. She slid a folder across the table to him. "This is everything we know about the security breach, the two direct attacks, and the conspiracy as a whole," she observed. This was less than encouraging: it amounted to perhaps a half dozen sheets of paper. "You will be conducting the investigation. The Council has voted to temporarily grant you Level 5 clearance," she declared, handing him a new black identification card, "and you will report to me personally. Keep the cards close to the vest on this one - potentially anyone could be involved."</p> <p>"Moscow Rule number three, ma'am," Harper observed with a wry smile. <em>Everyone is potentially under opposition control.</em> "If I may, why are you trusting me with this? <em>I</em> know I'm not a conspirator, but you don't."</p> <p>"You're one of the best see-eye guys we have, Mr. Harper, and you have been cleared for the highest security clearance known to mankind. The possibility that you are involved is remote, and in any case I expect regular and detailed reports of all your findings. If I find out you're withholding things from me, I will bring the full force of the resources at my disposal upon you. You will spend the remainder of your days in the deepest, darkest, least pleasant hole I can find," the Foundation Overseer stated calmly. Then she flashed a smile that was clearly meant to be disarming but instead made the hair on Harper's neck stand on end. "But I don't expect that to be a problem, Mr. Harper."</p> <p>"No, ma'am," Harper said.</p> <p>"Excellent! If there is anything you need, let me know," Seven beamed. "You may brief in Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel if you believe their assistance would be helpful, but do keep the cards close to the vest."</p> <p>"Of course," Harper replied.</p> <p>"Thank you. That will be all," she said. Harper wasted no time leaving the room.</p> <hr/> <p>"That's all we have," Harper finished the run-down, putting the folder down on his desk and looking across at Muir and Monica.</p> <p>"Hm," Muir grunted. "For a moment there, Tim, I thought we were going to have trouble with this one." He pulled out his reading glasses and started thumbing through the folder.</p> <p>Monica failed at hiding her alarm. "Do we always have so little to go on?" she asked. "How do we even know where to start?"</p> <p>Harper started thinking aloud. "Let's start with something simple. What organizations did McDonnell's preliminary report suggest were penetrated?"</p> <p>Monica read off the relevant sheet of paper, "Looks like the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution; Baasch Engineering Corporation; the Chaos Insurgency; the Church of the Broken God; the Factory; the Foundation; the Global Occult Coalition; Huntington Arms, Inc.; Marshall, Carter, and Dark; Prometheus Labs; the Serpent's Hand; Saito Mining Industries; Wallace Security Enterprises; Dr. Wondertainment; and various branches of the American, British, Chinese, French, German, and Soviet governments. That's all based on documents recovered in the warehouse raid." She looked up, "How the hell did someone manage to penetrate essentially all the major commercial, political, and paranormal groups without somebody noticing? How is this the first we've heard of it?"</p> <p>Harper lit a cigarette. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "just because they had documents - even top level documents - related to all those organizations doesn't mean they managed have moles in all of them. And even if they do have moles with access to such sensitive materials, that doesn't mean the moles are in a position to do much beyond steal documents. Monica, what's your security clearance?"</p> <p>The graduate student blinked, "Foundation, or US government?"</p> <p>"Both," replied Harper, taking a puff on his cigarette.</p> <p>"Level 3 and TS," she replied, looking slightly confused. "But I'm just an intern."</p> <p>"And yet you have access to some truly sensitive information," Muir observed, not taking his eyes off the document he was reading. "Such as this investigation."</p> <p>"Precisely," Harper continued. "These are, for the most part, groups employing hundreds to tens of thousands of people. It only takes one traitor."</p> <p>"So how do we know what the opposition wants?" asked Monica.</p> <p>Harper smiled, "We don't - yet. But one does not simply invest the resources necessary to penetrate so many powerful organizations on a whim. We shall find out soon enough."</p> <p>Monica frowned. "This still doesn't give us a starting point."</p> <p>"Perhaps this does," Muir said. He began quoting the page he was reading: "'According to Foundation personnel embedded within the Scottish constabulary, the explosion is consistent with detonation of a small but powerful explosive device. Preliminary chemical testing of explosive residue suggests the use of pentaerythritol tetranitrate (PETN) and cyclotrimethylene trinitramine (RDX), two of the primary ingredients in Semtex-H. However, the size and location of the original explosion relative to the quantities of PETN and RDX found, coupled with the complete incineration of both the diplomatic pouch carried by Robert McDonnell and McDonnell himself, suggests Semtex was not, in fact, the explosive used. It is recommended Foundation investigative staff examine the possibility of SCP objects or other as-yet uncontained anomalies as the source of the explosion."</p> <p>"Just what we needed, Troy," Harper said. "Monica, go down to Central Records and have them pull all the files on anomalous objects and entities capable of causing explosions. Be sure to include the ones presently in containment; we can't rule out a theft."</p> <p>"On it," she said, leaving.</p> <p>Harper turned to Muir, "Any indications on the explosion in Manchester?"</p> <p>Muir nodded, "Looks like that actually was Semtex. The police have linked it chemically to several attacks by the Irish Republican Army."</p> <p>"The IRA? Could it really just be a coincidence?" Harper frowned, lighting a fresh cigarette.</p> <p>Muir shook his head. "No way," he said. "The match was far too easy - it was an older batch with a composition more useful for demolition than killing. Great if you want to destroy papers in a safe, but not as useful for inflicting human casualties. It also doesn't match their usual MO, since Carnegie was prominently Catholic. I suspect we were just meant to believe they did it."</p> <p>"Interesting," Harper said, taking a long blow on his cigarette. "Very interesting."</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-prologue">Prologue</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-ii">Part II</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-i">Conspiracy, Part I</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-i">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-i</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]] [[/>]] + Ramifications [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 22 December 1988, 0755 hours local time}}// [[/span]] The early morning sun illuminated the large lobby as Timothy Harper strode into the the Foundation's Command-02 Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Though it could not compare to Overwatch HQ, its proximity to one of the world's most powerful capitals ensured it was one of the Foundation's main decision-making nexuses. It was a relatively unremarkable seven-story limestone office building like so many others in the city. Faceless, nameless drones in the vast bureaucracy flitted in and out of the building, not unlike the other buildings in the Federal Triangle. After passing speedily through the obligatory security checkpoint, Harper browsed the headlines of his paper as he made his way to his tiny office on the third floor. A plane bombing in the UK was the leading story. //Nasty business, international terrorism//, Harper thought. Not his area of concern, though. Probably. He was one of the Foundation's top counterintelligence investigators. Pushing fifty, his black hair was streaked with gray from many late nights spent on the job. The job nearly cost him his family as well: though a drunk driver had taken away his family ten years ago Christmas Day, he discovered going through his late wife's papers that she was planning to file for divorce and seek custody of the children. With his family's death, he'd thrown himself into his work, finally accepting a promotion as Section Chief, followed a couple years later by a further promotion to his present job of Roving Special Investigator. "Morning, Troy," Harper grunted. He and Troy Muir, a former intelligence case officer invalided out of field operations when he lost his right leg, shared the cramped office. "Where's Monica?" he asked, referring to Monica Daniel, the grad student from GWU who was interning in the CI Directorate. Always on the lookout for talent, the Foundation was more than happy to pay for someone's education, assuming they passed a thorough background check, signed a four hundred page non-disclosure agreement, and agreed to work three years for every year of schooling the Foundation funded. "Errand to the Ethics Committee Clerk's Office, I think." His one-legged office-mate looked up. "Tim, they want you on the seventh floor ASAP," Muir reported with a frown. "Any idea which way the wind was blowing?" Harper asked. A summons to the seventh floor, domain of the directors and overseers, was rarely a happy prospect. "They didn't say," Muir replied. Harper nodded, and left. Harper was met on the seventh floor by a security officer. Only those with Level 5 security clearance were permitted on the floor without an escort. The guard led him to a darkened conference room and ushered him in. A severe dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties stood alone, looking out the heavily-tinted window at the Capital Building. Harper recognized her as O5-7, one of the Overseers. Though none of the Overseers had an assigned specialization, it was Harper's understanding that Seven tended to take particular interest in the Foundation's intelligence matters. He'd seen her speaking with Director McDonnell before, but had never actually met her himself. "Mr. Harper," Seven said quietly in greeting, not turning around. "Leave us." The security guard excused himself. "Ma'am," Harper said. "The Foundation is under attack, Mr. Harper," the Overseer stated, her back still to him. "Two nights ago, acting on an anonymous tip, under Counterintelligence Director McDonnell's personal supervision, MTF Xi-13 raided a warehouse outside London. They recovered a large number of classified documents relating to the Foundation and several groups-of-interest. Some of these documents apparently suggested the existence of a plot to assassinate several members of the O5 Council, including myself." "I assume plans are in place to handle the situation, ma'am?" Harper asked, hiding his alarm. "There are plans in place, yes, Mr. Harper. The Foundation has plans for everything," Seven replied. "More concerning than the apparent plot is the implication of these documents. According to Director McDonnell's initial report, the Foundation documents found indicated the breach was caused by someone with at least Level 4 clearance, if not Level 5. The penetrations of the GOC, Serpent's Hand, Chaos Insurgency, IRG, Factory, Prometheus Labs, Wondertainment, Church of the Broken God, and MC&D appear to all comparably high level." At this revelation, Harper's eyes widened. Somebody had top level penetrations of nearly every major player behind the Veil, including the Foundation, and this was the first they were finding out about it? Nobody was //that// good. As if sensing his thoughts despite having her back turned to him, Seven continued, "I hardly believe it myself, Mr. Harper, but as you no doubt realize, we cannot dismiss the possibility of such a turn of events out of hand simply because it is unlikely or unpleasant. After all, this organization deals with the impossible and the unthinkable every day. The Council decided to hold an emergency meeting where Director McDonnell could present the documents personally. Unfortunately, this is no longer possible. Last night, Overseer Five and his bodyguard, Counterintelligence Director McDonnell, and two American intelligence officers who have assisted our Middle Eastern operations were killed when an on-board explosion brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Scotland. McDonnell had the original copies of the seized documents in a diplomatic pouch. Moments later, a Foundation document repository in Manchester was bombed. That document repository held the only existing copies of the seized documents. Our recovery teams report no evidence that either version of the documents survived." "Which both lends credence to the reality of this penetration's threat, and suggests the plotters were responsible for the attacks," Harper observed. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut - McDonnell had been an old friend, someone he could trust in a business where trust was the scarcest of commodities, but there would be time for grieving later. "The surviving members of the Council drew the same conclusion, Mr. Harper," Seven nodded, finally turning to face him. Her narrowed eyes flashed dangerously over high cheekbones. To call the Overseer angry would have been no small understatement. "We have already taken measures to ensure our personal protection. The other Overseers believe this will be sufficient; I disagree. I have convinced them we need to investigate this apparent conspiracy, fully but also quietly. If the conspirators believe they are about to be discovered, it is not at all unreasonable for them to either go to ground and disappear, or decide to cut their losses and attempt even more direct action. Right now, the Council has no idea what the ultimate goal of the conspirators is. This makes them even more dangerous in the Council's eyes. And while you and I both have enough experience in the intelligence hall of mirrors to take that in stride, most of my fellow Overseers are scared. They are mainly former scientists and uncomfortable when dealing with the uncertainties of political intrigue." Seven moved to the conference table separating them. She slid a folder across the table to him. "This is everything we know about the security breach, the two direct attacks, and the conspiracy as a whole," she observed. This was less than encouraging: it amounted to perhaps a half dozen sheets of paper. "You will be conducting the investigation. The Council has voted to temporarily grant you Level 5 clearance," she declared, handing him a new black identification card, "and you will report to me personally. Keep the cards close to the vest on this one - potentially anyone could be involved." "Moscow Rule number three, ma'am," Harper observed with a wry smile. //Everyone is potentially under opposition control.// "If I may, why are you trusting me with this? //I// know I'm not a conspirator, but you don't." "You're one of the best see-eye guys we have, Mr. Harper, and you have been cleared for the highest security clearance known to mankind. The possibility that you are involved is remote, and in any case I expect regular and detailed reports of all your findings. If I find out you're withholding things from me, I will bring the full force of the resources at my disposal upon you. You will spend the remainder of your days in the deepest, darkest, least pleasant hole I can find," the Foundation Overseer stated calmly. Then she flashed a smile that was clearly meant to be disarming but instead made the hair on Harper's neck stand on end. "But I don't expect that to be a problem, Mr. Harper." "No, ma'am," Harper said. "Excellent! If there is anything you need, let me know," Seven beamed. "You may brief in Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel if you believe their assistance would be helpful, but do keep the cards close to the vest." "Of course," Harper replied. "Thank you. That will be all," she said. Harper wasted no time leaving the room. ---- "That's all we have," Harper finished the run-down, putting the folder down on his desk and looking across at Muir and Monica. "Hm," Muir grunted. "For a moment there, Tim, I thought we were going to have trouble with this one." He pulled out his reading glasses and started thumbing through the folder. Monica failed at hiding her alarm. "Do we always have so little to go on?" she asked. "How do we even know where to start?" Harper started thinking aloud. "Let's start with something simple. What organizations did McDonnell's preliminary report suggest were penetrated?" Monica read off the relevant sheet of paper, "Looks like the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution; Baasch Engineering Corporation; the Chaos Insurgency; the Church of the Broken God; the Factory; the Foundation; the Global Occult Coalition; Huntington Arms, Inc.; Marshall, Carter, and Dark; Prometheus Labs; the Serpent's Hand; Saito Mining Industries; Wallace Security Enterprises; Dr. Wondertainment; and various branches of the American, British, Chinese, French, German, and Soviet governments. That's all based on documents recovered in the warehouse raid." She looked up, "How the hell did someone manage to penetrate essentially all the major commercial, political, and paranormal groups without somebody noticing? How is this the first we've heard of it?" Harper lit a cigarette. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "just because they had documents - even top level documents - related to all those organizations doesn't mean they managed have moles in all of them. And even if they do have moles with access to such sensitive materials, that doesn't mean the moles are in a position to do much beyond steal documents. Monica, what's your security clearance?" The graduate student blinked, "Foundation, or US government?" "Both," replied Harper, taking a puff on his cigarette. "Level 3 and TS," she replied, looking slightly confused. "But I'm just an intern." "And yet you have access to some truly sensitive information," Muir observed, not taking his eyes off the document he was reading. "Such as this investigation." "Precisely," Harper continued. "These are, for the most part, groups employing hundreds to tens of thousands of people. It only takes one traitor." "So how do we know what the opposition wants?" asked Monica. Harper smiled, "We don't - yet. But one does not simply invest the resources necessary to penetrate so many powerful organizations on a whim. We shall find out soon enough." Monica frowned. "This still doesn't give us a starting point." "Perhaps this does," Muir said. He began quoting the page he was reading: "'According to Foundation personnel embedded within the Scottish constabulary, the explosion is consistent with detonation of a small but powerful explosive device. Preliminary chemical testing of explosive residue suggests the use of pentaerythritol tetranitrate (PETN) and cyclotrimethylene trinitramine (RDX), two of the primary ingredients in Semtex-H. However, the size and location of the original explosion relative to the quantities of PETN and RDX found, coupled with the complete incineration of both the diplomatic pouch carried by Robert McDonnell and McDonnell himself, suggests Semtex was not, in fact, the explosive used. It is recommended Foundation investigative staff examine the possibility of SCP objects or other as-yet uncontained anomalies as the source of the explosion." "Just what we needed, Troy," Harper said. "Monica, go down to Central Records and have them pull all the files on anomalous objects and entities capable of causing explosions. Be sure to include the ones presently in containment; we can't rule out a theft." "On it," she said, leaving. Harper turned to Muir, "Any indications on the explosion in Manchester?" Muir nodded, "Looks like that actually was Semtex. The police have linked it chemically to several attacks by the Irish Republican Army." "The IRA? Could it really just be a coincidence?" Harper frowned, lighting a fresh cigarette. Muir shook his head. "No way," he said. "The match was far too easy - it was an older batch with a composition more useful for demolition than killing. Great if you want to destroy papers in a safe, but not as useful for inflicting human casualties. It also doesn't match their usual MO, since Carnegie was prominently Catholic. I suspect we were just meant to believe they did it." "Interesting," Harper said, taking a long blow on his cigarette. "Very interesting." ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Prologue\| Prologue]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part II\| Part II]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part I - SCP Foundation	53	[ "conspiracy-prologue", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-ii", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030279	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-i
conspiracy-part-ii	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Leads</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Thursday, 22 December 1988, 1158 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> As it turned out, the Foundation contained rather a lot of different objects which could explode or ignite. Exploding cacti, exploding ink, an exploding eyeball - the stack of files Monica had carried up from Central Records took the three of them most of the morning to read. The tiny room, always cramped and cluttered, quickly became nearly impossible to move about in as they sifted through the towering heaps of papers.</p> <p>Just before lunch, Monica found something. "Hey, listen to this: a chest of coins, each capable of detonating with the force of five megajoules. They're linked to an atlas which can be used to detonate the coins."</p> <p>Muir and Harper got up and looked over her shoulder. "Does the report have a chemical analysis?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"'For analysis of explosive residue signature, see Addendum 5'," Monica quoted. "Where did that - ah! Here we go." She snatched up the relevant page.</p> <p>Muir laid it alongside the forensic report from the plane bombing. "Looks like a rough match to me," he said. "The file's analysis dates back to the fifties, so even if this is a perfect match it might not line up perfectly."</p> <p>Harper nodded, "Definitely the best option so far. Good catch, Monica." The intern beamed. He continued, "So, where is this thing contained?"</p> <p>"That's a problem, Tim," Muir said, reading the Special Containment Procedures.</p> <p>"Oh, Troy?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"Yeah. We don't have it," Muir said. "It was stored in the Trinidad site back in fifty-nine." Harper swore under his breath.</p> <p>"What happened to the Trinidad site in fifty-nine?" Monica asked.</p> <p>"In a word," Muir explained, "Castro. He nationalized the Foundation's research site in Trinidad. The staff resisted and were executed - save one researcher who managed to get away by sheer dumb luck. Ended up heading back to the Soviet Union to work as a mole in KGB's Thirteenth Chief Directorate somewhere in Central Asia, I think."</p> <p>"And we let Castro get away with this?!" Monica asked. She had no illusions about the Foundation's track record when it came to ruthlessness.</p> <p>"Of course not," Harper said. "Ever heard of the Bay of Pigs invasion?"</p> <p>"That failed," Monica countered, frowning.</p> <p>Muir shook his head, "You're assuming what made it to the history books is what actually happened. We'd originally planned to attack Trinidad directly. American State Department didn't want to play ball, so the invasion landing site had to be moved. We still sent Foundation forces to Trinidad. Didn't manage to retrieve anything, but both Castro and Marshall, Carter, and Dark got the message."</p> <p>Monica was confused, "MC&D was involved?"</p> <p>"Castro tried to sell them the contents of the Trinidad site," Harper explained. "They absconded with the items without paying Castro after Foundation forces crashed the party."</p> <p>"He was pissed," Muir observed. "We still get reports of Cuban troops in Soviet-backed states killing people associated with the club."</p> <p>"Between the combined fury of the Foundation and Castro, it actually drove MC&D to ground for over a decade," Harper finished. "So the Foundation decided the whole mess was a 'successful failure.'"</p> <p>"So, do we know where this chest of coins is now?" Monica asked.</p> <p>"Not exactly," Muir said. "Marshall, Carter, and Dark isn't exactly on good terms with the Foundation, and we've not ever been able to get a good source on the inside. I've heard the GOC has had a little more success, but I don't know for certain. I could put out feelers with some of my contacts at the GOC, but they'll want something in return." The world of intelligence was a strange place: despite the generally frosty relationship between the GOC and the Foundation, both organization's intelligence branches occasionally shared information about mutual threats. Neither side trusted the other, of course, but the <em>quid pro quo</em> of intelligence-sharing had proven helpful to both sides on numerous occasions.</p> <p>"You do that, Troy," Harper said. "In the mean time, Monica, keep digging through things here. I'm going to track down the surviving researcher from Trinidad."</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Smithsonian Natural History Museum, Washington, D.C.<br/> Thursday, 22 December 1988, 1730 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The only physically remarkable thing about him was his limp and cane. These, of course, were unavoidable for a man whose right leg was artificial from his knee down. Beyond that, he was of intermediate height, had thinning brown hair, and brown eyes. He was the sort of man that you'd forget having seen five minutes later, if not for his limp and cane. He missed the fieldwork, but he was too easy to identify now.</p> <p>Muir hobbled into the Smithsonian Natural History Museum's National Gem Collection. It was a good meeting spot, and he never got tired of looking at the gemstones. He was standing before a beautiful piece of amethyst several feet in height when he heard a low voice behind him, "Nice shade of purple, isn't it?"</p> <p>Without turning, Muir replied, "Indeed. I was always jealous of those with February birthdays."</p> <p>"I'm sure you know one of the six birthdays we have on file for you <em>is</em> in February. How's the wife, Troy?" Special Agent Granger, Global Occult Coalition asked.</p> <p>"Gladys and I have separated," Muir responded evenly. "I'm sure you knew that, though, just like how you know all the birthdays in your file on me are wrong. How's your son, Harry?"</p> <p>"Looking forward to Christmas," Granger replied. "Wants Lego. Again." Muir grunted. "So, Troy, what can I do for you?"</p> <p>The two men started down the gallery. "You've sprung a leak," Muir said. "Foundation forces found information classified Level Q in a raid on a non-aligned building day before yesterday."</p> <p>Granger's training quickly erased the alarm from his face, before responding, "Why are you telling me this?"</p> <p>"Because whomever penetrated you also managed to get access to all the major players, including the Foundation," Muir replied. "We also believe they brought down the Pan Am flight in Lockerbie. Took out all the documents we recovered, and also hit the repository where we stored the backups. Otherwise, I'd be able to tell you what they had on the GOC."</p> <p>Granger let out a low whistle. "Any leads?" he asked.</p> <p>"We're working on that, and we need your help," Muir answered. "The Coalition has always had better sources at MC&D than the Foundation. We think they either have, or sold, the object responsible for taking down the plane." He handed Granger a sheet of paper with the Global Occult Coalition's KTE, or 'Known Threat Entity', designation for the object.</p> <p>Pocketing the paper, the GOC Agent nodded. "I'll have to run this up the chain, Troy. Deputy Director Bain will need to know."</p> <p>"Thanks, Harry," Muir said. "If this pans out, I'd consider us even."</p> <p>"Thanks, but one file on one item handled by that damn club? That would hardly square us. This'll take care of the one I owe you for Uganda. I still owe you a favor for Fiji," Granger observed.</p> <p>"Well, I'm not going to object to a GOC Agent telling me he still owes me a favor," Muir chuckled. "Have a good holiday."</p> <p>"You too," Granger said. With that, the two men went their separate ways.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Outside Moscow, USSR<br/> Friday, 23 December 1988, 0213 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> As it turned out, meeting the surviving researcher from Trinidad required a trip to Moscow. Now almost ninety, Dr. Andrei Pushkin had retired to a dacha in the hills overlooking the city. Thankfully, the Foundation's connections made it fairly simple for Harper to enter the Soviet Union, in spite of his American citizenship.</p> <p>Pushkin met Harper in his pajamas when the counterintelligence officer arrived at his doorstep bearing an expensive bottle of vodka. Seated at the retired researcher's kitchen table, the men spoke in Russian, a language Harper had mastered decades earlier. A cloud of cigarette smoke filled the room as the vodka slowly disappeared.</p> <p>"What brings a Level 5 Foundation investigator all the way from Washington just to speak to an old man in the dead of night?" asked Pushkin. "I retired from the Foundation and KGB almost fifteen years ago."</p> <p>"Andrei Ivan'ich, I need to know everything about Trinidad. I'm trying to track down one of the items that was lost," Harper explained.</p> <p>Pushkin sighed, "That was thirty years ago. My memory isn't what it once was - I hope you don't expect me to remember specific item numbers, especially for the objects I wasn't handling."</p> <p>"Do you remember an object that was a chest of exploding coins and an atlas?" Harper inquired.</p> <p>Pushkin thought for several minutes. "Vaguely. I never worked with them; that was - who handled those… Dr. Wong's project? Either Dr. Wong, or Dr. Hernandez."</p> <p>Harper nodded, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Could you tell me what happened when the Cubans showed up?"</p> <p>Pushkin drained and refilled his vodka draft. Taking a deep breath, he recounted one of the scariest situations in his life.</p> <hr/> <h2 id="toc1"><span>Pushkin's Tale</span></h2> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Research Site-██ Trinidad, Cuba<br/> Sunday, 15 March 1959, 1030 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> As the klaxon blared, and the corridor was bathed in red light, Pushkin once again found himself holding a gun.</p> <p>Nikolai Ivanovich Pushkin, Doctorate of Philosophy in Phyics, did not like guns. He'd never been a fighter: he'd only been a boy during the Revolution and ensuing Civil War, which had stalled his beloved education by shutting down his school. When the dust had finally settled, he'd hoped that he'd never see armed conflict again. Unfortunately, as a young professor in Leningrad in the early 1940s, he'd been trapped in the city when the Germans had surrounded it. The Germans had shelled the city day and night for nearly a year, constantly trying to break the siege. When the building with his laboratory and office had been leveled by the shelling, he'd resisted having to take up arms by helping manage logistics for the defenders. Not that there had been much in the way of supplies, food, or ammunition to move. He'd met Sergei Petrovich during the war; Sergei had recruited him into the Foundation. After the end of the war, he'd hoped to never again have to handle a firearm. And yet, here he was.</p> <p>The morning had started out normally enough. Breakfast in the site's commissary, meeting for all Level 3 and 4 staff, followed by another day of research. He vaguely remembered the site's security director, Agent Shaw, mentioning something about the recent revolution, but surely the politics in Havanna meant little for this secret research facility. Pushkin had paid it little mind: nobody knew what went on in this small, apparently unremarkable compound on the edge of Trinidad. And even if someone had, the Foundation's security staff had far more firepower than the local constabulary. Most of the facility was concealed from the world in a heavily reinforced bunker rated to withstand all but a direct nuclear strike. And so, the researcher allowed his mind to wander to more important things, like how he was going to conduct the day's tests.</p> <p>After the meeting's conclusion, Pushkin had returned to his lab. His assistant, Dr. Rawji, had already begun work on the object they were researching: a Factory-built radio set whose transistors showed some promising anomalous properties.</p> <p>No more than thirty minutes from when Pushkin had begun to work, the site's intercom blared: "Attention all personnel! Unauthorized paramilitary forces have breached the outer perimeter. This is not a drill. Threat Condition Gamma has been declared. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill!"</p> <p>Pushkin swore loudly. He picked up the radio set to carry it back to the storage room up the hall while Rawji went to work burning their research notes. The hallway was dark compared to the bright laboratory, illuminated only by the flashing red emergency lights. It only took Pushkin a moment to enter the storage room, open the proper locker, place the radio inside, and lock it. He heard the door fly open behind him. "Doc! We have to get you out of here!" an urgent American voice said. Turning around, Pushkin recognized a young fair-haired security officer - Mathews? Martin? Something like that - clutching a rifle. "Here, Doc, take this," the guard said, shoving a pistol into his hands. "Come on, I'm supposed to get you and Dr. Rawji out of here." The guard ran out into the corridor. Pushkin followed, awkwardly holding the semiautomatic handgun, hoping he didn't have to shoot the <em>neculturny</em> thing.</p> <p>Pushkin had barely left the room when two Cuban men in fatigues carrying rifles burst out of the door to his lab. They shouted something in Spanish - Pushkin didn't know what, since he'd never bothered to learn the language - and gestured for him and the security officer to raise their hands. The security officer opened fire, killing one of the Cubans. The other shot the security officer. Pushkin turned and ran, firing wildly behind him.</p> <p>The Russian rounded a corner. No Cubans appeared behind him. <em>Now what?</em> he wondered. He was standing alone, in a deserted corridor, bathed in red light, while a klaxon blared, in a site overrun by Cubans. Once again holding a gun. He hated guns.</p> <p>Pushkin was about to leave the gun when he thought better of it. Perhaps he'd need the thing. Reluctantly, he pocketed it. Now, he had to figure out a way out of the facility. He searched his memory: he'd been briefed on this eventuality, but it wasn't something he'd taken all that seriously or thought too hard about. <em>Get to the surface,</em> he thought. <em>Surface. Then out of the complex. Then to the rendezvous point. Beach eighty kilometers up the coast. One week to get there. But first, the surface. How do I get to the surface?</em> Pushkin ticked off his options. Elevators would be guarded. That left one of the emergency ladders. <em>Great. Two hundred meter climb up a ladder. Where's the nearest one?</em> And so he set off.</p> <p>After ten minutes of tense searching, he found one of the ladders to the surface. Why couldn't he just have been left to do his research? He didn't like doing all this sneaking around. As he climbed, he hoped he wouldn't find himself staring at a bunch of angry Cubans when he reached the surface.</p> <p>As it luck would have it, the access ladder did not lead into the arms of angry Cubans, but rather to the woods in the hillside overlooking the complex. Concealing himself behind a bush, Pushkin looked down at the courtyard. A dozen or so Foundation staff members were kneeling on the ground with their arms behind their heads. A large man with a beard in fatigues seemed to be in charge of the Cubans. He was talking with a European man wearing a dark suit carrying a briefcase. The Cubans were carrying out the different objects the site had housed. There was the radio, the chest of coins, the atlas, the three books, the sculpture, and the abacus. The man in the suit inspected the items. He looked at the large man and nodded. The two shook hands. As the man in the suit left in a truck loaded with the objects, the large man barked an order to some of his men. Pushkin watched in horror as his coworkers were executed in cold blood by the Cubans. It was a sight which would haunt his nightmares for many years to come, just like that night in November of 1917, or the dark days of 1943.</p> <p>As the Cubans left the compound, Pushkin disappeared into the hills, starting his long walk to the rendezvous point.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Outside Moscow, USSR<br/> Friday, 23 December 1988, 0600 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> "…And that was the last I saw any of the objects stored in Trinidad," finished Pushkin. "I hid in the hills northwest of the city. The Foundation picked me up in a boat a week later on a little beach eighty kilometers up the coast."</p> <p>Harper emptied the last of the vodka into his host's glass. "And then you went back to the Soviet Union?" he asked.</p> <p>"Correct," replied the elderly man. "The Foundation at that time had strong ties to the military and intelligence organizations of both superpowers. I was assigned as a researcher at a laboratory near Dushanbe which was managed by the KGB's Thirteenth Chief Directorate for Paranormal Investigations with Foundation assistance. Both organizations thought I was working for them, spying on the other." He laughed, "It didn't really matter to me, since both paid me handsomely, and since I only had access to what was actually there at the laboratory. I suspect my handlers for both organizations thought me ineffectual. But I was allowed to do my research, and that was that."</p> <p>Harper took a deep breath on his cigarette. "Did you hear anything further about the lost items?"</p> <p>Pushkin frowned and shook his head, "Only rumors that that British club had bought them. What was the name…"</p> <p>"Marshall, Carter and Dark?" Harper supplied.</p> <p>"That was it," Pushkin nodded. "I am sorry I can't help you further."</p> <p>"Andrei Ivan'ich, you have helped me immensely," Harper told the old man, who smiled. The investigator retrieved his hat and coat and took his leave.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-i">Part I</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-iii">Part III</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-ii">Conspiracy, Part II</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-ii">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-ii</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]] [[/>]] + Leads [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 22 December 1988, 1158 hours local time}}// [[/span]] As it turned out, the Foundation contained rather a lot of different objects which could explode or ignite. Exploding cacti, exploding ink, an exploding eyeball - the stack of files Monica had carried up from Central Records took the three of them most of the morning to read. The tiny room, always cramped and cluttered, quickly became nearly impossible to move about in as they sifted through the towering heaps of papers. Just before lunch, Monica found something. "Hey, listen to this: a chest of coins, each capable of detonating with the force of five megajoules. They're linked to an atlas which can be used to detonate the coins." Muir and Harper got up and looked over her shoulder. "Does the report have a chemical analysis?" Harper asked. "'For analysis of explosive residue signature, see Addendum 5'," Monica quoted. "Where did that - ah! Here we go." She snatched up the relevant page. Muir laid it alongside the forensic report from the plane bombing. "Looks like a rough match to me," he said. "The file's analysis dates back to the fifties, so even if this is a perfect match it might not line up perfectly." Harper nodded, "Definitely the best option so far. Good catch, Monica." The intern beamed. He continued, "So, where is this thing contained?" "That's a problem, Tim," Muir said, reading the Special Containment Procedures. "Oh, Troy?" Harper asked. "Yeah. We don't have it," Muir said. "It was stored in the Trinidad site back in fifty-nine." Harper swore under his breath. "What happened to the Trinidad site in fifty-nine?" Monica asked. "In a word," Muir explained, "Castro. He nationalized the Foundation's research site in Trinidad. The staff resisted and were executed - save one researcher who managed to get away by sheer dumb luck. Ended up heading back to the Soviet Union to work as a mole in KGB's Thirteenth Chief Directorate somewhere in Central Asia, I think." "And we let Castro get away with this?!" Monica asked. She had no illusions about the Foundation's track record when it came to ruthlessness. "Of course not," Harper said. "Ever heard of the Bay of Pigs invasion?" "That failed," Monica countered, frowning. Muir shook his head, "You're assuming what made it to the history books is what actually happened. We'd originally planned to attack Trinidad directly. American State Department didn't want to play ball, so the invasion landing site had to be moved. We still sent Foundation forces to Trinidad. Didn't manage to retrieve anything, but both Castro and Marshall, Carter, and Dark got the message." Monica was confused, "MC&D was involved?" "Castro tried to sell them the contents of the Trinidad site," Harper explained. "They absconded with the items without paying Castro after Foundation forces crashed the party." "He was pissed," Muir observed. "We still get reports of Cuban troops in Soviet-backed states killing people associated with the club." "Between the combined fury of the Foundation and Castro, it actually drove MC&D to ground for over a decade," Harper finished. "So the Foundation decided the whole mess was a 'successful failure.'" "So, do we know where this chest of coins is now?" Monica asked. "Not exactly," Muir said. "Marshall, Carter, and Dark isn't exactly on good terms with the Foundation, and we've not ever been able to get a good source on the inside. I've heard the GOC has had a little more success, but I don't know for certain. I could put out feelers with some of my contacts at the GOC, but they'll want something in return." The world of intelligence was a strange place: despite the generally frosty relationship between the GOC and the Foundation, both organization's intelligence branches occasionally shared information about mutual threats. Neither side trusted the other, of course, but the //quid pro quo// of intelligence-sharing had proven helpful to both sides on numerous occasions. "You do that, Troy," Harper said. "In the mean time, Monica, keep digging through things here. I'm going to track down the surviving researcher from Trinidad." ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Smithsonian Natural History Museum, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 22 December 1988, 1730 hours local time}}// [[/span]] The only physically remarkable thing about him was his limp and cane. These, of course, were unavoidable for a man whose right leg was artificial from his knee down. Beyond that, he was of intermediate height, had thinning brown hair, and brown eyes. He was the sort of man that you'd forget having seen five minutes later, if not for his limp and cane. He missed the fieldwork, but he was too easy to identify now. Muir hobbled into the Smithsonian Natural History Museum's National Gem Collection. It was a good meeting spot, and he never got tired of looking at the gemstones. He was standing before a beautiful piece of amethyst several feet in height when he heard a low voice behind him, "Nice shade of purple, isn't it?" Without turning, Muir replied, "Indeed. I was always jealous of those with February birthdays." "I'm sure you know one of the six birthdays we have on file for you //is// in February. How's the wife, Troy?" Special Agent Granger, Global Occult Coalition asked. "Gladys and I have separated," Muir responded evenly. "I'm sure you knew that, though, just like how you know all the birthdays in your file on me are wrong. How's your son, Harry?" "Looking forward to Christmas," Granger replied. "Wants Lego. Again." Muir grunted. "So, Troy, what can I do for you?" The two men started down the gallery. "You've sprung a leak," Muir said. "Foundation forces found information classified Level Q in a raid on a non-aligned building day before yesterday." Granger's training quickly erased the alarm from his face, before responding, "Why are you telling me this?" "Because whomever penetrated you also managed to get access to all the major players, including the Foundation," Muir replied. "We also believe they brought down the Pan Am flight in Lockerbie. Took out all the documents we recovered, and also hit the repository where we stored the backups. Otherwise, I'd be able to tell you what they had on the GOC." Granger let out a low whistle. "Any leads?" he asked. "We're working on that, and we need your help," Muir answered. "The Coalition has always had better sources at MC&D than the Foundation. We think they either have, or sold, the object responsible for taking down the plane." He handed Granger a sheet of paper with the Global Occult Coalition's KTE, or 'Known Threat Entity', designation for the object. Pocketing the paper, the GOC Agent nodded. "I'll have to run this up the chain, Troy. Deputy Director Bain will need to know." "Thanks, Harry," Muir said. "If this pans out, I'd consider us even." "Thanks, but one file on one item handled by that damn club? That would hardly square us. This'll take care of the one I owe you for Uganda. I still owe you a favor for Fiji," Granger observed. "Well, I'm not going to object to a GOC Agent telling me he still owes me a favor," Muir chuckled. "Have a good holiday." "You too," Granger said. With that, the two men went their separate ways. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Outside Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 0213 hours local time}}// [[/span]] As it turned out, meeting the surviving researcher from Trinidad required a trip to Moscow. Now almost ninety, Dr. Andrei Pushkin had retired to a dacha in the hills overlooking the city. Thankfully, the Foundation's connections made it fairly simple for Harper to enter the Soviet Union, in spite of his American citizenship. Pushkin met Harper in his pajamas when the counterintelligence officer arrived at his doorstep bearing an expensive bottle of vodka. Seated at the retired researcher's kitchen table, the men spoke in Russian, a language Harper had mastered decades earlier. A cloud of cigarette smoke filled the room as the vodka slowly disappeared. "What brings a Level 5 Foundation investigator all the way from Washington just to speak to an old man in the dead of night?" asked Pushkin. "I retired from the Foundation and KGB almost fifteen years ago." "Andrei Ivan'ich, I need to know everything about Trinidad. I'm trying to track down one of the items that was lost," Harper explained. Pushkin sighed, "That was thirty years ago. My memory isn't what it once was - I hope you don't expect me to remember specific item numbers, especially for the objects I wasn't handling." "Do you remember an object that was a chest of exploding coins and an atlas?" Harper inquired. Pushkin thought for several minutes. "Vaguely. I never worked with them; that was - who handled those... Dr. Wong's project? Either Dr. Wong, or Dr. Hernandez." Harper nodded, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Could you tell me what happened when the Cubans showed up?" Pushkin drained and refilled his vodka draft. Taking a deep breath, he recounted one of the scariest situations in his life. ---- ++ Pushkin's Tale [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Research Site-██ Trinidad, Cuba Sunday, 15 March 1959, 1030 hours local time}}// [[/span]] As the klaxon blared, and the corridor was bathed in red light, Pushkin once again found himself holding a gun. Nikolai Ivanovich Pushkin, Doctorate of Philosophy in Phyics, did not like guns. He'd never been a fighter: he'd only been a boy during the Revolution and ensuing Civil War, which had stalled his beloved education by shutting down his school. When the dust had finally settled, he'd hoped that he'd never see armed conflict again. Unfortunately, as a young professor in Leningrad in the early 1940s, he'd been trapped in the city when the Germans had surrounded it. The Germans had shelled the city day and night for nearly a year, constantly trying to break the siege. When the building with his laboratory and office had been leveled by the shelling, he'd resisted having to take up arms by helping manage logistics for the defenders. Not that there had been much in the way of supplies, food, or ammunition to move. He'd met Sergei Petrovich during the war; Sergei had recruited him into the Foundation. After the end of the war, he'd hoped to never again have to handle a firearm. And yet, here he was. The morning had started out normally enough. Breakfast in the site's commissary, meeting for all Level 3 and 4 staff, followed by another day of research. He vaguely remembered the site's security director, Agent Shaw, mentioning something about the recent revolution, but surely the politics in Havanna meant little for this secret research facility. Pushkin had paid it little mind: nobody knew what went on in this small, apparently unremarkable compound on the edge of Trinidad. And even if someone had, the Foundation's security staff had far more firepower than the local constabulary. Most of the facility was concealed from the world in a heavily reinforced bunker rated to withstand all but a direct nuclear strike. And so, the researcher allowed his mind to wander to more important things, like how he was going to conduct the day's tests. After the meeting's conclusion, Pushkin had returned to his lab. His assistant, Dr. Rawji, had already begun work on the object they were researching: a Factory-built radio set whose transistors showed some promising anomalous properties. No more than thirty minutes from when Pushkin had begun to work, the site's intercom blared: "Attention all personnel! Unauthorized paramilitary forces have breached the outer perimeter. This is not a drill. Threat Condition Gamma has been declared. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill!" Pushkin swore loudly. He picked up the radio set to carry it back to the storage room up the hall while Rawji went to work burning their research notes. The hallway was dark compared to the bright laboratory, illuminated only by the flashing red emergency lights. It only took Pushkin a moment to enter the storage room, open the proper locker, place the radio inside, and lock it. He heard the door fly open behind him. "Doc! We have to get you out of here!" an urgent American voice said. Turning around, Pushkin recognized a young fair-haired security officer - Mathews? Martin? Something like that - clutching a rifle. "Here, Doc, take this," the guard said, shoving a pistol into his hands. "Come on, I'm supposed to get you and Dr. Rawji out of here." The guard ran out into the corridor. Pushkin followed, awkwardly holding the semiautomatic handgun, hoping he didn't have to shoot the //neculturny// thing. Pushkin had barely left the room when two Cuban men in fatigues carrying rifles burst out of the door to his lab. They shouted something in Spanish - Pushkin didn't know what, since he'd never bothered to learn the language - and gestured for him and the security officer to raise their hands. The security officer opened fire, killing one of the Cubans. The other shot the security officer. Pushkin turned and ran, firing wildly behind him. The Russian rounded a corner. No Cubans appeared behind him. //Now what?// he wondered. He was standing alone, in a deserted corridor, bathed in red light, while a klaxon blared, in a site overrun by Cubans. Once again holding a gun. He hated guns. Pushkin was about to leave the gun when he thought better of it. Perhaps he'd need the thing. Reluctantly, he pocketed it. Now, he had to figure out a way out of the facility. He searched his memory: he'd been briefed on this eventuality, but it wasn't something he'd taken all that seriously or thought too hard about. //Get to the surface,// he thought. //Surface. Then out of the complex. Then to the rendezvous point. Beach eighty kilometers up the coast. One week to get there. But first, the surface. How do I get to the surface?// Pushkin ticked off his options. Elevators would be guarded. That left one of the emergency ladders. //Great. Two hundred meter climb up a ladder. Where's the nearest one?// And so he set off. After ten minutes of tense searching, he found one of the ladders to the surface. Why couldn't he just have been left to do his research? He didn't like doing all this sneaking around. As he climbed, he hoped he wouldn't find himself staring at a bunch of angry Cubans when he reached the surface. As it luck would have it, the access ladder did not lead into the arms of angry Cubans, but rather to the woods in the hillside overlooking the complex. Concealing himself behind a bush, Pushkin looked down at the courtyard. A dozen or so Foundation staff members were kneeling on the ground with their arms behind their heads. A large man with a beard in fatigues seemed to be in charge of the Cubans. He was talking with a European man wearing a dark suit carrying a briefcase. The Cubans were carrying out the different objects the site had housed. There was the radio, the chest of coins, the atlas, the three books, the sculpture, and the abacus. The man in the suit inspected the items. He looked at the large man and nodded. The two shook hands. As the man in the suit left in a truck loaded with the objects, the large man barked an order to some of his men. Pushkin watched in horror as his coworkers were executed in cold blood by the Cubans. It was a sight which would haunt his nightmares for many years to come, just like that night in November of 1917, or the dark days of 1943. As the Cubans left the compound, Pushkin disappeared into the hills, starting his long walk to the rendezvous point. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Outside Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 0600 hours local time}}// [[/span]] "...And that was the last I saw any of the objects stored in Trinidad," finished Pushkin. "I hid in the hills northwest of the city. The Foundation picked me up in a boat a week later on a little beach eighty kilometers up the coast." Harper emptied the last of the vodka into his host's glass. "And then you went back to the Soviet Union?" he asked. "Correct," replied the elderly man. "The Foundation at that time had strong ties to the military and intelligence organizations of both superpowers. I was assigned as a researcher at a laboratory near Dushanbe which was managed by the KGB's Thirteenth Chief Directorate for Paranormal Investigations with Foundation assistance. Both organizations thought I was working for them, spying on the other." He laughed, "It didn't really matter to me, since both paid me handsomely, and since I only had access to what was actually there at the laboratory. I suspect my handlers for both organizations thought me ineffectual. But I was allowed to do my research, and that was that." Harper took a deep breath on his cigarette. "Did you hear anything further about the lost items?" Pushkin frowned and shook his head, "Only rumors that that British club had bought them. What was the name..." "Marshall, Carter and Dark?" Harper supplied. "That was it," Pushkin nodded. "I am sorry I can't help you further." "Andrei Ivan'ich, you have helped me immensely," Harper told the old man, who smiled. The investigator retrieved his hat and coat and took his leave. ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part I\| Part I]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part III\| Part III]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "global-occult-coalition", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part II - SCP Foundation	50	[ "conspiracy-part-i", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-iii", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030281	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-ii
conspiracy-part-iii	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Investigations</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR<br/> Friday, 23 December 1988, 0730 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Lighting a cigarette, Harper sat in his temporary office in the Foundation's regional headquarters for the Soviet Union. Nearly three times the size of his Washington office, complete with a view overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square, Harper decided he could get used to the palatial treatment the Foundation afforded Level 5 personnel. Picking up his secure telephone, he called Muir back in Washington. Since it was almost midnight in the American capital, Harper dialed his colleague's home secure telephone line. After the two units had synced, he heard a slightly groggy voice say, "Muir."</p> <p>"Troy, it's Tim," Harper said. "I hope I didn't wake you."</p> <p>"I was still up reading," Muir reassured Harper. "What's going on?"</p> <p>Harper explained, "I talked to Dr. Pushkin. Looks like the Trinidad artifacts did get bought up by MC&D. From the sounds of it, he witnessed the exchange himself."</p> <p>"Uhuh," Muir grunted. "I've put out feelers to my old contacts at the GOC. I'm expecting to get their file in the morning."</p> <p>"I hope you didn't have to part with any crown jewels," Harper remarked dryly.</p> <p>"Nah, this was in exchange for services already rendered," Muir replied. "Didn't even have to cash in all my chips."</p> <p>"Well, Troy, I'm going to sleep on the couch in the office here. Call me when you have the file," Harper said. He read off the phone and fax numbers. Muir confirmed them, then hung up.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Friday, 23 December 1988, 0710 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Troy Muir had just started the office coffee maker when Monica walked in carrying a manila envelope. "Mr. Muir, the front desk reported this was dropped off for you this morning by an Agent Granger of the Global Occult Coalition," she said, handing it to him. "It cleared the standard security screen: just a file."</p> "Thanks, Monica," Muir said, opening the file. Inside were three sheets of paper.<br/> <script src="https://d3g0gp89917ko0.cloudfront.net/v--4b961b7cc327/common--javascript/yahooui/tabview-min.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <div class="yui-navset" id="wiki-tabview-e8e3a48c10240f43f112d5bad9d1d0bf"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>untitled</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>KTE-1767-Flint</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>POI-55057-Black</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Troy,</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Merry Christmas.</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>- Harry</em></p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-1" style="display:none"> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#008000;"><span style="font-size:large;"><tt><strong>TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET</strong></tt></span></span></p> <hr/> <h2 id="toc1"><span><strong><tt>KTE-1767-Flint</tt></strong></span></h2> <p><tt><strong>Threat ID:</strong> KTE-1767-Flint "Blood Treasure"</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Authorized Response Level:</strong> 3 (Moderate Threat)</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Description:</strong> Spanish world atlas printed in 1521 with accuracy comparable to contemporary maps. Oak chest approximately 60 cm by 38 cm by 45 cm. 500 Spanish gold 2 <em>escudo</em> coins, minted in 1521. Atlas displays current coin locations in real time. When activated by the atlas (activation method unknown), coins will release approximately 5 MJ of energy in explosive force before returning undamaged to the chest. Type II explosive entity.</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Rules of Engagement:</strong> Object represents threat to global political stability, having been used to incite at least one major war. Object is to be destroyed by any means necessary and appropriate if the chance arises.</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>History:</strong> Original origin unknown. Recovered by private collector from shipwreck in the Straits of Florida in 1872. Owned by private collector in Havana, 1873-1895. Acquired by Foundation in 1895. Believed to be used to ignite powder charges on <em>USS Maine</em>, 15 February 1898, instigating Spanish-American War. Nationalized by Cuban forces, 1959. Stolen by Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd., 1961. Sold by MC&D to "C" in 1971. Current whereabouts unknown; suspected to be in the possession of "C". Now implicated by Foundation sources in Pan Am Flight 103 bombing.</tt></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#008000;"><span style="font-size:large;"><tt><strong>TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET</strong></tt></span></span></p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-2" style="display:none"> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#008000;"><span style="font-size:large;"><tt><strong>TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET</strong></tt></span></span></p> <hr/> <h2 id="toc2"><span><tt><strong>POI-55057-Black</strong></tt></span></h2> <p><tt><strong>Person-of-Interest ID:</strong> POI-55057-Black "C"</tt></p> <div style="float:right; margin:0 2em 1em 2em; width:400px; border:0;"> <table class="wiki-content-table"> <tr> <td colspan="2">[No Image On File]</td> </tr> <tr> <th colspan="2"><sup>POI-55057-Black.</sup></th> </tr> </table> </div> <br/> <tt><strong>Authorized Response Level:</strong> 1 (Minimal Threat)</tt> <p><tt><strong>Description:</strong> Member of Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd. identified only by the alias "C" signed in green ink. Little to no other information known. Believed to be in possession of at least nine (9) Known Threat Entities, purchased from MC&D.</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Rules of Engagement:</strong> Maintain discrete surveillance. Observe and report unusual activities. Gather additional information as possible. Do not engage except during emergencies.</tt></p> <h3 id="toc3"><span><strong><tt>Personal Information</tt></strong></span></h3> <p><tt><strong>Name:</strong> Unknown</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Known Aliases:</strong> "C"</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Profession:</strong> Unknown</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Allegiances:</strong> MC&D Club member</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Nationality:</strong> Unknown, suspected British or American</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Gender:</strong> Unknown</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Date of Birth:</strong> Unknown, suspected prior to 1950.</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Height:</strong> Unknown</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Weight:</strong> Unknown</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Eye Color:</strong> Unknown</tt><br/> <tt><strong>Hair Color:</strong> Unknown</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Biographical Information:</strong> Essentially nothing is known about "C" apart from his/her apparent membership in Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd. "C" is known to have purchased approximately nine (9) KTEs from MC&D since 1968. Records stolen from MC&D suggest "C" to have relative wealth and possibly either British or American citizenship. "C" is believed fluent in at least English. All documents signed by "C" include only that letter, written in refined script in green ink of unknown manufacture.</tt></p> <h3 id="toc4"><span><strong><tt>Associated KTEs</tt></strong></span></h3> <ul> <li><tt>KTE-0235-Hemlock</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-0589-Baskerville</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-0777-Ivory</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-0900-Keyhole-Green</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-1123-Tapdance-Blue</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-1515-Gaia</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-1767-Flint</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-2156-Woodwork</tt></li> <li><tt>KTE-2247-Pearl</tt></li> </ul> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#008000;"><span style="font-size:large;"><tt><strong>TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET</strong></tt></span></span></p> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabViewe8e3a48c10240f43f112d5bad9d1d0bf = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-e8e3a48c10240f43f112d5bad9d1d0bf'); }, "dummy-ondomready-block"); //]]> </script> <p>Muir examined the file's contents carefully. "Monica, please fax these to this number," he instructed, picking up his secure telephone unit and dialing.</p> <p>"Harper," said the voice on the other end of the line.</p> <p>"Tim, it's Troy. Monica's faxing you some documents," Muir said.</p> <p>There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I have them," Harper said. "Interesting. Do we have anything on this 'C' person?"</p> <p>"I'm not familiar with him. Or her," Muir said. "It'll take us a while to go digging through the archives."</p> <p>"Alright," Harper replied. "Any new leads?"</p> <p>Monica raised her eyebrows, and Muir hit the speaker button. "I've put you on speaker, Tim. Monica's here with me."</p> <p>"Mr. Harper, our agents embedded in the British police have finished their initial report," Monica explained. "We had them check the explosive signature against the exploding coins. It was a ninety-three percent match, though the margin of error was about eight percent because of the age of the coins' baseline comparison."</p> <p>"Alright," Harper said. "Nice to confirm what we already know. Continue."</p> <p>Monica nodded, even though Harper couldn't see her. "After you left for Moscow yesterday, I started trying to piece together who had access to the information that was leaked. We have no way of knowing for certain, because all the evidence was destroyed, and Director McDonnell only filed a preliminary paper report. He spoke to O5-5 personally, but -5 was also killed in the bombing. Given the nature of the information found as per the Director's initial report, at least one conspirator had Level 4 clearance or higher, but without specific SCP designations, I can't really rule anyone out. I looked at the Foundation's security clearance database, and there are at least fifteen hundred El Fours (that I had clearance to know about). And I don't have clearance to know exactly how many El Fives there are."</p> <p>"Even I don't know that, Monica," Harper said. "I suppose I have access now that I <em>am</em> one; I can look it up. I don't think it's more than a few dozen. The O5 Council, some but not all of the Directors for various sub-agencies, a few roving personnel like myself, not that many."</p> <p>Muir spoke up, "Tim, if we don't know what they had, we can't dig too much into this without it becoming a witch hunt." All three knew that such a witch hunt could do as much or more damage as the apparent conspiracy itself, and none of them wanted to be the Foundation's Angleton.</p> <p>"Let's focus on what we do know," Harper said. "McDonnell's report said something about the Overseers' schedules for the week. Focus on looking into their staff and security. We don't need another dead Overseer. In the meantime, I'll keep following the trail of the one object we do know the conspirators have." He disconnected the call.</p> <p>Muir and Monica set to work. They had to place the lives, habits, contacts, actions, schedules, and finances of over a hundred Foundation personnel under the microscope. Their task was all the much harder since they had no idea what, exactly, they were trying to find. With any luck, they'd know it when they saw it. With any good luck, that is. With bad luck, the conspirators would be able to do whatever they had planned next without interruption.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR<br/> Friday, 23 December 1988, 1545 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> After finishing his call with Muir and Monica, Harper reread the files again. He decided to report what he had so far to O5-7. Leaving his palatial temporary office, he strode down the hall to the Level 5 Office Reception and Security desk. Showing his credentials to the secretary, he said in Russian, "Please arrange for a secure teleconference with O5-7."</p> <p>"Yes, Comrade Investigator," the secretary replied. "She should be free in fifteen minutes. You are welcome to use the conference room; nobody is in there for another two hours." The secretary gestured to an open door.</p> <p>"Thank you, Comrade," Harper smiled. He entered the conference room and shut the door behind him.</p> <p>Just as the hour was chiming on the bells of St. Basil's Cathedral, the phone rang. Harper picked up the handset. "Harper," he said in English.</p> <p>A voice on the other end of the line said, "Please hold for O5-7."</p> <p>A moment later, Seven's voice said, "Mr. Harper, I take it you are making progress out there in Moscow?"</p> <p>"Yes, ma'am," Harper replied. "We've traced the source of the explosion to—"</p> <p>"The exploding coins?" Seven said. "I heard. Those have been nothing but trouble for the Foundation. I said it when I first became an Overseer, I still say it now."</p> <p>"Yes, ma'am. According to information from the Global Occult Coalition, the coins are in the possession of someone they know only as 'C'," Harper explained. "This 'C' person apparently bought them off of Marshall, Carter, & Dark back in seventy-one."</p> <p>"C?" asked Seven. "Interesting. First, a question though, Mr. Harper. What did you promise the GOC in exchange for the information?"</p> <p>"Nothing," said Harper. "Muir got it from one of his contacts as payment for an old favor."</p> <p>"Hmm," Seven said. "Alright. Be careful with the GOC, Mr. Harper."</p> <p>"Yes, ma'am, of course," Harper replied. "I figured they were better to interact with than Marshall, Carter and Dark, however."</p> <p>"True, the Club is not known for its cooperation," Seven said. "So, what do you know about this 'C'?"</p> <p>"Not much," admitted Harper. "The GOC file on C is essentially empty. Believed to be fairly wealthy, thought to own at least nine anomalous items, MC&D club member, probably American or British, signs with unidentifiable green ink. That's all we know so far. I have Muir and Ms. Daniel looking into the archives to see what might be there."</p> <p>"You can tell them to stop. There is nothing in the archives on this 'C'," Seven stated definitively. "I've read all the files we have on every known MC&D club member. There is no file on any 'C' person."</p> <p>"Alright, I'll let them know," Harper said. "They're also looking at the personnel with access to the O5's schedules and security arrangements, since Director McDonnell's report mentioned the possibility of a threat against the Council."</p> <p>"Very good," Seven said. "Depending on the outcome of this investigation, Mr. Harper, you might be on the short list for being the counterintelligence director yourself. I've not spoken to the other Overseers yet, but I've followed your work for some time now, and I like what I see."</p> <p>Harper could think of nothing to say, so he said nothing.</p> <p>"Mr. Harper, I believe I may have a lead for you," Seven said. "Go to London. Speak to Sir James Mycroft. He is a mathematics professor at Cambridge. He is also something of an information broker about both the mundane and the paranormal - he is known to have supplied information to all of the various big players, including MC&D. I suspect he may know, or know of, this 'C' person."</p> <p>"I will do that," Harper affirmed.</p> <p>"Keep me informed," Seven said, disconnecting the call.</p> <p>Harper quickly called Muir to pass along the information. Then, he left the conference room. "Comrade, I need a seat on the next flight to London, as well as an English copy of the Foundation's file on a person of interest," he said to the secretary in Russian.</p> <p>"Of course, Comrade," said the secretary. "Do you have a reference number or name for the file?"</p> <p>"Yes," Harper said. "Sir James Mycroft."</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-ii">Part II</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-iv">Part IV</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-iii">Conspiracy, Part III</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-iii">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-iii</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]] [[/>]] + Investigations [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 0730 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Lighting a cigarette, Harper sat in his temporary office in the Foundation's regional headquarters for the Soviet Union. Nearly three times the size of his Washington office, complete with a view overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square, Harper decided he could get used to the palatial treatment the Foundation afforded Level 5 personnel. Picking up his secure telephone, he called Muir back in Washington. Since it was almost midnight in the American capital, Harper dialed his colleague's home secure telephone line. After the two units had synced, he heard a slightly groggy voice say, "Muir." "Troy, it's Tim," Harper said. "I hope I didn't wake you." "I was still up reading," Muir reassured Harper. "What's going on?" Harper explained, "I talked to Dr. Pushkin. Looks like the Trinidad artifacts did get bought up by MC&D. From the sounds of it, he witnessed the exchange himself." "Uhuh," Muir grunted. "I've put out feelers to my old contacts at the GOC. I'm expecting to get their file in the morning." "I hope you didn't have to part with any crown jewels," Harper remarked dryly. "Nah, this was in exchange for services already rendered," Muir replied. "Didn't even have to cash in all my chips." "Well, Troy, I'm going to sleep on the couch in the office here. Call me when you have the file," Harper said. He read off the phone and fax numbers. Muir confirmed them, then hung up. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Friday, 23 December 1988, 0710 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Troy Muir had just started the office coffee maker when Monica walked in carrying a manila envelope. "Mr. Muir, the front desk reported this was dropped off for you this morning by an Agent Granger of the Global Occult Coalition," she said, handing it to him. "It cleared the standard security screen: just a file." "Thanks, Monica," Muir said, opening the file. Inside were three sheets of paper. [[tabview]] [[tab]] = //Troy,// = //Merry Christmas.// = //- Harry// [[/tab]] [[tab KTE-1767-Flint]] = [[span style="color:#008000;"]][[size large]]{{TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET}}[[/size]][[/span]] ---- ++ {{KTE-1767-Flint}} {{Threat ID: KTE-1767-Flint "Blood Treasure"}} {{Authorized Response Level: 3 (Moderate Threat)}} {{Description: Spanish world atlas printed in 1521 with accuracy comparable to contemporary maps. Oak chest approximately 60 cm by 38 cm by 45 cm. 500 Spanish gold 2 //escudo// coins, minted in 1521. Atlas displays current coin locations in real time. When activated by the atlas (activation method unknown), coins will release approximately 5 MJ of energy in explosive force before returning undamaged to the chest. Type II explosive entity.}} {{Rules of Engagement: Object represents threat to global political stability, having been used to incite at least one major war. Object is to be destroyed by any means necessary and appropriate if the chance arises.}} {{History: Original origin unknown. Recovered by private collector from shipwreck in the Straits of Florida in 1872. Owned by private collector in Havana, 1873-1895. Acquired by Foundation in 1895. Believed to be used to ignite powder charges on //USS Maine//, 15 February 1898, instigating Spanish-American War. Nationalized by Cuban forces, 1959. Stolen by Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd., 1961. Sold by MC&D to "C" in 1971. Current whereabouts unknown; suspected to be in the possession of "C". Now implicated by Foundation sources in Pan Am Flight 103 bombing.}} ---- = [[span style="color:#008000;"]][[size large]]{{TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET}}[[/size]][[/span]] [[/tab]] [[tab POI-55057-Black]] = [[span style="color:#008000;"]][[size large]]{{TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET}}[[/size]][[/span]] ---- ++ {{POI-55057-Black}} {{Person-of-Interest ID: POI-55057-Black "C"}} [[div style="float:right; margin:0 2em 1em 2em; width:400px; border:0;"]] \|\|\|\| [No Image On File] \|\| \|\|\|\|~ ^^POI-55057-Black.^^ \|\| [[/div]] {{Authorized Response Level: 1 (Minimal Threat)}} {{Description: Member of Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd. identified only by the alias "C" signed in green ink. Little to no other information known. Believed to be in possession of at least nine (9) Known Threat Entities, purchased from MC&D.}} {{Rules of Engagement: Maintain discrete surveillance. Observe and report unusual activities. Gather additional information as possible. Do not engage except during emergencies.}} +++ {{Personal Information}} {{Name: Unknown}} {{Known Aliases: "C"}} {{Profession: Unknown}} {{Allegiances: MC&D Club member}} {{Nationality: Unknown, suspected British or American}} {{Gender: Unknown}} {{Date of Birth: Unknown, suspected prior to 1950.}} {{Height: Unknown}} {{Weight: Unknown}} {{Eye Color: Unknown}} {{Hair Color: Unknown}} {{Biographical Information: Essentially nothing is known about "C" apart from his/her apparent membership in Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd. "C" is known to have purchased approximately nine (9) KTEs from MC&D since 1968. Records stolen from MC&D suggest "C" to have relative wealth and possibly either British or American citizenship. "C" is believed fluent in at least English. All documents signed by "C" include only that letter, written in refined script in green ink of unknown manufacture.}} +++ {{Associated KTEs}} * {{KTE-0235-Hemlock}} * {{KTE-0589-Baskerville}} * {{KTE-0777-Ivory}} * {{KTE-0900-Keyhole-Green}} * {{KTE-1123-Tapdance-Blue}} * {{KTE-1515-Gaia}} * {{KTE-1767-Flint}} * {{KTE-2156-Woodwork}} * {{KTE-2247-Pearl}} ---- = [[span style="color:#008000;"]][[size large]]{{TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET}}[[/size]][[/span]] [[/tab]] [[/tabview]] Muir examined the file's contents carefully. "Monica, please fax these to this number," he instructed, picking up his secure telephone unit and dialing. "Harper," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Tim, it's Troy. Monica's faxing you some documents," Muir said. There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I have them," Harper said. "Interesting. Do we have anything on this 'C' person?" "I'm not familiar with him. Or her," Muir said. "It'll take us a while to go digging through the archives." "Alright," Harper replied. "Any new leads?" Monica raised her eyebrows, and Muir hit the speaker button. "I've put you on speaker, Tim. Monica's here with me." "Mr. Harper, our agents embedded in the British police have finished their initial report," Monica explained. "We had them check the explosive signature against the exploding coins. It was a ninety-three percent match, though the margin of error was about eight percent because of the age of the coins' baseline comparison." "Alright," Harper said. "Nice to confirm what we already know. Continue." Monica nodded, even though Harper couldn't see her. "After you left for Moscow yesterday, I started trying to piece together who had access to the information that was leaked. We have no way of knowing for certain, because all the evidence was destroyed, and Director McDonnell only filed a preliminary paper report. He spoke to O5-5 personally, but -5 was also killed in the bombing. Given the nature of the information found as per the Director's initial report, at least one conspirator had Level 4 clearance or higher, but without specific SCP designations, I can't really rule anyone out. I looked at the Foundation's security clearance database, and there are at least fifteen hundred El Fours (that I had clearance to know about). And I don't have clearance to know exactly how many El Fives there are." "Even I don't know that, Monica," Harper said. "I suppose I have access now that I //am// one; I can look it up. I don't think it's more than a few dozen. The O5 Council, some but not all of the Directors for various sub-agencies, a few roving personnel like myself, not that many." Muir spoke up, "Tim, if we don't know what they had, we can't dig too much into this without it becoming a witch hunt." All three knew that such a witch hunt could do as much or more damage as the apparent conspiracy itself, and none of them wanted to be the Foundation's Angleton. "Let's focus on what we do know," Harper said. "McDonnell's report said something about the Overseers' schedules for the week. Focus on looking into their staff and security. We don't need another dead Overseer. In the meantime, I'll keep following the trail of the one object we do know the conspirators have." He disconnected the call. Muir and Monica set to work. They had to place the lives, habits, contacts, actions, schedules, and finances of over a hundred Foundation personnel under the microscope. Their task was all the much harder since they had no idea what, exactly, they were trying to find. With any luck, they'd know it when they saw it. With any good luck, that is. With bad luck, the conspirators would be able to do whatever they had planned next without interruption. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 1545 hours local time}}// [[/span]] After finishing his call with Muir and Monica, Harper reread the files again. He decided to report what he had so far to O5-7. Leaving his palatial temporary office, he strode down the hall to the Level 5 Office Reception and Security desk. Showing his credentials to the secretary, he said in Russian, "Please arrange for a secure teleconference with O5-7." "Yes, Comrade Investigator," the secretary replied. "She should be free in fifteen minutes. You are welcome to use the conference room; nobody is in there for another two hours." The secretary gestured to an open door. "Thank you, Comrade," Harper smiled. He entered the conference room and shut the door behind him. Just as the hour was chiming on the bells of St. Basil's Cathedral, the phone rang. Harper picked up the handset. "Harper," he said in English. A voice on the other end of the line said, "Please hold for O5-7." A moment later, Seven's voice said, "Mr. Harper, I take it you are making progress out there in Moscow?" "Yes, ma'am," Harper replied. "We've traced the source of the explosion to--" "The exploding coins?" Seven said. "I heard. Those have been nothing but trouble for the Foundation. I said it when I first became an Overseer, I still say it now." "Yes, ma'am. According to information from the Global Occult Coalition, the coins are in the possession of someone they know only as 'C'," Harper explained. "This 'C' person apparently bought them off of Marshall, Carter, & Dark back in seventy-one." "C?" asked Seven. "Interesting. First, a question though, Mr. Harper. What did you promise the GOC in exchange for the information?" "Nothing," said Harper. "Muir got it from one of his contacts as payment for an old favor." "Hmm," Seven said. "Alright. Be careful with the GOC, Mr. Harper." "Yes, ma'am, of course," Harper replied. "I figured they were better to interact with than Marshall, Carter and Dark, however." "True, the Club is not known for its cooperation," Seven said. "So, what do you know about this 'C'?" "Not much," admitted Harper. "The GOC file on C is essentially empty. Believed to be fairly wealthy, thought to own at least nine anomalous items, MC&D club member, probably American or British, signs with unidentifiable green ink. That's all we know so far. I have Muir and Ms. Daniel looking into the archives to see what might be there." "You can tell them to stop. There is nothing in the archives on this 'C'," Seven stated definitively. "I've read all the files we have on every known MC&D club member. There is no file on any 'C' person." "Alright, I'll let them know," Harper said. "They're also looking at the personnel with access to the O5's schedules and security arrangements, since Director McDonnell's report mentioned the possibility of a threat against the Council." "Very good," Seven said. "Depending on the outcome of this investigation, Mr. Harper, you might be on the short list for being the counterintelligence director yourself. I've not spoken to the other Overseers yet, but I've followed your work for some time now, and I like what I see." Harper could think of nothing to say, so he said nothing. "Mr. Harper, I believe I may have a lead for you," Seven said. "Go to London. Speak to Sir James Mycroft. He is a mathematics professor at Cambridge. He is also something of an information broker about both the mundane and the paranormal - he is known to have supplied information to all of the various big players, including MC&D. I suspect he may know, or know of, this 'C' person." "I will do that," Harper affirmed. "Keep me informed," Seven said, disconnecting the call. Harper quickly called Muir to pass along the information. Then, he left the conference room. "Comrade, I need a seat on the next flight to London, as well as an English copy of the Foundation's file on a person of interest," he said to the secretary in Russian. "Of course, Comrade," said the secretary. "Do you have a reference number or name for the file?" "Yes," Harper said. "Sir James Mycroft." ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part II\| Part II]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part IV\| Part IV]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "global-occult-coalition", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part III - SCP Foundation	48	[ "conspiracy-part-ii", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-iv", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030283	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-iii
conspiracy-part-iv	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>The Information Broker</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>British Airways Moscow-London Flight, Somewhere over the North Sea<br/> Friday, 23 December 1988, 1900 hours GMT</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Enjoying a cigarette and nursing a thirty-year-old scotch, Harper perused the Foundation file on Professor Sir James Mycroft from the relative privacy of his first class seat. A curious fellow, this Sir James. As Harper read the file, it occurred to him that it was a little strange that he had never heard of the fellow before; after all, Harper was high in the Foundation's counterintelligence hierarchy, and the Special Contact Protocols related to the professor required any and all contact to be routed through Foundation CI. Harper exhaled. <em>Perhaps not,</em> he thought. <em>After all, the Foundation is a large organization with a great many contacts. I doubt even any one Overseer knows of all the various groups- or persons-of-interest.</em></p> <script src="https://d3g0gp89917ko0.cloudfront.net/v--4b961b7cc327/common--javascript/yahooui/tabview-min.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <div class="yui-navset" id="wiki-tabview-ceab37fcdbedcb97fb3e89ff56a8d636"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>James C. Mycroft, GBE, PhD, IMA, IoP, RAS</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <h1><span>Person-of-Interest File</span></h1> <p><strong>Name:</strong> James Carl Mycroft</p> <p><strong>Special Contact Protocols:</strong> All Foundation personnel are to observe caution and report any interaction with individual to Foundation counterintelligence. Individual is known to solicit classified material; unauthorized disclosure of information is grounds for disciplinary action under Foundation General Security Protocol 03, Sections 366.</p> <hr/> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="jamesmmycroft.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/conspiracy-part-iv/jamesmmycroft.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>Professor Sir James C. M. Mycroft (file photo)</p> </div> </div> <p><strong>Gender:</strong> Male<br/> <strong>Date of Birth:</strong> 12 March 1945 (age 44)<br/> <strong>Nationality:</strong> British; Maintains citizenship in both United Kingdom and Switzerland<br/> <strong>Hair:</strong> White (wears full beard, also white)<br/> <strong>Eyes:</strong> Blue<br/> <strong>Height:</strong> 188 cm<br/> <strong>Weight:</strong> Estimated ~80 kg (designated light heavyweight boxer during university days)</p> <p><strong>Decorations/Honors:</strong> Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (GBE)<br/> <strong>Profession:</strong> Professor of Mathematics, Cambridge University, UK<br/> <strong>Academic History:</strong></p> <ul> <li>Bachelor of Science (Mathematics), Cambridge University (c/o 1966)</li> <li>Doctor of Philosophy (Mathematics), Cambridge University (c/o 1970)</li> <li>Doctor of Philosophy (Astronomy), Cambridge University (c/o 1974)</li> </ul> <p><strong>Academic Society Membership:</strong> Institute of Mathematics and its Applications, Institute of Physics, Royal Astronomical Society</p> <p><strong>Language Proficiency:</strong> English (Native), German (Native), French (Fluent), Russian (Fluent), Italian (Conversational), Spanish (Conversational), Classical Latin (Rudimentary)</p> <p><strong>Recruitment Prospects:</strong> Recruitment attempted and failed, 1971. (See addendum)<br/> <strong>Affiliations with Groups-of-Interest:</strong> Serves as freelance information broker, having provided information to the Foundation, the Global Occult Coalition, and Prometheus Labs, Inc.; Believed to be a club member of Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd.; Displays little loyalty to any single group and is willing to provide information to all sides if payment is sufficient.<br/> <strong>Threat Level:</strong> Moderate; Foundation personnel are to observe caution and report any interaction with individual to Foundation counterintelligence.</p> <p><strong>Profile:</strong> Professor Sir James Mycroft is a Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge University. He has published extensively on advanced mathematics and celestial mechanics. He is also a freelance information broker for organizations studying the paranormal and preternatural. He displays little loyalty to any single such organization, preferring a self-described "neutral" stance. He has consulted with the Foundation on several occasions, both providing information about other organizations and objects not in the Foundation's custody, and performing analysis on mathematical or astronomical SCP objects. Though the source[s] of Mycroft's information within the Foundation and other organizations is/are unknown, it is speculated that said source[s] is/are high-level and pervasive. Foundation personnel are advised to observe caution when interacting with Mycroft; all such interactions are to be reported to Foundation counterintelligence.</p> <p>Mycroft is wealthy, owning large shares in a variety of major corporations including (but not limited to):</p> <ul> <li>Baasch Engineering Corporation</li> <li>Global Transport, Ltd.</li> <li>Howell Information Technologies</li> <li>Huntington Arms, Inc.</li> <li>Prometheus Labs, Inc. <span style="color:#880000;">[Group-of-interest to the Foundation]</span></li> <li>Saito Mining Industries</li> <li>Wallace Security Enterprises</li> </ul> <p>Though controlling shares sufficient to affect policy at these corporations, Mycroft appears to display little interest in affecting their operations or management. Mycroft also is known to generously support a variety of charities, including the International Red Cross, Global Clinic Charity, Engineers Without Borders, and the Make-A-Wish Foundation.</p> <p><strong>Known Associates:</strong> Mycroft is well-connected socially and politically, and has been confirmed to have dealings with the following individuals:</p> <ul> <li><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">[NAME REDACTED], O5-5: Roommates during university.</span> (Deceased, 21 December 1988)</li> <li>[NAME REDACTED], O5-7: Met during university.</li> <li>Johann Schneider, Deputy Director of the Global Occult Coalition European Division: Childhood friend.</li> <li>Randolph Carter III, Partner, Marshall, Carter, & Dark: Mentor. <span style="color:#880000;">[Person-of-interest to the Foundation]</span></li> <li>Sir John Major, British Chief Secretary to the Treasury: Chess partner.</li> <li>Sir Christopher Keith Curwen, British Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service: Personal friend.</li> </ul> <p><strong>Known Related SCP Objects:</strong></p> <ul> <li>SCP-033 - Written classified treatise dissenting the documented existence and effects (disseminated to GOC and Foundation).</li> <li>SCP-1050 - Provided mathematical analysis to Foundation.</li> </ul> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabViewceab37fcdbedcb97fb3e89ff56a8d636 = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-ceab37fcdbedcb97fb3e89ff56a8d636'); }, "dummy-ondomready-block"); //]]> </script><br/> "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking," dinged the intercom. "We are currently beginning our descent into Heathrow. We should be landing in about thirty minutes. I'll be switching off the smoking sign and switching on the seat-belt sign shortly. It is currently clear in London and a brisk four degrees centigrade." Harper extinguished his cigarette, finished his scotch, and tucked the file on Sir James back into his attache case. <hr/> <h1 id="toc1"><span>Interlude</span></h1> <p><em>Harper is on his way to London now. The meeting will likely take place tomorrow morning.</em></p> <p><em>Does he know anything damaging?</em></p> <p><em>No. The Foundation's files have been sterilized. Have the Coalition's?</em></p> <p><em>Yes. The Coalition's investigation is almost as far behind as that of the Scottish police.</em></p> <p><em>And Harper's conversation with Sir James will suit our purposes?</em></p> <p><em>Of course.</em></p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Petersfield, Cambridge, UK<br/> Saturday, 24 December 1988, 0900 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The residence of Professor Sir James Mycroft turned out to be an elegant townhouse in one of Cambridge's upscale residential districts. Harper walked up the front steps and rapped the ornate door knocker three times. The door opened, revealing a short, portly British butler. "Yes, sir?"</p> <p>"I'm Timothy Harper," the American introduced himself. "Is Sir James in?"</p> <p>"He has been expecting you," the butler said. Harper blinked in surprise - he hadn't made an appointment. Then again, Sir James <em>was</em> an information broker. "If you will follow me, sir." The butler ushered Harper inside, leading him through an ornate front hall and into a library.</p> <p>Sir James' library was lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound tomes covering every subject known to man (and, for that matter, probably a number of subjects <em>not</em> known to man). Dark oak paneling was visible in the few sections of wall not concealed by bookcases. The center of the room was occupied by an ancient oak desk decorated with carvings of griffins. Three small statues of grotesques sat on one side of the blotter; a small silver hand bell sat atop a stack of graded blue book exams. To one side of the room stood a free-standing chalk board covered in mathematical gobbledegook Harper couldn't begin to understand. A towering fireplace crackled happily in the corner, with a painting of a waterfall hung above the mantle. The painting was oddly familiar, though Harper knew he had not seen it before. In a tall-backed chair next to the fireplace, a tall man with wild silver hair and a thick beard sat reading from a small green book. Harper and the man were roughly the same age, according to the file, but the bearded man seemed at once ancient and youthful in a strange, timeless fashion. Sir James looked up, first at the butler, then at Harper. The professor's harsh steel-blue eyes seemed to cut right through him; this was clearly a man who was not to be trifled with. In an instant, the harsh flash of Sir James' eyes was replaced by a friendly twinkle - if he had been wearing a red suit instead of a tweed jacket, Harper might have mistaken him for Saint Nicholas. "Welcome, welcome!" exclaimed Sir James, tucking the green book into an interior pocket of his jacket. He gestured to another chair by the fire, separated from his own by a coffee table with a marble chess set. "Come, sit. May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?"</p> <p>"Coffee, black, thank you," stated Harper, taking the offered chair.</p> <p>Sir James looked pointedly at the butler, "Make that two, Deeds. A dash of peppermint in mine, if you would be so kind."</p> <p>"Yes, sir," the butler replied, disappearing from the room.</p> <p>Sir James directed his attention to Harper, "My dear fellow, what brings you to my humble residence on this fine Christmas Eve morning?"</p> <p>Harper began, "Professor Mycroft, I am Mr. Timothy—"</p> <p>"Timothy Harper, counterintelligence officer for the Foundation, recently promoted to Level 5 for the duration of your current investigation," the Englishman interrupted. "Do you prefer 'Mr. Harper,' 'Timothy,' or 'Tim?'"</p> <p>"Tim is fine," Harper began.</p> <p>"Very well, Tim," continued the Englishman, smiling politely. "I myself prefer either simply 'Professor,' though you are not one of my pupils, or 'Sir James.' I never could get used to being called 'Professor Mycroft' - in my mind that was always my father."</p> <p>"My apologies, Sir James," Harper said. "I am investigating the Pan Am Flight 103 bombing. Several Foundation personnel were killed in the explosion, and we have reason to believe a paranormal artifact was used in the explosion specifically to kill them and destroy the documents in their possession."</p> <p>"A terrible tragedy," Sir James agreed. "Alan Hamilton - you knew him as O5-5 - was among the dead. He was a good friend. How can I be of assistance to the Foundation?"</p> <p>Harper explained what he knew so far, pausing only when the butler returned with their coffee.</p> <p>"And so Cornelia believed I might be able to lead you to C," Sir James said thoughtfully, sipping his coffee.</p> <p>Harper frowned, "I'm sorry, Cornelia?"</p> <p>Sir James blinked, and smiled, "Right, I forgot for a moment you didn't know her real name. Overseer Seven. Another old friend of mine - we met in university, one giving a lecture the other attended." Harper nodded, and the Englishman continued, "Anyway, I do not know the precise location of the chest of explosive coins or its associated atlas. I must say, however, it seems a clever means to accomplish the destruction of an aircraft. After all, no airport security officer in the world will look twice at someone having a coin in either their luggage or on their person. Regardless, I will attempt to determine its whereabouts."</p> <p>"Thank you," Harper said. He waited, sensing Sir James had more to say.</p> <p>"You're wondering what else I know," the mischievous professor observed, "because you suspect there is more to this than just the bombing. A reasonable belief, given the recent raid the Foundation did on a warehouse not too far from here, and a belief which I share. My sources suggest that this C person has been poking around into a number of very dangerous paranormal objects."</p> <p>"Most paranormal objects are dangerous," Harper observed.</p> <p>Sir James nodded, "That is true, but these particular objects are ones with the capacity to do relatively targeted damage. In short, the sort of object or entity which could be used as a weapon against one's enemies. I assume you're familiar with your Foundation's Omega Seven fiasco?"</p> <p>Harper nodded, "Vaguely. Not my department, but something about attempting to put an immortal humanoid SCP with impressive fighting skills on a Mobile Task Force. It ended badly."</p> <p>"To state that the fiasco ended badly would be similar to calling one of the world wars a 'petty dispute'," Sir James said dryly. "Near total casualties among the involved personnel. The detonation of an onsite nuclear failsafe. The end of the careers of General Bowe and several Foundation Overseers."</p> <p>"So you're saying C wants to weaponize SCPs?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"If C is who I think C is, that is doubtful," replied the professor. "It is my suspicion that C is merely one of a number of conspirators - possibly simply a pawn in the eyes of the other conspirators. That said, this conspiracy has demonstrated the willingness to use dangerous SCPs against others, as demonstrated by the Pan Am bombing, and is not adverse to casualties. Such a mindset is, simply put, dangerous."</p> <p>Harper agreed, "Definitely. Do you think the conspirators are likely to try and use Able?"</p> <p>"I doubt it," Sir James said. "He's too mentally unstable to be controlled, as Bowe found out to his detriment. I would recommend you take a look at SCP-557-1 and SCP-1440. My contacts suggest C sought out information about them recently."</p> <p>"Thank you," Harper said, making a note. "May I ask a few questions, Sir James?"</p> <p>"You may ask, but I do not promise to answer them all," the professor replied. "After all, knowledge is power and information is currency. I do promise that everything I tell you will be true."</p> <p>Harper nodded, "Alright, that seems reasonable. Do you know C?"</p> <p>"I do, but I shall not reveal C's identity," Sir James replied. "To do so would be to betray a trust."</p> <p>The response was annoying, but understandable. "Fair enough. Are there any immediate threats I should know about?" asked Harper.</p> <p>Sir James stated, "I cannot say for certain, but based on what you've told me, I would recommend increasing the security details for the O5 Council. Especially since Alan was killed - a decapitation strike cannot be ruled out."</p> <p>Harper made a note. "Do you know more about this conspiracy?" asked the Foundation investigator.</p> <p>"Yes," said Sir James.</p> <p>Harper did a double take. "Will you tell me?"</p> <p>"Well, do not misunderstand me, there is a limit to my knowledge. I do not know everything about it, and I am sure there are measures in place of which I am unaware," the professor said. "Even if I told you everything I know, it is conceivable it would be insufficient to prevent the conspirators from succeeding. Given the response the conspirators had to their warehouse's being raided, my telling you could forfeit both our lives."</p> <p>"You didn't answer my question," the American observed.</p> <p>"Very astute," replied his host. "I am willing to tell you more on one condition, and I am sure it is one you will need to run past Cornelia. I require seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 for my research. While I could obtain it through other channels, having it supplied directly by the Foundation would simplify matters considerably."</p> <p>"I'm not familiar with double-oh-six," Harper said, frowning.</p> <p>"Ask Cornelia; the file is classified for Overseers only," stated Sir James. "If you want the information, get me the liquid. That is my price."</p> <p>"I'll pass that along," Harper said, wondering what exactly the professor wanted that he himself couldn't know about. "One last question, which has little bearing on this investigation beyond my own curiosity."</p> <p>"Ask away."</p> <p>"The painting over your mantle," began Harper, "has been bothering me since I came in. I recognize the waterfall, but I can't place it."</p> <p>Sir James smiled. "That's Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, made famous by the stories of Sherlock Holmes. I was born not far from there, as a matter of fact, which is why I have dual citizenship. My maternal grandfather, also a mathematician I might add, actually met the good doctor when he visited Reichenbach prior to writing <em>The Final Problem</em>. I have an autographed first edition of that book upstairs."</p> <p>"Thank you for satisfying my curiosity, Sir James," Harper said, shaking hands with Sir James. The professor's grip was strong and firm, clearly a relic of his days as a boxer.</p> <p>"Not at all, my dear Tim," Sir James said. He picked up the hand bell from the desk and shook it deftly. There was a peculiar ring, not seeming to come from the bell itself, but before Harper could reflect on this, the door opened. "Deeds, please see Mr. Harper out."</p> <p>"Yes, sir." As the butler led Harper out, he was already thinking through his phone call to Seven.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-iii">Part III</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-v">Part V</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-iv">Conspiracy, Part IV</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-iv">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-iv</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> jamesmmycroft.jpg<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> Simon Newcomb 01.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> Harris & Ewing<br/> <strong>License:</strong> Public Domain<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Simon_Newcomb_01.jpg">Wikimedia Commons</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] + The Information Broker [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{British Airways Moscow-London Flight, Somewhere over the North Sea Friday, 23 December 1988, 1900 hours GMT}}// [[/span]] Enjoying a cigarette and nursing a thirty-year-old scotch, Harper perused the Foundation file on Professor Sir James Mycroft from the relative privacy of his first class seat. A curious fellow, this Sir James. As Harper read the file, it occurred to him that it was a little strange that he had never heard of the fellow before; after all, Harper was high in the Foundation's counterintelligence hierarchy, and the Special Contact Protocols related to the professor required any and all contact to be routed through Foundation CI. Harper exhaled. //Perhaps not,// he thought. //After all, the Foundation is a large organization with a great many contacts. I doubt even any one Overseer knows of all the various groups- or persons-of-interest.// [[tabview]] [[tab James C. Mycroft, GBE, PhD, IMA, IoP, RAS]] +* Person-of-Interest File Name: James Carl Mycroft Special Contact Protocols: All Foundation personnel are to observe caution and report any interaction with individual to Foundation counterintelligence. Individual is known to solicit classified material; unauthorized disclosure of information is grounds for disciplinary action under Foundation General Security Protocol 03, Sections 366. ---- [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=jamesmmycroft.jpg\|caption=Professor Sir James C. M. Mycroft (file photo)]] Gender: Male Date of Birth: 12 March 1945 (age 44) Nationality: British; Maintains citizenship in both United Kingdom and Switzerland Hair: White (wears full beard, also white) Eyes: Blue Height: 188 cm Weight: Estimated ~80 kg (designated light heavyweight boxer during university days) Decorations/Honors: Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (GBE) Profession: Professor of Mathematics, Cambridge University, UK Academic History: * Bachelor of Science (Mathematics), Cambridge University (c/o 1966) * Doctor of Philosophy (Mathematics), Cambridge University (c/o 1970) * Doctor of Philosophy (Astronomy), Cambridge University (c/o 1974) Academic Society Membership: Institute of Mathematics and its Applications, Institute of Physics, Royal Astronomical Society Language Proficiency: English (Native), German (Native), French (Fluent), Russian (Fluent), Italian (Conversational), Spanish (Conversational), Classical Latin (Rudimentary) Recruitment Prospects: Recruitment attempted and failed, 1971. (See addendum) Affiliations with Groups-of-Interest: Serves as freelance information broker, having provided information to the Foundation, the Global Occult Coalition, and Prometheus Labs, Inc.; Believed to be a club member of Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd.; Displays little loyalty to any single group and is willing to provide information to all sides if payment is sufficient. Threat Level: Moderate; Foundation personnel are to observe caution and report any interaction with individual to Foundation counterintelligence. Profile: Professor Sir James Mycroft is a Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge University. He has published extensively on advanced mathematics and celestial mechanics. He is also a freelance information broker for organizations studying the paranormal and preternatural. He displays little loyalty to any single such organization, preferring a self-described "neutral" stance. He has consulted with the Foundation on several occasions, both providing information about other organizations and objects not in the Foundation's custody, and performing analysis on mathematical or astronomical SCP objects. Though the source[s] of Mycroft's information within the Foundation and other organizations is/are unknown, it is speculated that said source[s] is/are high-level and pervasive. Foundation personnel are advised to observe caution when interacting with Mycroft; all such interactions are to be reported to Foundation counterintelligence. Mycroft is wealthy, owning large shares in a variety of major corporations including (but not limited to): * Baasch Engineering Corporation * Global Transport, Ltd. * Howell Information Technologies * Huntington Arms, Inc. * Prometheus Labs, Inc. [[span style="color:#880000;"]][Group-of-interest to the Foundation][[/span]] Saito Mining Industries * Wallace Security Enterprises Though controlling shares sufficient to affect policy at these corporations, Mycroft appears to display little interest in affecting their operations or management. Mycroft also is known to generously support a variety of charities, including the International Red Cross, Global Clinic Charity, Engineers Without Borders, and the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Known Associates: Mycroft is well-connected socially and politically, and has been confirmed to have dealings with the following individuals: * --[NAME REDACTED], O5-5: Roommates during university.-- (Deceased, 21 December 1988) * [NAME REDACTED], O5-7: Met during university. * Johann Schneider, Deputy Director of the Global Occult Coalition European Division: Childhood friend. * Randolph Carter III, Partner, Marshall, Carter, & Dark: Mentor. [[span style="color:#880000;"]][Person-of-interest to the Foundation][[/span]] Sir John Major, British Chief Secretary to the Treasury: Chess partner. * Sir Christopher Keith Curwen, British Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service: Personal friend. Known Related SCP Objects: * SCP-033 - Written classified treatise dissenting the documented existence and effects (disseminated to GOC and Foundation). * SCP-1050 - Provided mathematical analysis to Foundation. [[/tab]] [[/tabview]] "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking," dinged the intercom. "We are currently beginning our descent into Heathrow. We should be landing in about thirty minutes. I'll be switching off the smoking sign and switching on the seat-belt sign shortly. It is currently clear in London and a brisk four degrees centigrade." Harper extinguished his cigarette, finished his scotch, and tucked the file on Sir James back into his attache case. ---- + Interlude //Harper is on his way to London now. The meeting will likely take place tomorrow morning.// //Does he know anything damaging?// //No. The Foundation's files have been sterilized. Have the Coalition's?// //Yes. The Coalition's investigation is almost as far behind as that of the Scottish police.// //And Harper's conversation with Sir James will suit our purposes?// //Of course.// ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Petersfield, Cambridge, UK Saturday, 24 December 1988, 0900 hours local time}}// [[/span]] The residence of Professor Sir James Mycroft turned out to be an elegant townhouse in one of Cambridge's upscale residential districts. Harper walked up the front steps and rapped the ornate door knocker three times. The door opened, revealing a short, portly British butler. "Yes, sir?" "I'm Timothy Harper," the American introduced himself. "Is Sir James in?" "He has been expecting you," the butler said. Harper blinked in surprise - he hadn't made an appointment. Then again, Sir James //was// an information broker. "If you will follow me, sir." The butler ushered Harper inside, leading him through an ornate front hall and into a library. Sir James' library was lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound tomes covering every subject known to man (and, for that matter, probably a number of subjects //not// known to man). Dark oak paneling was visible in the few sections of wall not concealed by bookcases. The center of the room was occupied by an ancient oak desk decorated with carvings of griffins. Three small statues of grotesques sat on one side of the blotter; a small silver hand bell sat atop a stack of graded blue book exams. To one side of the room stood a free-standing chalk board covered in mathematical gobbledegook Harper couldn't begin to understand. A towering fireplace crackled happily in the corner, with a painting of a waterfall hung above the mantle. The painting was oddly familiar, though Harper knew he had not seen it before. In a tall-backed chair next to the fireplace, a tall man with wild silver hair and a thick beard sat reading from a small green book. Harper and the man were roughly the same age, according to the file, but the bearded man seemed at once ancient and youthful in a strange, timeless fashion. Sir James looked up, first at the butler, then at Harper. The professor's harsh steel-blue eyes seemed to cut right through him; this was clearly a man who was not to be trifled with. In an instant, the harsh flash of Sir James' eyes was replaced by a friendly twinkle - if he had been wearing a red suit instead of a tweed jacket, Harper might have mistaken him for Saint Nicholas. "Welcome, welcome!" exclaimed Sir James, tucking the green book into an interior pocket of his jacket. He gestured to another chair by the fire, separated from his own by a coffee table with a marble chess set. "Come, sit. May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?" "Coffee, black, thank you," stated Harper, taking the offered chair. Sir James looked pointedly at the butler, "Make that two, Deeds. A dash of peppermint in mine, if you would be so kind." "Yes, sir," the butler replied, disappearing from the room. Sir James directed his attention to Harper, "My dear fellow, what brings you to my humble residence on this fine Christmas Eve morning?" Harper began, "Professor Mycroft, I am Mr. Timothy--" "Timothy Harper, counterintelligence officer for the Foundation, recently promoted to Level 5 for the duration of your current investigation," the Englishman interrupted. "Do you prefer 'Mr. Harper,' 'Timothy,' or 'Tim?'" "Tim is fine," Harper began. "Very well, Tim," continued the Englishman, smiling politely. "I myself prefer either simply 'Professor,' though you are not one of my pupils, or 'Sir James.' I never could get used to being called 'Professor Mycroft' - in my mind that was always my father." "My apologies, Sir James," Harper said. "I am investigating the Pan Am Flight 103 bombing. Several Foundation personnel were killed in the explosion, and we have reason to believe a paranormal artifact was used in the explosion specifically to kill them and destroy the documents in their possession." "A terrible tragedy," Sir James agreed. "Alan Hamilton - you knew him as O5-5 - was among the dead. He was a good friend. How can I be of assistance to the Foundation?" Harper explained what he knew so far, pausing only when the butler returned with their coffee. "And so Cornelia believed I might be able to lead you to C," Sir James said thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. Harper frowned, "I'm sorry, Cornelia?" Sir James blinked, and smiled, "Right, I forgot for a moment you didn't know her real name. Overseer Seven. Another old friend of mine - we met in university, one giving a lecture the other attended." Harper nodded, and the Englishman continued, "Anyway, I do not know the precise location of the chest of explosive coins or its associated atlas. I must say, however, it seems a clever means to accomplish the destruction of an aircraft. After all, no airport security officer in the world will look twice at someone having a coin in either their luggage or on their person. Regardless, I will attempt to determine its whereabouts." "Thank you," Harper said. He waited, sensing Sir James had more to say. "You're wondering what else I know," the mischievous professor observed, "because you suspect there is more to this than just the bombing. A reasonable belief, given the recent raid the Foundation did on a warehouse not too far from here, and a belief which I share. My sources suggest that this C person has been poking around into a number of very dangerous paranormal objects." "Most paranormal objects are dangerous," Harper observed. Sir James nodded, "That is true, but these particular objects are ones with the capacity to do relatively targeted damage. In short, the sort of object or entity which could be used as a weapon against one's enemies. I assume you're familiar with your Foundation's Omega Seven fiasco?" Harper nodded, "Vaguely. Not my department, but something about attempting to put an immortal humanoid SCP with impressive fighting skills on a Mobile Task Force. It ended badly." "To state that the fiasco ended badly would be similar to calling one of the world wars a 'petty dispute'," Sir James said dryly. "Near total casualties among the involved personnel. The detonation of an onsite nuclear failsafe. The end of the careers of General Bowe and several Foundation Overseers." "So you're saying C wants to weaponize SCPs?" Harper asked. "If C is who I think C is, that is doubtful," replied the professor. "It is my suspicion that C is merely one of a number of conspirators - possibly simply a pawn in the eyes of the other conspirators. That said, this conspiracy has demonstrated the willingness to use dangerous SCPs against others, as demonstrated by the Pan Am bombing, and is not adverse to casualties. Such a mindset is, simply put, dangerous." Harper agreed, "Definitely. Do you think the conspirators are likely to try and use Able?" "I doubt it," Sir James said. "He's too mentally unstable to be controlled, as Bowe found out to his detriment. I would recommend you take a look at SCP-557-1 and SCP-1440. My contacts suggest C sought out information about them recently." "Thank you," Harper said, making a note. "May I ask a few questions, Sir James?" "You may ask, but I do not promise to answer them all," the professor replied. "After all, knowledge is power and information is currency. I do promise that everything I tell you will be true." Harper nodded, "Alright, that seems reasonable. Do you know C?" "I do, but I shall not reveal C's identity," Sir James replied. "To do so would be to betray a trust." The response was annoying, but understandable. "Fair enough. Are there any immediate threats I should know about?" asked Harper. Sir James stated, "I cannot say for certain, but based on what you've told me, I would recommend increasing the security details for the O5 Council. Especially since Alan was killed - a decapitation strike cannot be ruled out." Harper made a note. "Do you know more about this conspiracy?" asked the Foundation investigator. "Yes," said Sir James. Harper did a double take. "Will you tell me?" "Well, do not misunderstand me, there is a limit to my knowledge. I do not know everything about it, and I am sure there are measures in place of which I am unaware," the professor said. "Even if I told you everything I know, it is conceivable it would be insufficient to prevent the conspirators from succeeding. Given the response the conspirators had to their warehouse's being raided, my telling you could forfeit both our lives." "You didn't answer my question," the American observed. "Very astute," replied his host. "I am willing to tell you more on one condition, and I am sure it is one you will need to run past Cornelia. I require seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 for my research. While I could obtain it through other channels, having it supplied directly by the Foundation would simplify matters considerably." "I'm not familiar with double-oh-six," Harper said, frowning. "Ask Cornelia; the file is classified for Overseers only," stated Sir James. "If you want the information, get me the liquid. That is my price." "I'll pass that along," Harper said, wondering what exactly the professor wanted that he himself couldn't know about. "One last question, which has little bearing on this investigation beyond my own curiosity." "Ask away." "The painting over your mantle," began Harper, "has been bothering me since I came in. I recognize the waterfall, but I can't place it." Sir James smiled. "That's Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, made famous by the stories of Sherlock Holmes. I was born not far from there, as a matter of fact, which is why I have dual citizenship. My maternal grandfather, also a mathematician I might add, actually met the good doctor when he visited Reichenbach prior to writing //The Final Problem//. I have an autographed first edition of that book upstairs." "Thank you for satisfying my curiosity, Sir James," Harper said, shaking hands with Sir James. The professor's grip was strong and firm, clearly a relic of his days as a boxer. "Not at all, my dear Tim," Sir James said. He picked up the hand bell from the desk and shook it deftly. There was a peculiar ring, not seeming to come from the bell itself, but before Harper could reflect on this, the door opened. "Deeds, please see Mr. Harper out." "Yes, sir." As the butler led Harper out, he was already thinking through his phone call to Seven. ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part III\| Part III]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part V\| Part V]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: jamesmmycroft.jpg > Name: Simon Newcomb 01.jpg > Author: Harris & Ewing > License: Public Domain > Source Link: [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Simon_Newcomb_01.jpg Wikimedia Commons] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-08-13T18:14:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part IV - SCP Foundation	46	[ "conspiracy-part-iii", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-v", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/conspiracy-part-iv/jamesmmycroft.jpg" ]	14030285	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-iv
conspiracy-part-ix	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Assassination</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Global Occult Coalition North American Regional Headquarters, Washington, D.C.<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1030 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Like much of official Washington, the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building was only staffed by a relatively small caretaker shift on this cold Christmas morning. Of course, there is always some crisis brewing somewhere, and today was no different. The staff that was on duty had realized something important was going on when Regional Director Strauss <em>and</em> Regional Deputy Director Bain had arrived bright and early on their day off. This realization was reinforced when three more individuals arrived at the nondescript Foggy Bottom office building.</p> <p>Many people in both organizations realized that the Global Occult Coalition and the Foundation had a complicated relationship. Both had some level of semi-official recognition of their jurisdiction over paranormal affairs, especially in Europe and North America. Both were usually adversarial to the other players on the field, and this shared stance sometimes led to cooperation, though it just as often led to disagreements borne out of the two organization's different philosophies. What most people did not realize, for it was a secret known only to fewer than a hundred individuals in either organization, was that there were official liaison officers who oversaw all officially sanctioned joint efforts. Much like ambassadors between hostile countries, these liaison officers served as a useful pipeline for dialogue, and were accordingly afforded what essentially amounted to diplomatic immunity. In no way were these two liaison officers the <em>only</em> individuals in either organization to interact - there were of course plenty of grey and black dealings handled informally by field personnel - but the liaisons offered the administration of both groups the ability to formally discuss matters of mutual concern.</p> <p>As such, the guards manning the security checkpoint in the lobby of the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building were unsurprised to see the relatively familiar sight of Foundation Liaison Officer Rhodes. They were surprised by the two people with Rhodes: a petite Japanese woman, whom they recognized as the Foundation's third Overseer, and her powerfully-built bodyguard. O5-3 was the young heiress to a powerful Japanese mining conglomerate who had opted to work for the Foundation rather than the family business. A financial and administrative genius, Three had more than doubled the revenue of the several front companies she had managed for the Foundation prior to her promotion to Overseer.</p> <p>The Foundation personnel were escorted to a top-floor conference room, where GOC Directors Strauss and Bain were already waiting, along with their own bodyguards. Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged and all sat to begin their business.</p> <p>GOC Special Agent Benjamin Arnold had served as the personal bodyguard to GOC Regional Deputy Director Bain for eight years. Recruited from the American Diplomatic Security Service, he possessed the highest security clearance granted by both the American government and the GOC, and passed a polygraph every two months. He had never once been late for work, and had only ever taken a day off to attend the funeral of his twin brother a decade before. He kept to himself during off hours, but was regarded as cordial and efficient by his principal, his superiors, and his coworkers, most of whom owed him money from the office's informal sports pool. Accordingly, Director Strauss' bodyguard saw no reason to watch Arnold, rather than the only person he believed presented a physical threat to his principal, the Foundation bodyguard escorting O5-3.</p> <p>For his part, Foundation Special Agent Sanchez, O5-3's bodyguard, was doing his best to keep his cool. He hated having to escort Three into the belly of the beast. With his hands held in front of him, he thought to himself that at least the GOC was probably the least likely of the various groups-of-interest to take a potshot at a visiting Overseer, especially in their own headquarters.</p> <p>As Three began to explain about the recently uncovered plot within the Foundation, now responsible for the deaths of two of her fellow Overseers, and the implications of a security breach not only within the Foundation but also in the GOC, no one noticed what Arnold was doing. Slowly, subtly, he unbuttoned his jacket. Ever so carefully, he reached into his suit coat, and—</p> <p>—In a flash, Arnold whipped out his pistol. From a distance of less than two meters, he fired a round into the ear of Strauss' bodyguard, who collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Sanchez blinked in shock and was reaching for his own weapon when Arnold placed a round neatly between the eyes of the Foundation Special Agent. Another bullet entered the back of Director Strauss' head from point-blank range, killing him instantly.</p> <p>Three's jaw dropped. She was about to utter a cry of confusion when she felt the Foundation Liaison to the GOC shove her to the floor in an attempt to get her out of the line of fire. A sharp pain erupted in her chest, followed swiftly by another in her arm. As her vision faded to black, she heard several more gunshots. And then she was gone.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Cologne/Bonn Airport, Germany<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1845 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> During his layover, Harper was having supper at an upscale bar in the First Class Lounge when a man in plainclothes approached him. "Mr. Timothy Harper?" the man asked.</p> <p>Instantly on alert, Harper's hand tightened ever so slightly on his steak knife. "Yes," he answered casually.</p> <p>"I have a message for you," the man said, handing over a sealed envelope. "High priority from Washington."</p> <p>Harper thanked the man, who left. Opening the message, he saw it was from Seven:</p> <blockquote> <p><tt><strong>TO:</strong> Harper</tt><br/> <tt><strong>FROM:</strong> O5-7</tt><br/> <tt><strong>MESSAGE FOLLOWS:</strong></tt><br/> <tt>O5-3 shot by GOC agent at meeting with GOC Regional Director Strauss. Strauss also dead. Deputy RD Bain assumed role as Acting RD. Suspect possible conspirator involvement. Tensions with GOC high. Assume all GOC personnel hostile until further notice.</tt><br/> <br/> <tt>Return immediately to Command-02 for consultations.</tt><br/> <tt>SCP-006 liquid transfer approved.</tt><br/> <tt><strong>END MESSAGE</strong></tt></p> </blockquote> <p>Harper swore under his breath. Lighting a cigarette, he started to contemplate how this new turn of events fit into what he already knew.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-viii">Part VIII</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-x">Part X</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-ix">Conspiracy, Part IX</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-ix">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-ix</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]] [[/>]] + Assassination [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Global Occult Coalition North American Regional Headquarters, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1030 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Like much of official Washington, the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building was only staffed by a relatively small caretaker shift on this cold Christmas morning. Of course, there is always some crisis brewing somewhere, and today was no different. The staff that was on duty had realized something important was going on when Regional Director Strauss //and// Regional Deputy Director Bain had arrived bright and early on their day off. This realization was reinforced when three more individuals arrived at the nondescript Foggy Bottom office building. Many people in both organizations realized that the Global Occult Coalition and the Foundation had a complicated relationship. Both had some level of semi-official recognition of their jurisdiction over paranormal affairs, especially in Europe and North America. Both were usually adversarial to the other players on the field, and this shared stance sometimes led to cooperation, though it just as often led to disagreements borne out of the two organization's different philosophies. What most people did not realize, for it was a secret known only to fewer than a hundred individuals in either organization, was that there were official liaison officers who oversaw all officially sanctioned joint efforts. Much like ambassadors between hostile countries, these liaison officers served as a useful pipeline for dialogue, and were accordingly afforded what essentially amounted to diplomatic immunity. In no way were these two liaison officers the //only// individuals in either organization to interact - there were of course plenty of grey and black dealings handled informally by field personnel - but the liaisons offered the administration of both groups the ability to formally discuss matters of mutual concern. As such, the guards manning the security checkpoint in the lobby of the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building were unsurprised to see the relatively familiar sight of Foundation Liaison Officer Rhodes. They were surprised by the two people with Rhodes: a petite Japanese woman, whom they recognized as the Foundation's third Overseer, and her powerfully-built bodyguard. O5-3 was the young heiress to a powerful Japanese mining conglomerate who had opted to work for the Foundation rather than the family business. A financial and administrative genius, Three had more than doubled the revenue of the several front companies she had managed for the Foundation prior to her promotion to Overseer. The Foundation personnel were escorted to a top-floor conference room, where GOC Directors Strauss and Bain were already waiting, along with their own bodyguards. Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged and all sat to begin their business. GOC Special Agent Benjamin Arnold had served as the personal bodyguard to GOC Regional Deputy Director Bain for eight years. Recruited from the American Diplomatic Security Service, he possessed the highest security clearance granted by both the American government and the GOC, and passed a polygraph every two months. He had never once been late for work, and had only ever taken a day off to attend the funeral of his twin brother a decade before. He kept to himself during off hours, but was regarded as cordial and efficient by his principal, his superiors, and his coworkers, most of whom owed him money from the office's informal sports pool. Accordingly, Director Strauss' bodyguard saw no reason to watch Arnold, rather than the only person he believed presented a physical threat to his principal, the Foundation bodyguard escorting O5-3. For his part, Foundation Special Agent Sanchez, O5-3's bodyguard, was doing his best to keep his cool. He hated having to escort Three into the belly of the beast. With his hands held in front of him, he thought to himself that at least the GOC was probably the least likely of the various groups-of-interest to take a potshot at a visiting Overseer, especially in their own headquarters. As Three began to explain about the recently uncovered plot within the Foundation, now responsible for the deaths of two of her fellow Overseers, and the implications of a security breach not only within the Foundation but also in the GOC, no one noticed what Arnold was doing. Slowly, subtly, he unbuttoned his jacket. Ever so carefully, he reached into his suit coat, and-- --In a flash, Arnold whipped out his pistol. From a distance of less than two meters, he fired a round into the ear of Strauss' bodyguard, who collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Sanchez blinked in shock and was reaching for his own weapon when Arnold placed a round neatly between the eyes of the Foundation Special Agent. Another bullet entered the back of Director Strauss' head from point-blank range, killing him instantly. Three's jaw dropped. She was about to utter a cry of confusion when she felt the Foundation Liaison to the GOC shove her to the floor in an attempt to get her out of the line of fire. A sharp pain erupted in her chest, followed swiftly by another in her arm. As her vision faded to black, she heard several more gunshots. And then she was gone. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Cologne/Bonn Airport, Germany Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1845 hours local time}}// [[/span]] During his layover, Harper was having supper at an upscale bar in the First Class Lounge when a man in plainclothes approached him. "Mr. Timothy Harper?" the man asked. Instantly on alert, Harper's hand tightened ever so slightly on his steak knife. "Yes," he answered casually. "I have a message for you," the man said, handing over a sealed envelope. "High priority from Washington." Harper thanked the man, who left. Opening the message, he saw it was from Seven: > {{TO: Harper}} > {{FROM: O5-7}} > > {{MESSAGE FOLLOWS:}} > {{O5-3 shot by GOC agent at meeting with GOC Regional Director Strauss. Strauss also dead. Deputy RD Bain assumed role as Acting RD. Suspect possible conspirator involvement. Tensions with GOC high. Assume all GOC personnel hostile until further notice.}} > > {{Return immediately to Command-02 for consultations.}} > > {{SCP-006 liquid transfer approved.}} > {{END MESSAGE}} Harper swore under his breath. Lighting a cigarette, he started to contemplate how this new turn of events fit into what he already knew. ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part VIII\| Part VIII]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part X\| Part X]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "global-occult-coalition", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part IX - SCP Foundation	42	[ "conspiracy-part-viii", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-x", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030323	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-ix
conspiracy-part-v	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Demands</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-03, Whitehall, UK<br/> Saturday, 24 December 1988, 1300 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The explosion was predictable. "He wants <em>what?!</em>" demanded Seven over the secure telephone line.</p> <p>Harper took a calming puff on his cigarette and said, "I believe his exact words were 'I require seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 for my research.'"</p> <p>"Absolutely out of the question," Seven shot back. "Sir James has lost his marbles this time. Did the file on him include details on his failed recruitment?"</p> <p>"Only that recruitment was attempted and failed back in seventy-one," Harper recalled.</p> <p>"Sir James' doctoral thesis in mathematics had to do with the binomial theorem, specifically an aspect that was of interest to the Foundation," Seven explained. "We knew he was valuable talent, and we wanted to beat the other groups-of-interest to him. So, a couple of agents were sent to do the usual meet-and-greet. Pretend to be part of the local government's intelligence service, give the pitch, point out that not working with us might be a bad idea…" In other words, Harper knew, extort the prospective employee into working for the Foundation. Not one of the organization's finer policies, but at least the Foundation tried to handle it with a velvet glove, unlike many of its rival organizations.</p> <p>"So what happened?" Harper inquired.</p> <p>Seven scoffed, "He laughed in the agents' faces. He told them he knew they worked for the Foundation, and that he wasn't interested in being one of our 'lab coat wearing canon fodder' before having his butler forcibly remove them from the premises. Apparently, he thought working for us would be 'boring,' but he offered to 'consult from time to time' if we had 'some interesting challenge' our researchers couldn't figure out."</p> <p>Harper was flabbergasted. "I bet that went over well."</p> <p>"You wouldn't believe the shitstorm that kicked up," Seven confirmed. "We believed the man thought that just because he was on a first name basis with the Prime Minister that he could ignore us. The Overseer who was handling recruitment in those days was all set to authorize a coercion operation to ensure Sir James' cooperation when we found out that the Chaos Insurgency had beaten us to the punch."</p> <p>"Oh?" asked Harper.</p> <p>"They sent a squad of a dozen ex-black-ops thugs to abduct him in the middle of the night," Seven said. "According to our intel - and the GOC's intel agreed, by the way - he was home alone. Nobody knows for sure exactly what happened, or how Sir James pulled it off, but three days later the heads of each of the hit squad members arrived in the mail to each of the various organizations dealing with the paranormal (the Insurgency, the Foundation, the GOC, all of them)." Harper gagged slightly - he had a strong stomach, but this had come out of left field. Apparently, Seven had heard him, because she continued, "It gets better. Each parcel had a hand written note from Sir James, stating that he was not interested in working for a particular organization, but would 'happily consult on any puzzles we have that struck his fancy.'"</p> <p>The counterintelligence officer massaged his temples. If the world made sense, such behavior would have been nipped in the bud. Working for the Foundation, however, quickly hammered home that the world does not make sense. "So then what?" he asked.</p> <p>"Everyone backed off," Seven replied. "Cooler heads prevailed in the Foundation and GOC, realizing it wasn't worth the loss of personnel and resources to bag this guy when he openly admitted to being willing to consult, while the Serpent's Hand and Chaos Insurgency were both sufficiently cowed by his rather spectacular display of cruelty to stand down."</p> <p>"'For this has to be noted,'" Harper quoted, "'that men should either be caressed or eliminated, because they avenge themselves for slight offenses but cannot do so for grave ones; so the offense one does to a man should be such that one does not fear revenge for it.'"</p> <p>Seven chuckled, "I see you've read Harvey Mansfield's recent translation. Most people would quote the better known verse: 'The response is that one would want to be both the one and the other; but because it is difficult to put them together, it is much safer to be feared than loved, if one has to lack one of the two.' Sir James has a first edition of the original in his library."</p> <p>Harper moved the conversation from the philosophical and historical back to the business at hand, "While that is interesting, and perhaps explains the apparent arrogance of the professor's demand, what is the problem with double-oh-six? Besides the Foundation's general policy of not handing SCPs out?" A policy, Harper didn't say (since both were aware), the Foundation was willing to overlook if the circumstances were sufficiently dire or the price was high enough. It was a dirty little secret known only to the tiniest of the upper echelon of the staff; a secret remarkably well protected, considering the gossip such things would normally attract in a bureaucracy. Of course, it probably helped that the Foundation essentially never actually broke the stated policy. And that the slightest whisper of a rumor about a time when the Foundation <em>did</em> give an SCP to someone else generally resulted in the person doing the whispering being purged so thoroughly Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria would have been proud. It is unwise to make an organization controlling reality-warping entities decide that it would be best if you no longer existed.</p> <p>There was brief silence on the line as the Overseer considered her answer. "Mr. Harper, SCP-006 is one of the most dangerous items the Foundation controls. Its existence is only known to a select handful of Level 5 personnel and the staff directly involved in handling it. Only the current Overseers are permitted to know the exact details of zero-zero-six," she explained. "Here is what you need to know: you should consider it Keter. Over time it produces limited quantities of one of the most deadly toxins known to humanity. This thing is so dangerous any procedure in which liquid is acquired from zero-zero-six requires at least three Overseers to sign off on it, and any personnel who come into direct contact with either the liquid or the item itself have to be terminated by incineration."</p> <p>"In short, it is nasty stuff," Harper said. "So, what could Sir James want with this?"</p> <p>"Whatever it is, it's not good," Seven said. She sighed. "I'll talk with the other Overseers about this. I've had a number of dealings with Sir James before myself. I don't trust anyone with this stuff, but I suspect he's less likely to abuse it than most. In any case, it's a moot point. Because of my dealings with him, I'd need to recuse myself from the release authorization: so, unless none of the other leads he gave you pan out <em>and</em> I can convince three other Overseers to approve <em>and</em> the rest of the Council doesn't veto it, the professor will have to do without."</p> <p>"And that is about as likely as six-eighty-two keeling over from a heart attack," Harper remarked dryly.</p> <p>"In the meantime, Mr. Harper, I want you to go check on five-five-seven and one-four-four-zero," Seven instructed. "You'll be on the next flight to Research Site-29 in Oman."</p> <p>Harper quietly objected, "With all due respect, ma'am, tomorrow is Christmas, and the tenth anniversary of my family's passing."</p> <p>"Right," Seven apologized. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harper. I had forgotten. I know this is not a pleasant thing to ask of you. I also know Christmas is the only day of the year you ask to take off. And I hope you know that I am deeply sorry for your loss. But this conspiracy is a very serious threat to the Foundation, and by extension—"</p> <p>"—To everything else," the counterintelligence officer acknowledged sadly. He sighed. He knew, in its own way, that a conspiracy like this one was as large a threat as the Foundation ever faced, even if the science types thought a rampaging gecko was a bigger concern. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Alright. But I will arrange my own flight. I am going to take time to stop by St. Paul's Cathedral to light a candle for my family, since I can't do it at the National Cathedral like I do every year."</p> <p>"Very well," Seven acquiesced. "Who knows when you'll next be near a Church. I'll pass along your update to Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel, and have them attempt to track down SCP-1440. Good luck in Oman." She disconnected.</p> <p>Putting down the receiver, Harper leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. This sort of thing brought back bad memories: putting work before family.</p> <p>In the next room, the office staff wondered what had caused the visiting Level 5 VIP to swear so loudly they could hear it through the soundproofed walls.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-iv">Part IV</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-vi">Part VI</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-v">Conspiracy, Part V</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-v">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-v</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]] [[/>]] + Demands [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-03, Whitehall, UK Saturday, 24 December 1988, 1300 hours local time}}// [[/span]] The explosion was predictable. "He wants //what?!//" demanded Seven over the secure telephone line. Harper took a calming puff on his cigarette and said, "I believe his exact words were 'I require seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 for my research.'" "Absolutely out of the question," Seven shot back. "Sir James has lost his marbles this time. Did the file on him include details on his failed recruitment?" "Only that recruitment was attempted and failed back in seventy-one," Harper recalled. "Sir James' doctoral thesis in mathematics had to do with the binomial theorem, specifically an aspect that was of interest to the Foundation," Seven explained. "We knew he was valuable talent, and we wanted to beat the other groups-of-interest to him. So, a couple of agents were sent to do the usual meet-and-greet. Pretend to be part of the local government's intelligence service, give the pitch, point out that not working with us might be a bad idea..." In other words, Harper knew, extort the prospective employee into working for the Foundation. Not one of the organization's finer policies, but at least the Foundation tried to handle it with a velvet glove, unlike many of its rival organizations. "So what happened?" Harper inquired. Seven scoffed, "He laughed in the agents' faces. He told them he knew they worked for the Foundation, and that he wasn't interested in being one of our 'lab coat wearing canon fodder' before having his butler forcibly remove them from the premises. Apparently, he thought working for us would be 'boring,' but he offered to 'consult from time to time' if we had 'some interesting challenge' our researchers couldn't figure out." Harper was flabbergasted. "I bet that went over well." "You wouldn't believe the shitstorm that kicked up," Seven confirmed. "We believed the man thought that just because he was on a first name basis with the Prime Minister that he could ignore us. The Overseer who was handling recruitment in those days was all set to authorize a coercion operation to ensure Sir James' cooperation when we found out that the Chaos Insurgency had beaten us to the punch." "Oh?" asked Harper. "They sent a squad of a dozen ex-black-ops thugs to abduct him in the middle of the night," Seven said. "According to our intel - and the GOC's intel agreed, by the way - he was home alone. Nobody knows for sure exactly what happened, or how Sir James pulled it off, but three days later the heads of each of the hit squad members arrived in the mail to each of the various organizations dealing with the paranormal (the Insurgency, the Foundation, the GOC, all of them)." Harper gagged slightly - he had a strong stomach, but this had come out of left field. Apparently, Seven had heard him, because she continued, "It gets better. Each parcel had a hand written note from Sir James, stating that he was not interested in working for a particular organization, but would 'happily consult on any puzzles we have that struck his fancy.'" The counterintelligence officer massaged his temples. If the world made sense, such behavior would have been nipped in the bud. Working for the Foundation, however, quickly hammered home that the world does not make sense. "So then what?" he asked. "Everyone backed off," Seven replied. "Cooler heads prevailed in the Foundation and GOC, realizing it wasn't worth the loss of personnel and resources to bag this guy when he openly admitted to being willing to consult, while the Serpent's Hand and Chaos Insurgency were both sufficiently cowed by his rather spectacular display of cruelty to stand down." "'For this has to be noted,'" Harper quoted, "'that men should either be caressed or eliminated, because they avenge themselves for slight offenses but cannot do so for grave ones; so the offense one does to a man should be such that one does not fear revenge for it.'" Seven chuckled, "I see you've read Harvey Mansfield's recent translation. Most people would quote the better known verse: 'The response is that one would want to be both the one and the other; but because it is difficult to put them together, it is much safer to be feared than loved, if one has to lack one of the two.' Sir James has a first edition of the original in his library." Harper moved the conversation from the philosophical and historical back to the business at hand, "While that is interesting, and perhaps explains the apparent arrogance of the professor's demand, what is the problem with double-oh-six? Besides the Foundation's general policy of not handing SCPs out?" A policy, Harper didn't say (since both were aware), the Foundation was willing to overlook if the circumstances were sufficiently dire or the price was high enough. It was a dirty little secret known only to the tiniest of the upper echelon of the staff; a secret remarkably well protected, considering the gossip such things would normally attract in a bureaucracy. Of course, it probably helped that the Foundation essentially never actually broke the stated policy. And that the slightest whisper of a rumor about a time when the Foundation //did// give an SCP to someone else generally resulted in the person doing the whispering being purged so thoroughly Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria would have been proud. It is unwise to make an organization controlling reality-warping entities decide that it would be best if you no longer existed. There was brief silence on the line as the Overseer considered her answer. "Mr. Harper, SCP-006 is one of the most dangerous items the Foundation controls. Its existence is only known to a select handful of Level 5 personnel and the staff directly involved in handling it. Only the current Overseers are permitted to know the exact details of zero-zero-six," she explained. "Here is what you need to know: you should consider it Keter. Over time it produces limited quantities of one of the most deadly toxins known to humanity. This thing is so dangerous any procedure in which liquid is acquired from zero-zero-six requires at least three Overseers to sign off on it, and any personnel who come into direct contact with either the liquid or the item itself have to be terminated by incineration." "In short, it is nasty stuff," Harper said. "So, what could Sir James want with this?" "Whatever it is, it's not good," Seven said. She sighed. "I'll talk with the other Overseers about this. I've had a number of dealings with Sir James before myself. I don't trust anyone with this stuff, but I suspect he's less likely to abuse it than most. In any case, it's a moot point. Because of my dealings with him, I'd need to recuse myself from the release authorization: so, unless none of the other leads he gave you pan out //and// I can convince three other Overseers to approve //and// the rest of the Council doesn't veto it, the professor will have to do without." "And that is about as likely as six-eighty-two keeling over from a heart attack," Harper remarked dryly. "In the meantime, Mr. Harper, I want you to go check on five-five-seven and one-four-four-zero," Seven instructed. "You'll be on the next flight to Research Site-29 in Oman." Harper quietly objected, "With all due respect, ma'am, tomorrow is Christmas, and the tenth anniversary of my family's passing." "Right," Seven apologized. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harper. I had forgotten. I know this is not a pleasant thing to ask of you. I also know Christmas is the only day of the year you ask to take off. And I hope you know that I am deeply sorry for your loss. But this conspiracy is a very serious threat to the Foundation, and by extension--" "--To everything else," the counterintelligence officer acknowledged sadly. He sighed. He knew, in its own way, that a conspiracy like this one was as large a threat as the Foundation ever faced, even if the science types thought a rampaging gecko was a bigger concern. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Alright. But I will arrange my own flight. I am going to take time to stop by St. Paul's Cathedral to light a candle for my family, since I can't do it at the National Cathedral like I do every year." "Very well," Seven acquiesced. "Who knows when you'll next be near a Church. I'll pass along your update to Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel, and have them attempt to track down SCP-1440. Good luck in Oman." She disconnected. Putting down the receiver, Harper leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. This sort of thing brought back bad memories: putting work before family. In the next room, the office staff wondered what had caused the visiting Level 5 VIP to swear so loudly they could hear it through the soundproofed walls. ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part IV\| Part IV]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part VI\| Part VI]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part V - SCP Foundation	41	[ "conspiracy-part-iv", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-vi", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030287	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-v
conspiracy-part-vi	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>The Hunt</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The helicopter touched down at the edge of the base camp for Research Site-29. It wasn't much to look at, just a standard perimeter fence, a few large tents, and a prefabricated watchtower with a searchlight and heavy machine gun. Razor wire and a minefield fifty meters deep had been deployed around the perimeter. These security measures would be improved as the site was developed further. According to the file, the site had only been constructed a few months before, after SCP-557 had been discovered by an investigation into a missing geological survey team.</p> <p>Harper stepped off the helicopter and was met by two men. One was a short man with glasses, dressed in khakis and clutching a Stetson to his head. The other was an enormous, barrel-chested Arab wearing an impressive black beard and desert camouflage.</p> <p>"You must be the VIP I was told to expect," shouted the shorter man, an American, based on his accent. "Dr. Nick Ford, Site Director. This is Colonel Ali El-Hashem, Site Security Chief."</p> <p>"Tim Harper, Foundation Counterintelligence," yelled Harper. He followed the two men into the nearby command tent as the helicopter shut down.</p> <p>The tent was mostly empty (unsurprising, given the hour); a radio operator sat in the corner reading a book. "Lieutenant, go get a cup of coffee," boomed El-Hashem in a deep, resonant baritone. The tech jumped to his feet and scurried out. Rounding on Harper, the Colonel asked ominously, "Is there a problem with my security?"</p> <p>"Now, Colonel," objected Dr. Ford, "that's no way to welcome our guest. I'm sure that's not why—"</p> <p>"The Hell it's not!" bellowed El-Hashem. "Why else would a Level 5 counterintelligence officer arrive at my site at oh-dark-thirty?"</p> <p>"It's quite alright," Harper said quietly. "I am not aware of any inadequacies in your security measures, nor am I aware of any problems with your staff." The giant Arab deflated, but looked slightly relieved.</p> <p>Dr. Ford asked, "So, Agent Harper, what does bring you out to Research Site-29 in the middle of the night?"</p> <p>"Just 'Mister'," Harper corrected gently. "I'm not an agent. I'm here because I have reason to believe a person-of-interest is intending to use SCP-557-1 in a plot against the Foundation."</p> <p>Ford and El-Hashem shared a worried look. "Dash-one isn't contained," Ford said. "We aren't even sure what it is."</p> <p>"Wasn't that in the file?" El-Hashem asked.</p> <p>"I read both the files on SCP-557 and Research Site-29 on my flight," Harper explained, "but they both only had preliminary findings. I'm going to guess they haven't been updated yet, since the site's so new."</p> <p>Ford nodded, "That makes sense. I suppose I should go ahead and give you the nickel tour." He and Harper left the command tent and strode across the compound. At the center, there was a stone structure maybe ten meters in height. They entered through a rough hole in the side, perhaps two meters tall.</p> <p>The room was an ancient library. Dusty shelves lining the walls held rolls of papyrus. A table had been set up in the middle of the room, where researchers could examine and translate the scrolls and other artifacts. "This is Level 1," explained Ford. "There are five underground levels total, which is unusual for structures of this design. The structure itself is an Umm an-Nar era tomb, which we think was built somewhere in the twenty-fourth century BC. We've not had a chance to do a thorough sweep of the surrounding countryside yet, so there may be more ruins out there. Historically there was a trade route through this area and a (now lost) city named Ubar or Irem, depending on the language. The desert eventually swallowed both the city and the trade route. Now, the scrolls we've found here on Level 1 are written in a number of ancient languages. So far, we've identified Greek, Old Egyptian, Sumerian, and Akkadian. We've only begun translating."</p> <p>"Anything about dash-one?" asked Harper.</p> <p>"Maybe. We're still working on translating. We've pulled all the records we can identify that we think might refer to dash-one and are prioritizing those," Ford replied, gesturing to the several dozen scrolls littering the work table. He searched for a second, found a specific sheet of modern loose-leaf paper, and handed it over. "This is the translation of the only document in here written in Greek. Radiocarbon dating indicates it was the most recent addition to the library, from around 300 AD."</p> <blockquote> <p>I will write in Greek, so that any learned man who finds this place will understand. I am the last of the Keepers, and I will be dead soon. The sands are taking this place, and perhaps it is for the best. The prisoner must not escape, and the gateway to the dark must never be opened. I do not think the gate can be moved, but who knows of the prisoner? Not even the Gods could kill it, and it was only with their help that he was secured. Without the rituals, I do not know. Secure the door the best you can, and never move the stone.</p> </blockquote> <p>"That's charming," Harper remarked after finishing the note.</p> <p>"Yep," Ford agreed. "We don't know if that's talking about dash-one, but it could be. Dash-one wasn't the only thing held here." He paused. "Anyway, in the several rooms on Level 1, there are living quarters and Bronze and Iron Age weaponry for a relatively large contingent of individuals, possibly the 'Keepers' mentioned in the note. We only found two skeletons on this Level, so we think the facility was abandoned over time."</p> <p>Ford led Harper down a flight of stone stairs. A long corridor with small stone cells stretched into the distance. "This is Level 2. According to the records, Levels 2 and 3 were a prison for 'heretics and sorcerers.' We didn't find any evidence of the cells being occupied. They seem to have not been used for perhaps a thousand years before the structure was abandoned."</p> <p>"Any idea who these heretics and sorcerers were?" asked Harper.</p> <p>"None whatsoever," Ford replied as the two men descended to Level 4. "We don't even know who the Keepers were."</p> <p>Level 4 looked similar to Levels 2 and 3, except there was more evidence of the Foundation's archeological team. "This is Level 4, described by the records as 'a place for the abnormal.' This appears to have been used up though the facility's abandonment," Ford explained.</p> <p>"What sort of abnormal?" Harper inquired.</p> <p>"Well, we've found a variety of skeletons in the cells here, which match several known SCPs. Dr. Bhala has positively matched remains to what looks like SCP-439, SCP-610, and a couple of beasties that crawled out of SCP-354 - oh, don't worry, all the remains are completely inert," Ford said, seeing the mixture of concern and horror on Harper's face. "There are also a number of skeletons unlike anything my team has seen before. From what we can tell, each cell was custom-fortified for its occupant, unlike the cells in the upper levels."</p> <p>"Sounds like someone doing our job," Harper remarked.</p> <p>Ford nodded, "Well, in general societies have had ways of dealing with the supernatural. Today, we have the Foundation and the GOC, containing and destroying things, respectively. In the Middle Ages, the Church (both Catholic and Orthodox) worked pretty hard to either harness those objects that they could explain in ways to fit their theological beliefs or to destroy those which didn't. This structure is just an ancient site for some now long-forgotten analogue to the Foundation."</p> <p>"You said there were five levels," Harper said.</p> <p>"Yes," Ford confirmed. He handed Harper a flashlight and hardhat. "Be careful when we're down there. There are a lot of traps and deadfalls. We think we've located and sprung or cleared them all, but I've lost four D-class, two researchers, and a security guard all since we initially thought we'd cleared them."</p> <p>"Like something out of <em>Raiders of the Lost Ark</em>," Harper remarked dryly.</p> <p>"Worse," Ford warned. "Not only are these real and not movie magic, many of them are far more sophisticated than I've seen in any other tombs. Do not touch anything. Spots which are confirmed as safe to step have been marked in white tape. Red tape indicates spots you should not step."</p> <p>"White good, red bad," Harper repeated. "Understood."</p> <p>The two men walked down the stairs. Level 5 appeared to be a single empty hallway, perhaps fifty meters long. At regular intervals, the researcher staff had positioned battery-powered lanterns. The floor and wall were dotted with red and white tape. Here and there, deep pits in the floor dropped out of sight, invisible to even the most attentive observer if not for the red warning tape. Slowly and cautiously, Ford and Harper crept forward.</p> <p>After an eternity, they reached the end of the corridor. A giant door lay in pieces across the end of the hallway, apparently torn down and smashed from the inside. "This is the entrance to Room 501," Ford explained. "The door was like this when we arrived. It's constructed of a variety of metal alloys whose formula I won't bore you with, but the metallurgy necessary to make them is something that shouldn't have been possible until the middle twentieth century."</p> <p>"BC?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"No, the middle twentieth century <em>AD</em>," Ford said. "One of the key parts of the primary alloy was depleted uranium. And yet this door appears to be as old as the structure itself. We have no idea how it was made forty-four centuries before it ordinarily could have been. In any case, our best estimates suggest the door wasn't broken until sometime in the last ten years or so. Whatever was inside - what we've designated SCP-557-1 - got out."</p> <p>"That can't be good," Harper said.</p> <p>"It gets better," Ford said. "That door is, or was, three cubits thick. Sorry, about a meter and a half. Ancient Egyptian measurement. Anyway. Dr. Morales analyzed the fracture pattern. This thing was broken in just one physical blow. There aren't many things that can exert that sort of physical force, even today. Colonel El-Hashem has a demolition tech who estimates he'd have trouble rigging a charge to destroy the door that wouldn't rebound the shock-wave into the chamber and kill anything inside."</p> <p>Ford ushered the counterintelligence officer inside. Room 501 was vast, easily twenty meters on a side and over five meters high. The center of the room's floor was covered by a large granite slab covered in runes Harper didn't recognize. A smaller stone block stood in the room. Metal chains hung broken from the smaller stone. "Dash-one was imprisoned here, chained to this stone. The chains are the same material as the door."</p> <p>Harper let out a low whistle. Whatever SCP-557-1 was, it had been both big and incredibly powerful. "So, we have no idea what it was?"</p> <p>"Most of the records haven't been translated yet," Ford replied. "What we've found so far, including on the walls of Room 501 itself, refer to dash-one as simply 'the prisoner.' There is one exception. A single reference in Egyptian refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'"</p> <p>"Apep?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"Apep, or Apophis as he was referred to by the Greeks, was the Egyptian deification of darkness and chaos," Ford explained. "He was the personification of all that was evil, seen as a giant serpent or dragon. He wasn't so much worshiped as worshiped against; the ancient Egyptians believed that every night the sun god, Ra, would fight Apep, and if Ra ever lost, the sun would fail to rise again."</p> <p>"So dash-one is the bastard son of this guy?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"We don't know, but that's what the one record we've found with any sort elaboration suggests," Ford responded. "Colonel El-Hashem has standing orders to locate and secure dash-one, and to assume it to be Keter until proven otherwise. No luck so far. And you have information that someone has found dash-one? If that's correct, that's very troubling."</p> <p>Harper nodded, thinking. "Very troubling indeed."</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Saturday, 24 December 1988, 2200 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Muir and Monica huddled around the secure speaker phone. Harper was on the line from the middle of nowhere in Oman, just finishing up his findings.</p> <p>"So, we're on the lookout for the bastard son of the ancient Egyptian god of chaos and darkness," Monica asked incredulously.</p> <p>"Welcome to the Foundation," Muir sniped. The intern rolled her eyes at him.</p> <p>Harper ignored him. "So, I presume Seven told you about 1440? Have you turned anything up?"</p> <p>"Just to make sure we're on the same page, you have the file last updated 15 June 1987?" Muir asked. It never hurt to double check such things.</p> <p>There was a pause on the line, the Harper said, "That is correct."</p> <p>Monica read from some notes she had hastily scribbled on a legal pad earlier that evening. "Mr. Harper, Site-11 doesn't have an exact fix on fourteen-forty's position, but they believe it might be somewhere near Mt. Kazbek in the Caucasus Mountains in the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic."</p> <p>"Who — local contact — ground?" the transmission from Harper asked, fading in and out of static.</p> <p>"Say again, Tim, we missed that," Muir instructed.</p> <p>"-said, — is the — -tact on the grou-?" came the reply.</p> <p>Monica looked at Muir, "He wants to know the contact on the ground."</p> <p>Muir called into the telephone, "Your contact is Captain Ivan Petrovich Gagarin. He'll meet you in Vladikavkaz."</p> <p>"Captain — Gagarin — in Vladikavkaz—" crackled the phone, dissolving into static.</p> <p>"Tim? Harper?!" Muir called, but the connection was dead.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0700 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> "Troy? Monica?" yelled Harper into the secure radio set.</p> <p>The operator looked up apologetically. "Sorry, sir, but we've lost the transmission."</p> <p>"Looks like a sandstorm is on the way," said another technician on the other side of the command tent. "Coming in from the west, ETA five minutes."</p> <p>Harper looked at El-Hashem and Ford, "How long do these things last?"</p> <p>"Hard to tell. Could be hours," the Arab colonel replied.</p> <p>Harper hoisted his bag. "Is the helo ready to go?"</p> <p>"Yes, but it'd be better to ride the storm out here," Ford cautioned.</p> <p>Harper started towards the tent's exit. "Can't waste the time," he said over his shoulder as he stepped outside.</p> <p>To the east, a towering wall of sand rose kilometers high. Harper ran to the helicopter pad and gestured to the pilot to spin up the bird's engines. Within sixty seconds, they were airborne, racing back towards the city as the research site was engulfed by the sandstorm.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED]<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours GMT</tt></em><br/></span><br/> A red light blinked on and off, annoyingly insistent amongst a sea of green and blue denoting the status of the Foundation's worldwide assets. Probationary Agent Johnson sat up and called up the associated status indicator. He'd gotten a bottom of the barrel assignment, shipped off to the middle of nowhere straight out of training, only arriving the day before.</p> <blockquote> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><tt><strong>PRIORITY 2 ALERT</strong></tt></span><br/> <tt><strong>Automated Notification:</strong> Research Site-29 communications lost.</tt></p> </blockquote> <p>"Uh, Agent Marcus? We have a Priority 2. Research Site-29 just lost communications," Johnson said, worried.</p> <p>"Calm down, Probie," his superior said. "Satellite IMINT shows a sandstorm in that part of Oman. We've had problems every time one of those has come through since we set up shop a few months ago. Landline's still a work in progress."</p> <p>"So you think the storm is disrupting the radio signal?" Johnson asked.</p> <p>"Third time this week," Marcus replied, sipping his coffee. "The system log any danger or distress codes before the signal went out?"</p> <p>Johnson took a moment to call up the relevant data. "Uh, no," he said.</p> <p>Marcus smiled, "Well, then, Probie, it's probably nothing. Fire off a sitrep and Form CL-287 to HQ and Site-11. As per protocol, if the signal doesn't return after the storm clears, they'll send in an MTF."</p> <p>Johnson swallowed, and nodded. If Agent Marcus wasn't too worried, he decided he shouldn't be either.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-v">Part V</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-vii">Part VII</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-vi">Conspiracy, Part VI</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-vi">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-vi</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 Hunt [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours local time}}// [[/span]] The helicopter touched down at the edge of the base camp for Research Site-29. It wasn't much to look at, just a standard perimeter fence, a few large tents, and a prefabricated watchtower with a searchlight and heavy machine gun. Razor wire and a minefield fifty meters deep had been deployed around the perimeter. These security measures would be improved as the site was developed further. According to the file, the site had only been constructed a few months before, after SCP-557 had been discovered by an investigation into a missing geological survey team. Harper stepped off the helicopter and was met by two men. One was a short man with glasses, dressed in khakis and clutching a Stetson to his head. The other was an enormous, barrel-chested Arab wearing an impressive black beard and desert camouflage. "You must be the VIP I was told to expect," shouted the shorter man, an American, based on his accent. "Dr. Nick Ford, Site Director. This is Colonel Ali El-Hashem, Site Security Chief." "Tim Harper, Foundation Counterintelligence," yelled Harper. He followed the two men into the nearby command tent as the helicopter shut down. The tent was mostly empty (unsurprising, given the hour); a radio operator sat in the corner reading a book. "Lieutenant, go get a cup of coffee," boomed El-Hashem in a deep, resonant baritone. The tech jumped to his feet and scurried out. Rounding on Harper, the Colonel asked ominously, "Is there a problem with my security?" "Now, Colonel," objected Dr. Ford, "that's no way to welcome our guest. I'm sure that's not why--" "The Hell it's not!" bellowed El-Hashem. "Why else would a Level 5 counterintelligence officer arrive at my site at oh-dark-thirty?" "It's quite alright," Harper said quietly. "I am not aware of any inadequacies in your security measures, nor am I aware of any problems with your staff." The giant Arab deflated, but looked slightly relieved. Dr. Ford asked, "So, Agent Harper, what does bring you out to Research Site-29 in the middle of the night?" "Just 'Mister'," Harper corrected gently. "I'm not an agent. I'm here because I have reason to believe a person-of-interest is intending to use SCP-557-1 in a plot against the Foundation." Ford and El-Hashem shared a worried look. "Dash-one isn't contained," Ford said. "We aren't even sure what it is." "Wasn't that in the file?" El-Hashem asked. "I read both the files on SCP-557 and Research Site-29 on my flight," Harper explained, "but they both only had preliminary findings. I'm going to guess they haven't been updated yet, since the site's so new." Ford nodded, "That makes sense. I suppose I should go ahead and give you the nickel tour." He and Harper left the command tent and strode across the compound. At the center, there was a stone structure maybe ten meters in height. They entered through a rough hole in the side, perhaps two meters tall. The room was an ancient library. Dusty shelves lining the walls held rolls of papyrus. A table had been set up in the middle of the room, where researchers could examine and translate the scrolls and other artifacts. "This is Level 1," explained Ford. "There are five underground levels total, which is unusual for structures of this design. The structure itself is an Umm an-Nar era tomb, which we think was built somewhere in the twenty-fourth century BC. We've not had a chance to do a thorough sweep of the surrounding countryside yet, so there may be more ruins out there. Historically there was a trade route through this area and a (now lost) city named Ubar or Irem, depending on the language. The desert eventually swallowed both the city and the trade route. Now, the scrolls we've found here on Level 1 are written in a number of ancient languages. So far, we've identified Greek, Old Egyptian, Sumerian, and Akkadian. We've only begun translating." "Anything about dash-one?" asked Harper. "Maybe. We're still working on translating. We've pulled all the records we can identify that we think might refer to dash-one and are prioritizing those," Ford replied, gesturing to the several dozen scrolls littering the work table. He searched for a second, found a specific sheet of modern loose-leaf paper, and handed it over. "This is the translation of the only document in here written in Greek. Radiocarbon dating indicates it was the most recent addition to the library, from around 300 AD." > I will write in Greek, so that any learned man who finds this place will understand. I am the last of the Keepers, and I will be dead soon. The sands are taking this place, and perhaps it is for the best. The prisoner must not escape, and the gateway to the dark must never be opened. I do not think the gate can be moved, but who knows of the prisoner? Not even the Gods could kill it, and it was only with their help that he was secured. Without the rituals, I do not know. Secure the door the best you can, and never move the stone. "That's charming," Harper remarked after finishing the note. "Yep," Ford agreed. "We don't know if that's talking about dash-one, but it could be. Dash-one wasn't the only thing held here." He paused. "Anyway, in the several rooms on Level 1, there are living quarters and Bronze and Iron Age weaponry for a relatively large contingent of individuals, possibly the 'Keepers' mentioned in the note. We only found two skeletons on this Level, so we think the facility was abandoned over time." Ford led Harper down a flight of stone stairs. A long corridor with small stone cells stretched into the distance. "This is Level 2. According to the records, Levels 2 and 3 were a prison for 'heretics and sorcerers.' We didn't find any evidence of the cells being occupied. They seem to have not been used for perhaps a thousand years before the structure was abandoned." "Any idea who these heretics and sorcerers were?" asked Harper. "None whatsoever," Ford replied as the two men descended to Level 4. "We don't even know who the Keepers were." Level 4 looked similar to Levels 2 and 3, except there was more evidence of the Foundation's archeological team. "This is Level 4, described by the records as 'a place for the abnormal.' This appears to have been used up though the facility's abandonment," Ford explained. "What sort of abnormal?" Harper inquired. "Well, we've found a variety of skeletons in the cells here, which match several known SCPs. Dr. Bhala has positively matched remains to what looks like SCP-439, SCP-610, and a couple of beasties that crawled out of SCP-354 - oh, don't worry, all the remains are completely inert," Ford said, seeing the mixture of concern and horror on Harper's face. "There are also a number of skeletons unlike anything my team has seen before. From what we can tell, each cell was custom-fortified for its occupant, unlike the cells in the upper levels." "Sounds like someone doing our job," Harper remarked. Ford nodded, "Well, in general societies have had ways of dealing with the supernatural. Today, we have the Foundation and the GOC, containing and destroying things, respectively. In the Middle Ages, the Church (both Catholic and Orthodox) worked pretty hard to either harness those objects that they could explain in ways to fit their theological beliefs or to destroy those which didn't. This structure is just an ancient site for some now long-forgotten analogue to the Foundation." "You said there were five levels," Harper said. "Yes," Ford confirmed. He handed Harper a flashlight and hardhat. "Be careful when we're down there. There are a lot of traps and deadfalls. We think we've located and sprung or cleared them all, but I've lost four D-class, two researchers, and a security guard all since we initially thought we'd cleared them." "Like something out of //Raiders of the Lost Ark//," Harper remarked dryly. "Worse," Ford warned. "Not only are these real and not movie magic, many of them are far more sophisticated than I've seen in any other tombs. Do not touch anything. Spots which are confirmed as safe to step have been marked in white tape. Red tape indicates spots you should not step." "White good, red bad," Harper repeated. "Understood." The two men walked down the stairs. Level 5 appeared to be a single empty hallway, perhaps fifty meters long. At regular intervals, the researcher staff had positioned battery-powered lanterns. The floor and wall were dotted with red and white tape. Here and there, deep pits in the floor dropped out of sight, invisible to even the most attentive observer if not for the red warning tape. Slowly and cautiously, Ford and Harper crept forward. After an eternity, they reached the end of the corridor. A giant door lay in pieces across the end of the hallway, apparently torn down and smashed from the inside. "This is the entrance to Room 501," Ford explained. "The door was like this when we arrived. It's constructed of a variety of metal alloys whose formula I won't bore you with, but the metallurgy necessary to make them is something that shouldn't have been possible until the middle twentieth century." "BC?" Harper asked. "No, the middle twentieth century //AD//," Ford said. "One of the key parts of the primary alloy was depleted uranium. And yet this door appears to be as old as the structure itself. We have no idea how it was made forty-four centuries before it ordinarily could have been. In any case, our best estimates suggest the door wasn't broken until sometime in the last ten years or so. Whatever was inside - what we've designated SCP-557-1 - got out." "That can't be good," Harper said. "It gets better," Ford said. "That door is, or was, three cubits thick. Sorry, about a meter and a half. Ancient Egyptian measurement. Anyway. Dr. Morales analyzed the fracture pattern. This thing was broken in just one physical blow. There aren't many things that can exert that sort of physical force, even today. Colonel El-Hashem has a demolition tech who estimates he'd have trouble rigging a charge to destroy the door that wouldn't rebound the shock-wave into the chamber and kill anything inside." Ford ushered the counterintelligence officer inside. Room 501 was vast, easily twenty meters on a side and over five meters high. The center of the room's floor was covered by a large granite slab covered in runes Harper didn't recognize. A smaller stone block stood in the room. Metal chains hung broken from the smaller stone. "Dash-one was imprisoned here, chained to this stone. The chains are the same material as the door." Harper let out a low whistle. Whatever SCP-557-1 was, it had been both big and incredibly powerful. "So, we have no idea what it was?" "Most of the records haven't been translated yet," Ford replied. "What we've found so far, including on the walls of Room 501 itself, refer to dash-one as simply 'the prisoner.' There is one exception. A single reference in Egyptian refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'" "Apep?" Harper asked. "Apep, or Apophis as he was referred to by the Greeks, was the Egyptian deification of darkness and chaos," Ford explained. "He was the personification of all that was evil, seen as a giant serpent or dragon. He wasn't so much worshiped as worshiped against; the ancient Egyptians believed that every night the sun god, Ra, would fight Apep, and if Ra ever lost, the sun would fail to rise again." "So dash-one is the bastard son of this guy?" Harper asked. "We don't know, but that's what the one record we've found with any sort elaboration suggests," Ford responded. "Colonel El-Hashem has standing orders to locate and secure dash-one, and to assume it to be Keter until proven otherwise. No luck so far. And you have information that someone has found dash-one? If that's correct, that's very troubling." Harper nodded, thinking. "Very troubling indeed." ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Saturday, 24 December 1988, 2200 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Muir and Monica huddled around the secure speaker phone. Harper was on the line from the middle of nowhere in Oman, just finishing up his findings. "So, we're on the lookout for the bastard son of the ancient Egyptian god of chaos and darkness," Monica asked incredulously. "Welcome to the Foundation," Muir sniped. The intern rolled her eyes at him. Harper ignored him. "So, I presume Seven told you about 1440? Have you turned anything up?" "Just to make sure we're on the same page, you have the file last updated 15 June 1987?" Muir asked. It never hurt to double check such things. There was a pause on the line, the Harper said, "That is correct." Monica read from some notes she had hastily scribbled on a legal pad earlier that evening. "Mr. Harper, Site-11 doesn't have an exact fix on fourteen-forty's position, but they believe it might be somewhere near Mt. Kazbek in the Caucasus Mountains in the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic." "Who -- local contact -- ground?" the transmission from Harper asked, fading in and out of static. "Say again, Tim, we missed that," Muir instructed. "-said, -- is the -- -tact on the grou-?" came the reply. Monica looked at Muir, "He wants to know the contact on the ground." Muir called into the telephone, "Your contact is Captain Ivan Petrovich Gagarin. He'll meet you in Vladikavkaz." "Captain -- Gagarin -- in Vladikavkaz--" crackled the phone, dissolving into static. "Tim? Harper?!" Muir called, but the connection was dead. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0700 hours local time}}// [[/span]] "Troy? Monica?" yelled Harper into the secure radio set. The operator looked up apologetically. "Sorry, sir, but we've lost the transmission." "Looks like a sandstorm is on the way," said another technician on the other side of the command tent. "Coming in from the west, ETA five minutes." Harper looked at El-Hashem and Ford, "How long do these things last?" "Hard to tell. Could be hours," the Arab colonel replied. Harper hoisted his bag. "Is the helo ready to go?" "Yes, but it'd be better to ride the storm out here," Ford cautioned. Harper started towards the tent's exit. "Can't waste the time," he said over his shoulder as he stepped outside. To the east, a towering wall of sand rose kilometers high. Harper ran to the helicopter pad and gestured to the pilot to spin up the bird's engines. Within sixty seconds, they were airborne, racing back towards the city as the research site was engulfed by the sandstorm. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED] Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours GMT}}// [[/span]] A red light blinked on and off, annoyingly insistent amongst a sea of green and blue denoting the status of the Foundation's worldwide assets. Probationary Agent Johnson sat up and called up the associated status indicator. He'd gotten a bottom of the barrel assignment, shipped off to the middle of nowhere straight out of training, only arriving the day before. > [[span style="color:#880000;"]]{{PRIORITY 2 ALERT}}[[/span]] > {{Automated Notification: Research Site-29 communications lost.}} "Uh, Agent Marcus? We have a Priority 2. Research Site-29 just lost communications," Johnson said, worried. "Calm down, Probie," his superior said. "Satellite IMINT shows a sandstorm in that part of Oman. We've had problems every time one of those has come through since we set up shop a few months ago. Landline's still a work in progress." "So you think the storm is disrupting the radio signal?" Johnson asked. "Third time this week," Marcus replied, sipping his coffee. "The system log any danger or distress codes before the signal went out?" Johnson took a moment to call up the relevant data. "Uh, no," he said. Marcus smiled, "Well, then, Probie, it's probably nothing. Fire off a sitrep and Form CL-287 to HQ and Site-11. As per protocol, if the signal doesn't return after the storm clears, they'll send in an MTF." Johnson swallowed, and nodded. If Agent Marcus wasn't too worried, he decided he shouldn't be either. ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part V\| Part V]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part VII\| Part VII]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:16:00	[ "_licensebox", "historical", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part VI - SCP Foundation	43	[ "conspiracy-part-v", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-vii", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030289	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-vi
conspiracy-part-vii	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Welcome to Vladikavkaz</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Beslan Airport, Vladikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1200 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Harper stepped off the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-42 passenger jet expecting to walk to carry his bag to customs at the one-runway airport's tiny terminal building. He did not expect to find himself face-to-face with a group of very angry Soviet Airborne soldiers training assault rifles on him. A stern-faced captain with a thick mustache glared at him.</p> <p>"Он - американский шпион! Арестуйте его немедленно!" shouted the captain. <em>"He is an American spy! Arrest him immediately!"</em> Harper realized the smartest thing to do was say nothing - the Foundation would find out soon enough and get him out of this mess. Two burly soldiers seized Harper's arms while a bag was thrust over his head. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, and he was marched to a truck.</p> <p>The ride took about half an hour over some very bumpy dirt roads. Harper was pulled from the truck and half marched, half dragged into a building. He was placed in a rough wooden chair, and the bag was whipped off his head. The room was part of a wooden shack, dark and damp with a dirt floor. The smell of manure drifted in from outside. The mustached captain stood before him.</p> <p>"My apologies, Mr. Harper. The subterfuge was necessary to preserve appearances for my men, most of whom are conscripts who know nothing of the Foundation. Furthermore, O5 gave me strict orders that I have never heard of you, and you were never here," said the captain in flawless English. "I am Captain Ivan Petrovich Gagarin. Welcome to Vladikavkaz." He looked behind Harper at a very young lieutenant standing guard. "Снимите кандалы." <em>"Remove the shackles."</em> The guard reached down and undid the handcuffs.</p> <p>"Glad to be here," Harper replied, massaging his wrists. "What's the plan now?"</p> <p>"I am interrogating the dangerous American spy along with an expert from the GRU," Captain Gagarin explained, pulling out a set of Soviet civilian clothes appropriate for a GRU staff officer and handing them to Harper. "Once we have finished, I will execute the cowardly capitalist pig and have my men bury him out back." He pointed at a misshapen bag about the dimensions of a grown man lying in the corner of the room. "Junior Lieutenant Strelnikov here will then take you, the GRU interrogation expert, back to the airport, by way of wherever you need to go." The lieutenant nodded silently.</p> <p>Harper nodded and started changing into the offered clothing. He asked, "Captain, do you have my bag somewhere?" The lieutenant left the room briefly and returned with it. As Harper buttoned his Soviet overcoat with one hand, he pulled a file from the bag and thumbed through. Finding the picture he was looking for, he asked, "Captain, this is SCP-1440. I need to speak with him."</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="portrait-shot-of-old-man-in-face-bearded-wrinkled-full-of-character-new.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/conspiracy-part-vii/portrait-shot-of-old-man-in-face-bearded-wrinkled-full-of-character-new.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>SCP-1440, as last seen</p> </div> </div> <p>"Ah, yes, Старик из ниоткуда, the Old Man from Nowhere," Gagarin said. "He's one of several entities running around the Caucasus right now. You're in luck, Mr. Harper. He was last sighted a few days ago on the southeastern slopes of Mount Kazbek, just north of Kanobi. It is less than an hour drive from here."</p> <p>"Perfect," Harper said.</p> <p>Gagarin turned to Strelnikov and spoke briefly in hushed and rapid-fire Russian, handing over the photograph. The lieutenant nodded. Gagarin turned and pulled out his pistol. He fired two quick shots followed by a third into the floor. "I have just executed the American," he explained. "Товарищ мла́дший лейтена́нт , сопроводите наших гостей до аэропорта!" He barked loudly for the benefit of the soldiers outside. <em>"Escort our guest to the airport, Comrade Junior Lieutenant!"</em></p> <p>Strelinikov hustled Harper outside to a waiting jeep. He tossed the counterintelligence investigator's bag in the back seat and they sped off southward.</p> <p>Though paved, the Georgian Military Road along which they traveled was in dire need of maintenance. Racing along at well over a hundred kilometers per hour, Harper hoped their trip wouldn't end ignominiously in a fiery crash after hitting a pothole. The lieutenant's driving was only marginally better than that of the infamous Dr. Gerald.</p> <p>"You Foundation official?" asked Strelinikov in broken English.</p> <p>"Yes," Harper replied, also in English. "I'm Harper. I supposed you'd call me Timofey Ivanovich, since my dad's name was John."</p> <p>"I Dmitri Arkadeyevich," said the soldier. "My English well? I learning in my time free."</p> <p>"Uh, yes, very," Harper lied. Switching to Russian, he asked, "Do you mind if we speak in Russian? I would like to practice."</p> <p>Swerving to avoid a goat which had wandered into the middle of the road, Strelinikov nodded, "Very well. Your Russian is most literate."</p> <p>"Thank you," Harper replied. "So, you are a Foundation agent?"</p> <p>"Not yet," Strelinikov said. He paused to shout obscenities in <em>mat</em> at a farmer leading a donkey down the road. "I am proud to be serving the Motherland. Perhaps I will join the Foundation when I am old and infirm."</p> <p><em>Which probably means sometime around your thirtieth birthday</em>, Harper thought to himself. He remembered his brief period in the American army in the early sixties. The false sense of immortality and the bravado that came with it, so common in soldiers everywhere before they were exposed to the true horrors of war.</p> <p>"In any case," the Russian continued, "Captain Gagarin needs soldiers he can trust."</p> <p>Harper asked, "Do you know anything about the Old Man from Nowhere?"</p> <p>"Only that we are supposed to keep track of his location, and otherwise avoid him at all costs," Strelinikov said. "What do you want with him?"</p> <p>"That's classified," the American replied. The Russian grunted in annoyance, but said nothing. Truth be told, Harper wasn't sure himself. SCP-1440 was dangerous to any man-made object or human who remained in extended close contact with it, according to the Foundation's file.</p> <p>Half an hour later, the jeep came to a stop at the end of a dirt road halfway up the mountain. "This is as far as I am allowed to take you," Strelinikov said. He pointed at a ridge a half kilometer away. "The Old Man should be up there. I will remain here with the jeep until sundown." By Harper's estimate, that gave him about four and a half hours before he had to be back. He set off up the mountainside.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0630 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Monica prodded Muir awake. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, looking over the finances of the assistant clerk for O5-2. "Coffee?" asked the intern, offering a mug.</p> <p>"Thanks," Muir grunted.</p> <p>"Merry Christmas," Monica said.</p> <p>Muir nodded, "Back at you. Any word on Tim?"</p> <p>Monica nodded, "The watch office in the basement got word from Agent Gagarin. He's safe and sound. Looks like it was just a sandstorm disrupting communications."</p> <p>"Yeah," yawned Muir. "Figured. I did a tour in Yemen a while back - sandstorms aren't fun. Back to work, then." He picked up another file, this one on O5-6's primary bodyguard, and started to read.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED]<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1130 hours GMT</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The red light was still blinking. Johnson walked over to the meteorology console and called up Oman. The storm had cleared out several hours before. "Uh, Agent Marcus? Research Site-29 is still off the grid," he called.</p> <p>"Did the sandstorm clear yet? Those things can—" started Marcus.</p> <p>"Yes, sir, I just checked. It cleared up about three hours ago," Johnson said.</p> <p>Marcus swore, "And you're only telling me this now? Please tell me you've been checking every hour." Johnson's face fell. "You haven't. Dammit Probie! Get on the horn and scramble the nearest MTF."</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-vi">Part VI</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-viii">Part VIII</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-vii">Conspiracy, Part VII</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-vii">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-vii</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> portrait-shot-of-old-man-in-face-bearded-wrinkled-full-of-character-new.jpg<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> Leo Tolstoy 1897, black and white, 37767u.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> F. W. Taylor<br/> <strong>License:</strong> Public Domain<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Leo_Tolstoy_1897,_black_and_white,_37767u.jpg">Wikimedia Commons</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] + Welcome to Vladikavkaz [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Beslan Airport, Vladikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1200 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Harper stepped off the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-42 passenger jet expecting to walk to carry his bag to customs at the one-runway airport's tiny terminal building. He did not expect to find himself face-to-face with a group of very angry Soviet Airborne soldiers training assault rifles on him. A stern-faced captain with a thick mustache glared at him. "Он - американский шпион! Арестуйте его немедленно!" shouted the captain. //"He is an American spy! Arrest him immediately!"// Harper realized the smartest thing to do was say nothing - the Foundation would find out soon enough and get him out of this mess. Two burly soldiers seized Harper's arms while a bag was thrust over his head. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, and he was marched to a truck. The ride took about half an hour over some very bumpy dirt roads. Harper was pulled from the truck and half marched, half dragged into a building. He was placed in a rough wooden chair, and the bag was whipped off his head. The room was part of a wooden shack, dark and damp with a dirt floor. The smell of manure drifted in from outside. The mustached captain stood before him. "My apologies, Mr. Harper. The subterfuge was necessary to preserve appearances for my men, most of whom are conscripts who know nothing of the Foundation. Furthermore, O5 gave me strict orders that I have never heard of you, and you were never here," said the captain in flawless English. "I am Captain Ivan Petrovich Gagarin. Welcome to Vladikavkaz." He looked behind Harper at a very young lieutenant standing guard. "Снимите кандалы." //"Remove the shackles."// The guard reached down and undid the handcuffs. "Glad to be here," Harper replied, massaging his wrists. "What's the plan now?" "I am interrogating the dangerous American spy along with an expert from the GRU," Captain Gagarin explained, pulling out a set of Soviet civilian clothes appropriate for a GRU staff officer and handing them to Harper. "Once we have finished, I will execute the cowardly capitalist pig and have my men bury him out back." He pointed at a misshapen bag about the dimensions of a grown man lying in the corner of the room. "Junior Lieutenant Strelnikov here will then take you, the GRU interrogation expert, back to the airport, by way of wherever you need to go." The lieutenant nodded silently. Harper nodded and started changing into the offered clothing. He asked, "Captain, do you have my bag somewhere?" The lieutenant left the room briefly and returned with it. As Harper buttoned his Soviet overcoat with one hand, he pulled a file from the bag and thumbed through. Finding the picture he was looking for, he asked, "Captain, this is SCP-1440. I need to speak with him." [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=portrait-shot-of-old-man-in-face-bearded-wrinkled-full-of-character-new.jpg\|caption=SCP-1440, as last seen]] "Ah, yes, Старик из ниоткуда, the Old Man from Nowhere," Gagarin said. "He's one of several entities running around the Caucasus right now. You're in luck, Mr. Harper. He was last sighted a few days ago on the southeastern slopes of Mount Kazbek, just north of Kanobi. It is less than an hour drive from here." "Perfect," Harper said. Gagarin turned to Strelnikov and spoke briefly in hushed and rapid-fire Russian, handing over the photograph. The lieutenant nodded. Gagarin turned and pulled out his pistol. He fired two quick shots followed by a third into the floor. "I have just executed the American," he explained. "Товарищ мла́дший лейтена́нт , сопроводите наших гостей до аэропорта!" He barked loudly for the benefit of the soldiers outside. //"Escort our guest to the airport, Comrade Junior Lieutenant!"// Strelinikov hustled Harper outside to a waiting jeep. He tossed the counterintelligence investigator's bag in the back seat and they sped off southward. Though paved, the Georgian Military Road along which they traveled was in dire need of maintenance. Racing along at well over a hundred kilometers per hour, Harper hoped their trip wouldn't end ignominiously in a fiery crash after hitting a pothole. The lieutenant's driving was only marginally better than that of the infamous Dr. Gerald. "You Foundation official?" asked Strelinikov in broken English. "Yes," Harper replied, also in English. "I'm Harper. I supposed you'd call me Timofey Ivanovich, since my dad's name was John." "I Dmitri Arkadeyevich," said the soldier. "My English well? I learning in my time free." "Uh, yes, very," Harper lied. Switching to Russian, he asked, "Do you mind if we speak in Russian? I would like to practice." Swerving to avoid a goat which had wandered into the middle of the road, Strelinikov nodded, "Very well. Your Russian is most literate." "Thank you," Harper replied. "So, you are a Foundation agent?" "Not yet," Strelinikov said. He paused to shout obscenities in //mat// at a farmer leading a donkey down the road. "I am proud to be serving the Motherland. Perhaps I will join the Foundation when I am old and infirm." //Which probably means sometime around your thirtieth birthday//, Harper thought to himself. He remembered his brief period in the American army in the early sixties. The false sense of immortality and the bravado that came with it, so common in soldiers everywhere before they were exposed to the true horrors of war. "In any case," the Russian continued, "Captain Gagarin needs soldiers he can trust." Harper asked, "Do you know anything about the Old Man from Nowhere?" "Only that we are supposed to keep track of his location, and otherwise avoid him at all costs," Strelinikov said. "What do you want with him?" "That's classified," the American replied. The Russian grunted in annoyance, but said nothing. Truth be told, Harper wasn't sure himself. SCP-1440 was dangerous to any man-made object or human who remained in extended close contact with it, according to the Foundation's file. Half an hour later, the jeep came to a stop at the end of a dirt road halfway up the mountain. "This is as far as I am allowed to take you," Strelinikov said. He pointed at a ridge a half kilometer away. "The Old Man should be up there. I will remain here with the jeep until sundown." By Harper's estimate, that gave him about four and a half hours before he had to be back. He set off up the mountainside. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0630 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Monica prodded Muir awake. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, looking over the finances of the assistant clerk for O5-2. "Coffee?" asked the intern, offering a mug. "Thanks," Muir grunted. "Merry Christmas," Monica said. Muir nodded, "Back at you. Any word on Tim?" Monica nodded, "The watch office in the basement got word from Agent Gagarin. He's safe and sound. Looks like it was just a sandstorm disrupting communications." "Yeah," yawned Muir. "Figured. I did a tour in Yemen a while back - sandstorms aren't fun. Back to work, then." He picked up another file, this one on O5-6's primary bodyguard, and started to read. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED] Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1130 hours GMT}}// [[/span]] The red light was still blinking. Johnson walked over to the meteorology console and called up Oman. The storm had cleared out several hours before. "Uh, Agent Marcus? Research Site-29 is still off the grid," he called. "Did the sandstorm clear yet? Those things can--" started Marcus. "Yes, sir, I just checked. It cleared up about three hours ago," Johnson said. Marcus swore, "And you're only telling me this now? Please tell me you've been checking every hour." Johnson's face fell. "You haven't. Dammit Probie! Get on the horn and scramble the nearest MTF." ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part VI\| Part VI]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part VIII\| Part VIII]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: portrait-shot-of-old-man-in-face-bearded-wrinkled-full-of-character-new.jpg > Name: Leo Tolstoy 1897, black and white, 37767u.jpg > Author: F. W. Taylor > License: Public Domain > Source Link: [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Leo_Tolstoy_1897,_black_and_white,_37767u.jpg Wikimedia Commons] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-08-13T18:17:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-strelnikov", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part VII - SCP Foundation	45	[ "conspiracy-part-vi", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-viii", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/conspiracy-part-vii/portrait-shot-of-old-man-in-face-bearded-wrinkled-full-of-character-new.jpg" ]	14030321	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-vii
conspiracy-part-viii	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Puzzles</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Mount Kazbek, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1545 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span></p> <p>Harper found SCP-1440 seated cross-legged on a flat rock, a worn set of playing cards arrayed before it. The Old Man from Nowhere, as SCP-1440 was informally called in the folklore surrounding him, was a tired-looking old man with sad eyes, a deeply-lined face, and a bristly silver beard. He wore the simple attire of a peasant, with a thick but fraying wool coat and a fur cap. His breath froze in his whiskers, conjuring up an image of Grandfather Frost in Harper's mind.</p> <p>"Good day, Grandfather," Harper said Russian. "May I join you?"</p> <p>The old man looked up. "Good day. I have nothing to offer but a hard cold rock to sit on, but if you wish to join me, you are welcome," he said in the same language; Harper couldn't quite place the accent. "Though I suggest you may not wish to keep my company for long."</p> <p>"Because of the Three Brothers," Harper said.</p> <p>"Indeed," the old man said, eying him shrewdly. "Have we met before, my son?"</p> <p>"No, Grandfather, never before, though I have heard tales of you," Harper said. Gesturing at the cards, he asked, "What is this you play?"</p> <p>"Oh, merely a game to pass the time before I must continue on my journey," the old man explained. "It is called Grandfather's Clock. I imagine, however, you did not seek me out in this lonely spot merely to discuss a card game."</p> <p>Harper nodded, "This is true, Grandfather. I am a member of the Foundation."</p> <p>"Again you seek me out? After the pestilence and destruction that followed me to you?" the old man asked sadly. "You failed to kill me when I came to you before, and you tempted me with a 'cure' for my condition. You cannot 'cure' a man who is cursed by the Three Brothers of Death themselves."</p> <p>"Forgive me, Grandfather," Harper interrupted, "but who mentioned a 'cure'? I merely wished to ask you questions."</p> <p>"So you know nothing of the woman," the old man said, frowning.</p> <p>Harper asked, "What woman?"</p> <p>"A young, pretty thing," the old man replied, staring into memory. "Dark hair, with a face like a hawk and eyes like a wolf. She came to me not a week ago, offering me a 'cure' for my condition, if I went with her to the city. I declined - I must bear this curse, but I do not wish it upon mankind."</p> <p>"What happened next?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"She went away," the old man said wistfully. "Like everyone always goes away." A tear ran down his cheek and disappeared into his beard.</p> <p>"I cannot stay long," Harper said, "but I think I can stay long enough that we might eat and drink together, Grandfather." A weary smile lifted the corners of the old man's mustache as Harper produced a bottle of vodka, some sliced roast beef, and a small handful of candies from his bag.</p> <p>And so the two sat and ate and spoke of random things in the cold mountain air of the Caucasus for nearly an hour, before Harper took his leave to return to Strelinikov and the jeep.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>O5-11's personal vacation cabin, Maine<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0659 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> The Foundation's eleventh Overseer was a portly African-American in his seventies. He had worked his way up through the Foundation's temporal sciences department, before eventually being promoted to Overseer.</p> <p>Like all of the Overseers, Eleven had been paying close attention to the counterintelligence investigation that Seven had been directing. Always known for his carefully thought-out opinion, Eleven was one of the swing votes on the O5 Council, mediating between the faction that wanted to pursue caution, aware of the dangers a counterintelligence "fishing expedition" that could turn into a witch hunt, and the faction that wanted to aggressively dismantle what could be one of the most major conspiracies in Foundation history. Eleven had kept his comments to himself during the several emergency meetings that had occurred in the past week, in no small part because he himself was unsure of what course to pursue. He was out of his element with all the cloak and dagger hall of mirrors shit. No, he preferred dealing with simple scientific problems, like how to keep the Foundation's several dozen spacetime-altering objects from causing a cascading, reality-destroying paradox.</p> <p>Eleven had never been particularly good at remembering his medication, especially when he was under stress. His doctor had complained about his high blood pressure, and, as usual, Eleven had paid lip service by taking the prescribed medication. When he remembered. The combination of age, high blood pressure, stress, and a family history of heart disease meant that the elderly gentleman would never awaken this Christmas morning, having expired of a heart attack in his sleep.</p> <p>At precisely 0700 hours, Eleven's bodyguard entered his room to wake his principal. When Eleven failed to rouse, the bodyguard checked for a pulse, and then issued a Code Red over his radio to the security staff in attendance. The Foundation had lost a second Overseer in less than a week.</p> <hr/> <h1 id="toc1"><span>Interlude</span></h1> <p><em>O5-11 is dead.</em></p> <p><em>That was not part of the plan, but it may yet be useful.</em></p> <p><em>Is the operation in Oman complete?</em></p> <p><em>Yes. Our forces left one survivor. He is not one of ours, but he will be suspected.</em></p> <p><em>And what of the creature?</em></p> <p><em>Our experts believe we have what we need. It will only be a matter of time.</em></p> <p><em>Good. Move the timetable forward.</em></p> <hr/> <h1 id="toc2"><span>The Game's Afoot</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Beslan Airport, Vladikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic<br/> Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1800 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Harper was about to board his flight to Bonn when Captain Gagarin ran up to him, holding an envelope. "This just came in secure from Command," Gagarin panted.</p> <p>Harper thanked him and tore it open. It was a message from O5-7:</p> <blockquote> <p><tt><strong>TO:</strong> Harper</tt><br/> <tt><strong>FROM:</strong> O5-7</tt><br/> <tt><strong>MESSAGE FOLLOWS:</strong></tt><br/> <tt>O5-11 dead, suspect conspirator involvement.</tt><br/> <tt>RS-29 overrun by forces unknown, Dr. Ford only survivor. Suspect Ford is traitor, in transit to Command-02 for questioning.</tt><br/> <tt>Recommend immediate return to Command-02 for consultations.</tt><br/> <tt><strong>END MESSAGE</strong></tt></p> </blockquote> <p><em>I guess I'm going to Washington</em>, Harper thought, pocketing the message. "Comrade Gagarin, please call ahead to Bonn to arrange for a connecting flight to Washington, D.C.," he said. Gagarin saluted smartly, and set off. <em>The plot thickens</em>, Harper thought. <em>The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-vii">Part VII</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-ix">Part IX</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-viii">Conspiracy, Part VIII</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-viii">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-viii</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]] [[/>]] + Puzzles [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Mount Kazbek, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1545 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Harper found SCP-1440 seated cross-legged on a flat rock, a worn set of playing cards arrayed before it. The Old Man from Nowhere, as SCP-1440 was informally called in the folklore surrounding him, was a tired-looking old man with sad eyes, a deeply-lined face, and a bristly silver beard. He wore the simple attire of a peasant, with a thick but fraying wool coat and a fur cap. His breath froze in his whiskers, conjuring up an image of Grandfather Frost in Harper's mind. "Good day, Grandfather," Harper said Russian. "May I join you?" The old man looked up. "Good day. I have nothing to offer but a hard cold rock to sit on, but if you wish to join me, you are welcome," he said in the same language; Harper couldn't quite place the accent. "Though I suggest you may not wish to keep my company for long." "Because of the Three Brothers," Harper said. "Indeed," the old man said, eying him shrewdly. "Have we met before, my son?" "No, Grandfather, never before, though I have heard tales of you," Harper said. Gesturing at the cards, he asked, "What is this you play?" "Oh, merely a game to pass the time before I must continue on my journey," the old man explained. "It is called Grandfather's Clock. I imagine, however, you did not seek me out in this lonely spot merely to discuss a card game." Harper nodded, "This is true, Grandfather. I am a member of the Foundation." "Again you seek me out? After the pestilence and destruction that followed me to you?" the old man asked sadly. "You failed to kill me when I came to you before, and you tempted me with a 'cure' for my condition. You cannot 'cure' a man who is cursed by the Three Brothers of Death themselves." "Forgive me, Grandfather," Harper interrupted, "but who mentioned a 'cure'? I merely wished to ask you questions." "So you know nothing of the woman," the old man said, frowning. Harper asked, "What woman?" "A young, pretty thing," the old man replied, staring into memory. "Dark hair, with a face like a hawk and eyes like a wolf. She came to me not a week ago, offering me a 'cure' for my condition, if I went with her to the city. I declined - I must bear this curse, but I do not wish it upon mankind." "What happened next?" Harper asked. "She went away," the old man said wistfully. "Like everyone always goes away." A tear ran down his cheek and disappeared into his beard. "I cannot stay long," Harper said, "but I think I can stay long enough that we might eat and drink together, Grandfather." A weary smile lifted the corners of the old man's mustache as Harper produced a bottle of vodka, some sliced roast beef, and a small handful of candies from his bag. And so the two sat and ate and spoke of random things in the cold mountain air of the Caucasus for nearly an hour, before Harper took his leave to return to Strelinikov and the jeep. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{O5-11's personal vacation cabin, Maine Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0659 hours local time}}// [[/span]] The Foundation's eleventh Overseer was a portly African-American in his seventies. He had worked his way up through the Foundation's temporal sciences department, before eventually being promoted to Overseer. Like all of the Overseers, Eleven had been paying close attention to the counterintelligence investigation that Seven had been directing. Always known for his carefully thought-out opinion, Eleven was one of the swing votes on the O5 Council, mediating between the faction that wanted to pursue caution, aware of the dangers a counterintelligence "fishing expedition" that could turn into a witch hunt, and the faction that wanted to aggressively dismantle what could be one of the most major conspiracies in Foundation history. Eleven had kept his comments to himself during the several emergency meetings that had occurred in the past week, in no small part because he himself was unsure of what course to pursue. He was out of his element with all the cloak and dagger hall of mirrors shit. No, he preferred dealing with simple scientific problems, like how to keep the Foundation's several dozen spacetime-altering objects from causing a cascading, reality-destroying paradox. Eleven had never been particularly good at remembering his medication, especially when he was under stress. His doctor had complained about his high blood pressure, and, as usual, Eleven had paid lip service by taking the prescribed medication. When he remembered. The combination of age, high blood pressure, stress, and a family history of heart disease meant that the elderly gentleman would never awaken this Christmas morning, having expired of a heart attack in his sleep. At precisely 0700 hours, Eleven's bodyguard entered his room to wake his principal. When Eleven failed to rouse, the bodyguard checked for a pulse, and then issued a Code Red over his radio to the security staff in attendance. The Foundation had lost a second Overseer in less than a week. ---- + Interlude //O5-11 is dead.// //That was not part of the plan, but it may yet be useful.// //Is the operation in Oman complete?// //Yes. Our forces left one survivor. He is not one of ours, but he will be suspected.// //And what of the creature?// //Our experts believe we have what we need. It will only be a matter of time.// //Good. Move the timetable forward.// ---- + The Game's Afoot [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Beslan Airport, Vladikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1800 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Harper was about to board his flight to Bonn when Captain Gagarin ran up to him, holding an envelope. "This just came in secure from Command," Gagarin panted. Harper thanked him and tore it open. It was a message from O5-7: > {{TO: Harper}} > {{FROM: O5-7}} > > {{MESSAGE FOLLOWS:}} > {{O5-11 dead, suspect conspirator involvement.}} > > {{RS-29 overrun by forces unknown, Dr. Ford only survivor. Suspect Ford is traitor, in transit to Command-02 for questioning.}} > > {{Recommend immediate return to Command-02 for consultations.}} > {{END MESSAGE}} //I guess I'm going to Washington//, Harper thought, pocketing the message. "Comrade Gagarin, please call ahead to Bonn to arrange for a connecting flight to Washington, D.C.," he said. Gagarin saluted smartly, and set off. //The plot thickens//, Harper thought. //The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'// ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part VII\| Part VII]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part IX\| Part IX]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part VIII - SCP Foundation	42	[ "conspiracy-part-vii", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-ix", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030322	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-viii
conspiracy-part-x	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Aftershocks</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Monday, 26 December 1988, 0755 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> When Harper arrived at Command-02 on Monday morning, the tension in the air was palpable. Security was heightened beyond anything he could remember in the nearly thirty years he'd worked for the Foundation, and he knew the platoon of heavy-weapons-bearing mobile task force personnel present in the building lobby paled in comparison to the security that was hidden out of sight. When he finally reached the head of the line to the security checkpoint, the attending guard pulled him aside. "Mr. Harper, you're needed on the seventh floor, sir," the stern-faced guard said. "Now."</p> <p>A short elevator trip later, not even stopping to put his hat, coat, and briefcase in his office, Harper walked into the same secure conference room he had been in the preceding Thursday. Once again, Seven was waiting for him. The strain of the past several days had visibly taken its toll on the Overseer: she had shadows under her eyes, and her raven hair was beginning to come loose from her usually immaculate bun. "Mr. Harper, the situation is dire," she said, trying and failing to keep the stress and sleep deprivation from her voice.</p> <p>Harper nodded, "Yes, ma'am."</p> <p>"How much do you know?" Seven asked, her green eyes boring into him.</p> <p>Harper coughed, "Apart from your two messages, I've been out of the loop since I left Research Site-29. When I arrived this morning, I was told you needed to see me immediately, so I didn't stop by my office to get updated." He gestured at his coat and briefcase, which he had laid upon the nearest chair.</p> <p>"Very well," she breathed, turning to look out the tinted window at the Capital Building. "Two more Overseers are dead. Eleven died in his sleep of an apparent heart attack. The timing is too suspicious for it to be an accident; our experts are looking into the possibility that he was poisoned. It's a long shot, since there are plenty of poisons we're unlikely to discover postmortem. Three was assassinated while she was meeting with Regional Director Strauss and Deputy Director Bain for the GOC. The Coalition's Regional Director was also killed, as were both his and Three's bodyguards. Our liaison officer to the GOC is in the hospital, though he is expected to survive."</p> <p>Harper asked, "Did they manage to catch the assassin?"</p> <p>"No," spat Seven. "Not alive anyway. He was the bodyguard for the Regional Deputy Director, a man named Benjamin Arnold. Bain killed Arnold during the shootout, and is now apparently Acting Regional Director."</p> <p>"Do we know why Arnold started killing everyone in sight?" Harper asked.</p> <p>"The Coalition is claiming no knowledge, and pointing fingers at the Chaos Insurgency," Seven replied. "I have Intel running down leads. Though we've seen no evidence to suggest the Chaos Insurgency is the mastermind for the ongoing plot, they certainly seem to have their hands dirty. The MTF that secured Research Site-29 said it looked like the Insurgency was responsible for that, as well."</p> <p>"Has there been any progress questioning Dr. Ford?" asked the counterintelligence officer.</p> <p>The Overseer shook her head. "Zimmerman has been questioning him down in the basement."</p> <p>"Zimmerman is a brutish, sadistic thug who couldn't get a useful answer if his life depended on it," Harper objected.</p> <p>"Agent Zimmerman is one of our most experienced enhanced interrogation—" began Seven.</p> <p>"He's a cold-blooded sadist!" Harper snapped. "Jesus Christ, you might as well have shot Ford and gotten it over with! <em>Torture. Does. Not. Work!</em> People will say anything to stop the pain, truthful or not, so you can't trust any of it without independent confirmation, which if you can get you shouldn't have tortured the guy in the first place!"</p> <p>Seven turned to face Harper, her gaze icy. Speaking softly, she said, "So be it. <em>You</em> will be responsible for Ford's questioning." Taking a deep breath, the counterintelligence officer nodded. Seven continued, "Most of the O5 Council is running scared. With three Overseers killed in the past week, the surviving members of the Council voted five-four (I abstained) in favor of transferring seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 to Sir James. In exchange, he has provided us with the coordinates of a warehouse in Finland where he believes C's objects are stored. MTF Xi-13 is on route as we speak. In short, that is what has occurred since you left Oman. Now, what are your findings?"</p> <p>Harper began, "Well, nothing seemed out of place at Research Site-29 while I was there. According to what Dr. Ford's team had been able to translate, SCP-557-1 - the entity formerly held by 557 - could cause some real damage."</p> <p>"What do we know of 557-1?" Seven inquired.</p> <p>Harper said, "Not much. Translations are, uh, were, I suppose, ongoing. Most of the records only refer to it as 'the prisoner,' though one refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'"</p> <p>"And now the Chaos Insurgency has access to all our research on SCP-557," Seven sighed. "Wonderful. And SCP-1440?"</p> <p>"He was apparently approached by a mysterious young woman who offered to 'cure' him," Harper responded. "He declined, and she left."</p> <p>"Do you think this woman could be C?" asked Seven.</p> <p>"We have no way of knowing," Harper said. "We have no physical description of C to compare."</p> <p>"Anything else?" asked the Overseer.</p> <p>Shaking his head, Harper replied, "No, ma'am."</p> <p>"Very well," she said. "That will be all. Keep me informed - I want status updates every time you have a major new development. That will be all." Harper nodded, collected his coat, and left.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Helsinki waterfront, Finland<br/> Monday, 26 December 1988, 1500 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Foundation Armed Rapid Response Task Force Xi-13 sped through the heavily falling snow across the icy waters of Helsinki's harbor. In their winter camouflage and white-gray speedboats, only the most perceptive of observers would have been able to see them through the blizzard, and their boats' engine sounds were indistinguishable from the port's usual traffic. They had deployed from the <em>SCPS Kraken</em>, which waited out in international waters.</p> <p>Agent Price, Xi-13's executive officer and field commander, knew only slightly more than his men. Orders From The High Muckitymucks had come down instructing his team to secure a waterfront warehouse at a set of GPS coordinates that turned out to be in the Finnish capital. Apparently, some member of MC&D had a stash of artifacts stolen from the Foundation there. That is, if the little vague intelligence he'd been given was correct. Resistance was expected to be somewhere between "non-existent" and "heavy," the report had indicated. <em>Right, that was helpful</em>, Price thought.</p> <p>A month and a half earlier, the United States government formally acknowledged that the aerospace corporation Lockheed Martin had designed and built a single-seat, twin-engine stealth ground-attack aircraft for the USAF, designated the F-117 "Nighthawk." Production numbers would remain classified for years to come, but those with clearance into the program knew that a total of sixty-four Nighthawks had been built, with five prototypes and fifty-nine production versions. At least, that's what the Department of Defense's numbers recorded. In fact, Lockheed had built another five production versions under secret contract for the Global Occult Coalition. Unbeknownst to Agent Price, or anyone else in Helsinki for that matter, one of the GOC's Nighthawks was lining up for a bombing run on the warehouse Xi-13 was rapidly approaching. With a radar cross section equivalent to a large bird, not even the Finnish air defense forces realized the presence of the intruder.</p> <p>"Lombardi! Bring us alongside the dock!" barked Price. Xi-13's speedboats raced in formation towards the target.</p> <p>The GOC F-117 opened its bomb bay doors. Two GPS guided thermobaric weapons, more commonly known as "fuel-air bombs", each weighing in at 1,150 kilograms (or 2,500 pounds) fell silently towards the warehouse.</p> <p>The Foundation speedboats slowed abruptly as they reached the dock. The troops were about to leap ashore when the Nighthawk's bombs reached their target.</p> <p>Thermobaric weapons consist of a container of fuel and two separate explosive devices. When the bombs entered the warehouse by crashing through the metal roof, the first explosive charge on both bombs burst open the fuel container. The fuel, now free to mix with atmospheric oxygen, was rapidly accelerated outward in all directions, creating a cloud which almost completely filled the interior of the warehouse, flowing around the crates stored within and the small security force concealed inside to protect the stored goods. A fraction of a second later, the second explosive charge for each bomb went off. These explosives, though tiny by themselves, detonated the now-oxidized cloud of fuel. The fireball, reaching temperatures well in excess of 2,500 degrees Celsius, incinerated the warehouse's contents and inhabitants in fifty milliseconds, one eighth of the time required for a human to blink. The overpressure of the explosion reached three megapascals, or 430 pounds per square inch, over forty times the pressure necessary to severely damage buildings constructed of reinforced concrete. The warehouse, built out of little more than sheet metal over steel girders, was quite literally blown apart by the blast wave. Less than a second later, the burning gases that made up the explosion began to cool, causing the pressure to drop abruptly. This created a partial vacuum, further increasing the devastation as debris was sucked into the still hellish conditions of the explosion.</p> <p>The blast wave from the explosion, traveling at nearly ten times the speed of sound, rocked the Foundation task force's boats, knocking the entire platoon off its feet. Though it critically injured a full half of the MTF (every agent was injured to some extent), the blast wave actually saved many of their lives by keeping them from being killed either by the outward-moving fireball or by the powerful backdraft. It was later determined that only six members of Xi-13 were killed in the event: four instantly and two later due to injuries sustained.</p> <p>Agent Lombardi was one of the least injured. As he got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, he realized that Agent Price was down. Looking around, he couldn't see any of the MTF's senior agents showing any sign of consciousness. With the target warehouse and its precious contents now a twisted pile of burning rubble, the junior agent decided some REMF intel puke had really FUBARed this time. Grabbing the boat's long-range radio set, Lombardi fired off a situation report to the <em>SCPS Kraken</em>, calling for immediate backup and medical assistance, and letting the astonished ship's captain know that it would only be a matter of minutes before the Finnish authorities were swarming all over the scene.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-ix">Part IX</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-xi">Part XI</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-x">Conspiracy, Part X</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-x">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-x</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]] [[/>]] + Aftershocks [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 0755 hours local time}}// [[/span]] When Harper arrived at Command-02 on Monday morning, the tension in the air was palpable. Security was heightened beyond anything he could remember in the nearly thirty years he'd worked for the Foundation, and he knew the platoon of heavy-weapons-bearing mobile task force personnel present in the building lobby paled in comparison to the security that was hidden out of sight. When he finally reached the head of the line to the security checkpoint, the attending guard pulled him aside. "Mr. Harper, you're needed on the seventh floor, sir," the stern-faced guard said. "Now." A short elevator trip later, not even stopping to put his hat, coat, and briefcase in his office, Harper walked into the same secure conference room he had been in the preceding Thursday. Once again, Seven was waiting for him. The strain of the past several days had visibly taken its toll on the Overseer: she had shadows under her eyes, and her raven hair was beginning to come loose from her usually immaculate bun. "Mr. Harper, the situation is dire," she said, trying and failing to keep the stress and sleep deprivation from her voice. Harper nodded, "Yes, ma'am." "How much do you know?" Seven asked, her green eyes boring into him. Harper coughed, "Apart from your two messages, I've been out of the loop since I left Research Site-29. When I arrived this morning, I was told you needed to see me immediately, so I didn't stop by my office to get updated." He gestured at his coat and briefcase, which he had laid upon the nearest chair. "Very well," she breathed, turning to look out the tinted window at the Capital Building. "Two more Overseers are dead. Eleven died in his sleep of an apparent heart attack. The timing is too suspicious for it to be an accident; our experts are looking into the possibility that he was poisoned. It's a long shot, since there are plenty of poisons we're unlikely to discover postmortem. Three was assassinated while she was meeting with Regional Director Strauss and Deputy Director Bain for the GOC. The Coalition's Regional Director was also killed, as were both his and Three's bodyguards. Our liaison officer to the GOC is in the hospital, though he is expected to survive." Harper asked, "Did they manage to catch the assassin?" "No," spat Seven. "Not alive anyway. He was the bodyguard for the Regional Deputy Director, a man named Benjamin Arnold. Bain killed Arnold during the shootout, and is now apparently Acting Regional Director." "Do we know why Arnold started killing everyone in sight?" Harper asked. "The Coalition is claiming no knowledge, and pointing fingers at the Chaos Insurgency," Seven replied. "I have Intel running down leads. Though we've seen no evidence to suggest the Chaos Insurgency is the mastermind for the ongoing plot, they certainly seem to have their hands dirty. The MTF that secured Research Site-29 said it looked like the Insurgency was responsible for that, as well." "Has there been any progress questioning Dr. Ford?" asked the counterintelligence officer. The Overseer shook her head. "Zimmerman has been questioning him down in the basement." "Zimmerman is a brutish, sadistic thug who couldn't get a useful answer if his life depended on it," Harper objected. "Agent Zimmerman is one of our most experienced enhanced interrogation--" began Seven. "He's a cold-blooded sadist!" Harper snapped. "Jesus Christ, you might as well have shot Ford and gotten it over with! //Torture. Does. Not. Work!// People will say anything to stop the pain, truthful or not, so you can't trust any of it without independent confirmation, which if you can get you shouldn't have tortured the guy in the first place!" Seven turned to face Harper, her gaze icy. Speaking softly, she said, "So be it. //You// will be responsible for Ford's questioning." Taking a deep breath, the counterintelligence officer nodded. Seven continued, "Most of the O5 Council is running scared. With three Overseers killed in the past week, the surviving members of the Council voted five-four (I abstained) in favor of transferring seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 to Sir James. In exchange, he has provided us with the coordinates of a warehouse in Finland where he believes C's objects are stored. MTF Xi-13 is on route as we speak. In short, that is what has occurred since you left Oman. Now, what are your findings?" Harper began, "Well, nothing seemed out of place at Research Site-29 while I was there. According to what Dr. Ford's team had been able to translate, SCP-557-1 - the entity formerly held by 557 - could cause some real damage." "What do we know of 557-1?" Seven inquired. Harper said, "Not much. Translations are, uh, were, I suppose, ongoing. Most of the records only refer to it as 'the prisoner,' though one refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'" "And now the Chaos Insurgency has access to all our research on SCP-557," Seven sighed. "Wonderful. And SCP-1440?" "He was apparently approached by a mysterious young woman who offered to 'cure' him," Harper responded. "He declined, and she left." "Do you think this woman could be C?" asked Seven. "We have no way of knowing," Harper said. "We have no physical description of C to compare." "Anything else?" asked the Overseer. Shaking his head, Harper replied, "No, ma'am." "Very well," she said. "That will be all. Keep me informed - I want status updates every time you have a major new development. That will be all." Harper nodded, collected his coat, and left. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Helsinki waterfront, Finland Monday, 26 December 1988, 1500 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Foundation Armed Rapid Response Task Force Xi-13 sped through the heavily falling snow across the icy waters of Helsinki's harbor. In their winter camouflage and white-gray speedboats, only the most perceptive of observers would have been able to see them through the blizzard, and their boats' engine sounds were indistinguishable from the port's usual traffic. They had deployed from the //SCPS Kraken//, which waited out in international waters. Agent Price, Xi-13's executive officer and field commander, knew only slightly more than his men. Orders From The High Muckitymucks had come down instructing his team to secure a waterfront warehouse at a set of GPS coordinates that turned out to be in the Finnish capital. Apparently, some member of MC&D had a stash of artifacts stolen from the Foundation there. That is, if the little vague intelligence he'd been given was correct. Resistance was expected to be somewhere between "non-existent" and "heavy," the report had indicated. //Right, that was helpful//, Price thought. A month and a half earlier, the United States government formally acknowledged that the aerospace corporation Lockheed Martin had designed and built a single-seat, twin-engine stealth ground-attack aircraft for the USAF, designated the F-117 "Nighthawk." Production numbers would remain classified for years to come, but those with clearance into the program knew that a total of sixty-four Nighthawks had been built, with five prototypes and fifty-nine production versions. At least, that's what the Department of Defense's numbers recorded. In fact, Lockheed had built another five production versions under secret contract for the Global Occult Coalition. Unbeknownst to Agent Price, or anyone else in Helsinki for that matter, one of the GOC's Nighthawks was lining up for a bombing run on the warehouse Xi-13 was rapidly approaching. With a radar cross section equivalent to a large bird, not even the Finnish air defense forces realized the presence of the intruder. "Lombardi! Bring us alongside the dock!" barked Price. Xi-13's speedboats raced in formation towards the target. The GOC F-117 opened its bomb bay doors. Two GPS guided thermobaric weapons, more commonly known as "fuel-air bombs", each weighing in at 1,150 kilograms (or 2,500 pounds) fell silently towards the warehouse. The Foundation speedboats slowed abruptly as they reached the dock. The troops were about to leap ashore when the Nighthawk's bombs reached their target. Thermobaric weapons consist of a container of fuel and two separate explosive devices. When the bombs entered the warehouse by crashing through the metal roof, the first explosive charge on both bombs burst open the fuel container. The fuel, now free to mix with atmospheric oxygen, was rapidly accelerated outward in all directions, creating a cloud which almost completely filled the interior of the warehouse, flowing around the crates stored within and the small security force concealed inside to protect the stored goods. A fraction of a second later, the second explosive charge for each bomb went off. These explosives, though tiny by themselves, detonated the now-oxidized cloud of fuel. The fireball, reaching temperatures well in excess of 2,500 degrees Celsius, incinerated the warehouse's contents and inhabitants in fifty milliseconds, one eighth of the time required for a human to blink. The overpressure of the explosion reached three megapascals, or 430 pounds per square inch, over forty times the pressure necessary to severely damage buildings constructed of reinforced concrete. The warehouse, built out of little more than sheet metal over steel girders, was quite literally blown apart by the blast wave. Less than a second later, the burning gases that made up the explosion began to cool, causing the pressure to drop abruptly. This created a partial vacuum, further increasing the devastation as debris was sucked into the still hellish conditions of the explosion. The blast wave from the explosion, traveling at nearly ten times the speed of sound, rocked the Foundation task force's boats, knocking the entire platoon off its feet. Though it critically injured a full half of the MTF (every agent was injured to some extent), the blast wave actually saved many of their lives by keeping them from being killed either by the outward-moving fireball or by the powerful backdraft. It was later determined that only six members of Xi-13 were killed in the event: four instantly and two later due to injuries sustained. Agent Lombardi was one of the least injured. As he got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, he realized that Agent Price was down. Looking around, he couldn't see any of the MTF's senior agents showing any sign of consciousness. With the target warehouse and its precious contents now a twisted pile of burning rubble, the junior agent decided some REMF intel puke had really FUBARed this time. Grabbing the boat's long-range radio set, Lombardi fired off a situation report to the //SCPS Kraken//, calling for immediate backup and medical assistance, and letting the astonished ship's captain know that it would only be a matter of minutes before the Finnish authorities were swarming all over the scene. ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part IX\| Part IX]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part XI\| Part XI]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "chaos-insurgency", "global-occult-coalition", "lombardi", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part X - SCP Foundation	39	[ "conspiracy-part-ix", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-xi", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page", "conspiracy", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	14030326	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-x
conspiracy-part-xi	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Interrogation</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C.<br/> Monday, 26 December 1988, 0830 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Harper had only just removed his coat and set down his briefcase when Monica walked in, holding a message. "FLASH traffic from Finland, Mr. Harper," she said. "Xi-13 reached C's warehouse in Helsinki, only to have it blow up in their faces."</p> <p>Muir swore loudly. Harper pursed his lips and said, "Have the watch office keep us apprised of the situation." Monica nodded and left.</p> <p>Harper turned to Muir. "Feel like doing an interrogation?"</p> <p>"Sure," Muir replied, pulling his artificial leg off his desk with a dull thunk. "Who're we talking to?"</p> <p>"Nick Ford," Harper replied. "He's down in The Dungeon. Be warned, Zimmerman's been at him already."</p> <p>Muir shook his head, "That gorilla? Will the administration never learn?"</p> <p>The two men took the elevator down to Basement Level 5. Nicknamed "The Dungeon" by Command-02's staff, it housed the humanoid containment cells and interrogation facilities. As a Foundation Command, 02 was only permitted to house SCPs classified as "Safe" (one of the key reasons for having another Command so geographically near Overwatch HQ was because <em>that</em> facility and its staff was strictly forbidden from having any direct contact with SCPs; Command-02 served as a useful middle ground). Because of the restrictions on what entities could be housed at Command-02, The Dungeon generally housed non-anomalous security risks, such as a researcher believed of selling the Foundation out to the Chaos Insurgency.</p> <p>At the security desk, Harper and Muir checked in, confirming the transfer of authority to Harper from Zimmerman for Dr. Ford. "How do you want to play this, Tim?" asked Muir. The fact Zimmerman had tortured Ford invalidated the possibility of doing Good Cop, Bad Cop.</p> <p>"I met him in Oman," Harper said. "You handle it as you see fit, and I'll only come in if necessary." Muir nodded as they entered the observation room. Looking through the one-way mirror, they saw their subject.</p> <p>Dr. Nicholas Ford, formerly Director for Foundation Research Site-29, was a broken man. Bruised and bloodied, his left eye swollen and missing three fingernails on his right hand, he sat naked and chained to a cold steel chair in the center of the interrogation room. There were scars on his genitals and nipples where electrodes had been attached. He was sobbing quietly.</p> <p>Picking up the telephone handset in the observation room, Muir called for a physician and a set of clothes. Two minutes later, he and the medical doctor walked into the interrogation chamber. "Dr. Ford, I am Troy Muir," said the former field spook. "Let's get you cleaned up. Can I offer you a glass of water?" Ford nodded weakly. As the physician began tending to Ford's injuries, Muir held a glass of water with a straw to the man's lips. With that simple act of kindness, Muir established himself as a fellow human being who cared about the welfare of the subject, rather than a monster to be feared and hated. Within twenty minutes, Ford was bandaged, dressed, and beginning to feel some personal dignity again. "Dr. Ford, do you think you could tell me about what happened at Research Site-29?" Muir asked as the physician left. "Are you up to that?"</p> <p>"I think so," rasped Ford. He took a sip of water.</p> <p>"Take all the time that you need," Muir said gently.</p> <p>Slowly, Ford explained how, just after Harper left, the sandstorm had overtaken the site. Nobody had realized anything was wrong until masked men with AK-47s had burst into the command tent. The one who seemed to be the leader had pointed at Ford. He'd been taken through the storm to SCP-557, where he'd been tied up in one of the cells on Level 2. It had taken him hours got get untied and out of the cell, by which point the storm had passed. The facility's staff was all shot or missing. Additionally, all the scrolls and translations believed to relate to SCP-557-1 had been stolen. Then the Foundation mobile task force had shown up and hauled him off on suspicion of being a sleeper agent for the Chaos Insurgency.</p> <p>"Just to be clear, you have no affiliation with the Chaos Insurgency," Muir asked.</p> <p>"No! I'm not," Ford responded, tears coming to his eyes. "I've been saying that since I was picked up, but nobody believes me!"</p> <p>"I believe you," Muir replied soothingly. "I really do. Do you know why they singled you out?"</p> <p>"No," Ford whimpered. "Like I told Zimmerman, if I knew why, I'd have said."</p> <p>"Thank you, Dr. Ford," Muir said. "I need to go now to work on clearing this whole thing up, okay?" Ford, still crying, nodded tiredly. Leaving the room, Muir ordered the guards to take Ford back to his cell, but to treat him with all due respect and kindness.</p> <p>The old adage was right: honey gets one farther than vinegar. Torture, while very effective at getting prisoners to sing like canaries, never <em>ever</em> produced good, actionable intelligence. Though Hollywood and writers of pulp spy thrillers insisted on perpetuating the myth to the contrary, students of the history of espionage and interrogation knew that this had always been the case. Not even the Nazis or the Soviets had been able to effectively make it work, efficient as they were at methodically inflicting pain without killing the subject. Unless the goal was to physically and psychologically scar the subject, while turning the interrogator into a callous, unfeeling monster, both of which amounted to actions more punitive than interrogative, there was no reason to torture someone. And yet the Foundation sometimes tried to get information with it anyway. <em>One more thing I'll change if I'm ever an Overseer</em>, Harper thought to himself. Not that that was likely to happen.</p> <p>As they walked back to their shared office, Harper asked, "You really think he's innocent?"</p> <p>"Yep," Muir replied. "You?"</p> <p>"Yes," the counterintelligence officer said. "Old trick, Troy: leave one innocent alive to throw the investigators off the trail of the <em>real</em> stooge."</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-x">Part X</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-xii">Part XII</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-xi">Conspiracy, Part XI</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-xi">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-xi</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]] [[/>]] + Interrogation [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 0830 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Harper had only just removed his coat and set down his briefcase when Monica walked in, holding a message. "FLASH traffic from Finland, Mr. Harper," she said. "Xi-13 reached C's warehouse in Helsinki, only to have it blow up in their faces." Muir swore loudly. Harper pursed his lips and said, "Have the watch office keep us apprised of the situation." Monica nodded and left. Harper turned to Muir. "Feel like doing an interrogation?" "Sure," Muir replied, pulling his artificial leg off his desk with a dull thunk. "Who're we talking to?" "Nick Ford," Harper replied. "He's down in The Dungeon. Be warned, Zimmerman's been at him already." Muir shook his head, "That gorilla? Will the administration never learn?" The two men took the elevator down to Basement Level 5. Nicknamed "The Dungeon" by Command-02's staff, it housed the humanoid containment cells and interrogation facilities. As a Foundation Command, 02 was only permitted to house SCPs classified as "Safe" (one of the key reasons for having another Command so geographically near Overwatch HQ was because //that// facility and its staff was strictly forbidden from having any direct contact with SCPs; Command-02 served as a useful middle ground). Because of the restrictions on what entities could be housed at Command-02, The Dungeon generally housed non-anomalous security risks, such as a researcher believed of selling the Foundation out to the Chaos Insurgency. At the security desk, Harper and Muir checked in, confirming the transfer of authority to Harper from Zimmerman for Dr. Ford. "How do you want to play this, Tim?" asked Muir. The fact Zimmerman had tortured Ford invalidated the possibility of doing Good Cop, Bad Cop. "I met him in Oman," Harper said. "You handle it as you see fit, and I'll only come in if necessary." Muir nodded as they entered the observation room. Looking through the one-way mirror, they saw their subject. Dr. Nicholas Ford, formerly Director for Foundation Research Site-29, was a broken man. Bruised and bloodied, his left eye swollen and missing three fingernails on his right hand, he sat naked and chained to a cold steel chair in the center of the interrogation room. There were scars on his genitals and nipples where electrodes had been attached. He was sobbing quietly. Picking up the telephone handset in the observation room, Muir called for a physician and a set of clothes. Two minutes later, he and the medical doctor walked into the interrogation chamber. "Dr. Ford, I am Troy Muir," said the former field spook. "Let's get you cleaned up. Can I offer you a glass of water?" Ford nodded weakly. As the physician began tending to Ford's injuries, Muir held a glass of water with a straw to the man's lips. With that simple act of kindness, Muir established himself as a fellow human being who cared about the welfare of the subject, rather than a monster to be feared and hated. Within twenty minutes, Ford was bandaged, dressed, and beginning to feel some personal dignity again. "Dr. Ford, do you think you could tell me about what happened at Research Site-29?" Muir asked as the physician left. "Are you up to that?" "I think so," rasped Ford. He took a sip of water. "Take all the time that you need," Muir said gently. Slowly, Ford explained how, just after Harper left, the sandstorm had overtaken the site. Nobody had realized anything was wrong until masked men with AK-47s had burst into the command tent. The one who seemed to be the leader had pointed at Ford. He'd been taken through the storm to SCP-557, where he'd been tied up in one of the cells on Level 2. It had taken him hours got get untied and out of the cell, by which point the storm had passed. The facility's staff was all shot or missing. Additionally, all the scrolls and translations believed to relate to SCP-557-1 had been stolen. Then the Foundation mobile task force had shown up and hauled him off on suspicion of being a sleeper agent for the Chaos Insurgency. "Just to be clear, you have no affiliation with the Chaos Insurgency," Muir asked. "No! I'm not," Ford responded, tears coming to his eyes. "I've been saying that since I was picked up, but nobody believes me!" "I believe you," Muir replied soothingly. "I really do. Do you know why they singled you out?" "No," Ford whimpered. "Like I told Zimmerman, if I knew why, I'd have said." "Thank you, Dr. Ford," Muir said. "I need to go now to work on clearing this whole thing up, okay?" Ford, still crying, nodded tiredly. Leaving the room, Muir ordered the guards to take Ford back to his cell, but to treat him with all due respect and kindness. The old adage was right: honey gets one farther than vinegar. Torture, while very effective at getting prisoners to sing like canaries, never //ever// produced good, actionable intelligence. Though Hollywood and writers of pulp spy thrillers insisted on perpetuating the myth to the contrary, students of the history of espionage and interrogation knew that this had always been the case. Not even the Nazis or the Soviets had been able to effectively make it work, efficient as they were at methodically inflicting pain without killing the subject. Unless the goal was to physically and psychologically scar the subject, while turning the interrogator into a callous, unfeeling monster, both of which amounted to actions more punitive than interrogative, there was no reason to torture someone. And yet the Foundation sometimes tried to get information with it anyway. //One more thing I'll change if I'm ever an Overseer//, Harper thought to himself. Not that that was likely to happen. As they walked back to their shared office, Harper asked, "You really think he's innocent?" "Yep," Muir replied. "You?" "Yes," the counterintelligence officer said. "Old trick, Troy: leave one innocent alive to throw the investigators off the trail of the //real// stooge." ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part X\| Part X]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part XII\| Part XII]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part XI - SCP Foundation	35	[ "conspiracy-part-x", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-xii", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	14030328	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-xi
conspiracy-part-xii	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Endgame</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>The Mall, Washington, D.C.<br/> Monday, 26 December 1988, 1130 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Harper decided to take an early lunch to clear his head and consider what he knew.</p> <p>Since Muir's interrogation of Ford, he'd learned the Foundation had managed to cover up the warehouse explosion in Finland as the result of "improperly stored volatile materials." Recovery teams had pulled a number of human remains from the rubble, including the now positively identified body of Lord George Smith-Cumming, a member of the British Parliament and a known member of Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Forensic accountants employed by at least six different agencies, of course including the Foundation, were already examining the late Lord's finances. The preliminary evidence was promising: by all appearances, the illusive C was no longer a concern. Harper had his doubts, but no corroborating evidence to back up his gut feeling.</p> <p>As Harper strode past the Smithsonian Castle munching on a sandwich bought off a food truck, he was approached by a boy no older than twelve. "Hey Mister!" the boy said, running up to him. "A man paid me five bucks to give this to you!" He pulled a crumpled envelope from his back pocket.</p> <p>Frowning slightly as he accepted the envelope, Harper thanked the boy, who ran off. He looked around, but recognized no one in the vicinity. His name was written in neat script across the envelope's flap. Tearing it open, the counterintelligence officer discovered it contained a single sheet of paper covered in the same small handwriting.</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Tim,</p> <p>I thank you for your facilitating the delivery of the SCP-006 liquid. It made for a most wonderful Christmas gift. I do apologize for the unorthodox means by which this message was delivered; I believed it unwise to trust either official Foundation channels, or my usual unofficial means for contacting the organization. As I had promised, the following is information that may be of interest to your investigation.</p> <p>First, as I have already informed the Foundation through official channels, I believe a number of items possessed by C are located in a warehouse on the waterfront in Helsinki, at 60.161 N, 24.903 E. Unless it has been moved sometime in the last 24 hours, you will find the chest, explosive coins, and map there. I give you fair warning that it is quite likely that the Global Occult Coalition knows this, though I did not provide them with the information. Accordingly, I would recommend that your recovery forces exercise haste. By the time your receive this message, the Coalition will certainly have taken steps to deal with the items in question.</p> <p>Second, someone very powerful within the Foundation is a key conspirator, perhaps even the linchpin of the entire plot. I implore you to <em>trust no one</em>, and to be careful when using official lines of Foundation communication. While my sources suggest that neither of your two associates, Mr. Troy Muir nor Ms. Monica Daniel, is involved, it is most certainly possible that my information regarding this conspiracy is incomplete. It is possible anyone could be involved, even someone you have every reason to trust.</p> <p>Third, though I am certain you already suspected this, the Foundation is not the only institution whose highest levels have been infiltrated. My information suggests there are key conspirators in the Foundation; Global Occult Coalition; the Chaos Insurgency; and Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Ltd. I do not have information to indicate any other organizations contain high-level conspirators rather than simple agents-in-place for intelligence gathering purposes. My sources indicate that Special Agent Harry Granger of the GOC is unlikely to be a witting conspirator, should you require assistance from that organization, though I can neither guarantee his cooperation, nor his loyalty.</p> <p>By this point, I imagine you are wondering why someone in my position, with information such as this, would not be doing everything in my power to prevent the success of this conspiracy. While you have no reason to trust me, and, considering the game underfoot every reason to not, I beg your indulgence to allow me to offer two possible explanations: it is an unwise investment strategy to give information for nothing when one can receive payment for it, and I am, in point of fact, doing that which is within my power to disrupt this conspiracy. I am providing you this information and taking my own actions to prevent an outcome which would be, shall we say, "problematic". Of course, you are free to believe what I have told you or not, but I would be a rather destitute information dealer if my clients could not trust my word.</p> <p>This brings me to my fourth piece of information: the conspiracy's goal. We live in a complex and intricate world; even if the preternatural were nothing more than the fairy tales and horror stories the world-at-large believes them to be (thereby reducing the world's complexity significantly), it would be foolish and arrogant for any individual or small group of persons, no matter how powerful, to believe they could dominate and control the globe. The conspirators know this, and have set their sights lower. The world-at-large is separated from life as the informed few know it by a Veil. This Veil is maintained by a variety of organizations with a variety of motives; it always has been, and it is entirely possible it always will be. Even chaotic and anarchic groups, when provided with access to true paranormal, have a tendency to maintain this Veil, if for no other reason as to ensure the continued separation of the "haves" and "have-nots", with themselves securely in the former category. In a way little different from the tremendous power afforded those few with the resources to split the atom, the preternatural is a source of power capable of inspiring both awe and terror. It is this power, this awe and terror, I believe the conspirators seek: the capacity to control, if not the world, then the world behind the Veil.</p> <p>That concludes the information the Foundation purchased when it provided me the liquid from SCP-006. I have two more pieces of information to provide to you, and you alone. If you should choose to disregard my above advice and disclose the aforementioned, I beseech you to not reveal that I have told you what follows.</p> <p>Your family's death was not accidental.</p> <p>Investigate the Roosevelt family.</p> <p>May your continued investigation be met with the best of luck. If I can provide further assistance on this or other matters, do not hesitate to contact me, either directly or by leaving a message for me at the Diogenes Club in London. I have confidence in the Club's discretion in passing secure communications.</p> <p>Most sincerely,<br/> <em>James Mycroft</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Harper was so taken aback by the letter's contents that he scarcely wondered how on earth the eccentric mathematics professor had known that he'd be walking past a particular building at a particular time, given his recent extensive travels. Placing the note in his pocket, he lit a cigarette and walked back to Command-02.</p> <hr/> <p>Muir and Monica looked up to see Harper enter the office. Without a word, he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and scribbled "ASSUME OFFICE BUGGED, MOVE TO TANK." Silently, the two nodded. Picking up the several boxes of relevant files, the three of them moved to a room deep in the bowels of the building: The Tank. The Tank was a purpose-built room designed to make electronic surveillance ("bugging", as it was more popularly called) impossible. A variety of active and passive measures were in place, blocking both conventional electronic listening devices and several known anomalous listening techniques. Swept daily, it could be reserved by personnel with Level 4 or Level 5 clearance who were handling particularly sensitive classified materials.</p> <p>After all the files had been transferred, Harper turned to Monica. "Monica, I need you to run up to the Daly Building in Judiciary Square and pull D.C. Metro's investigation file on a fatal car crash that happened on 25 December 1978 at Dupont Circle," he instructed.</p> <p>"On it," she said, not questioning the significance of a ten-year old traffic accident to their current investigation. She fished in her bag for the fake credentials identifying her as a junior agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and left.</p> <p>"What's going on, Tim?" asked Muir.</p> <p>Producing the note from his pocket, Harper said, "A cutout gave this to me at lunch."</p> <p>After carefully reading the note, not once but twice, Muir let out a low whistle. "This complicates things," he muttered. "Want me to dig through what we have on the GOC and Chaos Insurgency to see if I can turn anything up?"</p> <p>Harper nodded. "Sure. Focus on those likely to be involved with anything either unusual or related to the Foundation," he suggested. "The investigation file I sent Monica after—"</p> <p>"—was for the crash that killed your family," Muir finished. "I knew the date sounded familiar. When she gets back, I'll have her cross-reference the file with everything we've pulled relating to this investigation. Mycroft wouldn't have given you that information if it didn't pertain to this somehow."</p> <p>"I figured he wasn't just being nice," Harper said. "I'll go pull the Foundation's records on the Roosevelts."</p> <p>That required a trip down to Central Records, a cavernous labyrinth of yellowing documents larger than most libraries, located in the bottom four floors of the basement. Only Level 5 personnel were permitted to freely traverse the stacks, and in some areas even they needed an escort. Harper thumbed through the card catalog, locating the reference numbers for each personnel or person-of-interest file for individuals from the Roosevelt family. As it turned out, there were a large number relevant individual files, plus a collective file on the entire family. He wrote the numbers on an index card and set off to locate the files.</p> <p>After a productive forty-five minutes of searching, Harper returned to the tank with a thick stack of files. Muir and Monica were already hard at work poring over their own files, so Harper set down his materials and got to work.</p> <p>The collective file on the family included a detailed genealogy of the Roosevelt family, reaching back to the two patriarchs (Johannes, head of the Oyster Bay branch of the family, and James Jacobus, head of the Hyde Park branch). Each family member's dates of birth and death, marriages, occupations, and descendants were listed, as was whether or not there was an individual file for that person.</p> <p>The first individual file on the stack was for Theodore Roosevelt (specifically the one living between 1855 and 1919, as "Theodore" was a name that appeared many times in the family tree). Best known to the world-at-large as the 26<sup>th</sup> President of the United States, he had also been a friend to the Foundation during the organization's early days in the late 19<sup>th</sup> century. There were a number of rumors that floated around about him from time to time, that he had helped push the United States into the Spanish-American War on behalf of the Foundation, that the Foundation opposed his being made Vice President (which would have gotten him "out of the way" politically had McKinley not died), that the Foundation helped make him Vice President and that McKinley was shot on Foundation orders to place him in power, even that he was a member of the Foundation, and plenty of other often contradictory speculation. The truth was in the file Harper held in his hands. Of course, none of what was in the file turned out to be particularly relevant to the details of the investigation at hand, even if TR was involved in a war the Foundation had fomented with a device used ninety years later to kill an Overseer.</p> <p>The second file, oddly enough, was completely empty. The name was "Cornelia Roosevelt", and according to the collective file on the family, she was the daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, the older brother of TR's father. The information relating to Cornelia was also, for the most part, missing from the genealogy in the family file. Harper set aside the file, scribbling a question mark in his notes next to her name.</p> <p>Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882-1945), 32<sup>nd</sup> President of the United States, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1913-1920); had dealings with the Foundation as ASN during the First World War, and as President, during the Second.</p> <p>Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), niece to Theodore, wife of Franklin D., and First Lady of the United States; person-of-interest with no direct dealings to the Foundation.</p> <p>Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. (1887-1944), son of TR, Brigadier General in the United States Army, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1921-1924), Governor of Puerto Rico (1929–1932), Governor-General of the Philippines (1932–1933); had numerous dealings with the Foundation in each capacity. Harper found it interesting that a total of five members of the extended Roosevelt clan had served in the post. Considering the significance the position had held as a conduit between the early Foundation and the American government, the number of Roosevelts who had interacted with the Foundation made some degree of sense.</p> <p>Theodore Douglas Robinson (1883-1934), nephew of TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1924-1929); had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN, and suspected of being one of the first supporters of the Chaos Insurgency.</p> <p>Henry Latrobe Roosevelt (1879-1936), third cousin to TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1933-1936); fought in the Spanish-American War and had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN. Henry Latrobe was also suspected of having sympathies to the Chaos Insurgency. Harper wondered whether Theodore Robinson's and Henry L. Roosevelt's alleged Chaos Insurgency sympathies had resulted in the Foundation both the distancing of the organization from the Office of the Secretary of the Navy, and for some of the hostilities that would later arise between the American military and the organization.</p> <p>Cornelius Van Schaack Roosevelt (born 1915), son of Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., Foundation agent embedded within the Central Intelligence Agency; served as the head of CIA's Technical Division from 1960-1961. He was part of the joint CIA/Foundation MKULTRA Project, and was listed as having been one of the primary advocates within CIA of attempting to poison Fidel Castro (on behalf of the Foundation). He'd since retired, and the file gave Harper no reason to believe he was involved in the current conspiracy.</p> <p>Kermit Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1916), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack, Foundation agent embedded within the CIA. Kermit Jr. had coordinated the 1953 Iranian coup, another joint CIA/Foundation operation. Though retired by the 1979 Iranian Revolution, Kermit Jr. still occasionally consulted with the Foundation as an expert on the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution.</p> <p>Archibald Bulloch Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1918), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack and Kermit Jr., United States Army intelligence, CIA officer. Though never a formal member of the Foundation like his cousins, Archibald Bulloch Jr. was listed as having been a "friend to the Foundation" throughout his entire career, including during his WWII service in North Africa, Iraq, and Iran, and as CIA Chief of Station in Istanbul, Madrid, and London. There was a note stating that he had refused to assist the Foundation when it was at odds with the CIA, as well as refusing to supply classified documents without official approval from the CIA/Foundation liaison. He was now retired, having recently published a memoir.</p> <p>"Tim, we have something," Monica said, interrupting Harper's genealogical and biographical thoughts. He walked over to where Monica and Muir sat.</p> <p>"The drunk who killed your family," Muir began.</p> <p>"Tristan Arnold," spat Harper. The name was hard cut into his memory.</p> <p>"Right, him," Monica said. "His parents died in a house fire when he and his twin brother were six, after which the two of them went into foster care."</p> <p>"Now, as adults, their lives diverge substantially," Muir explained. "Both enlisted in the Army. Tristan was dishonorably discharged, and lived the remainder of his life out of a bottle."</p> <p>"His brother, Benjamin, on the other hand," Monica continued, "was honorably discharged after two tours, then went to work for the State Department's Diplomatic Security Service as a bodyguard. That is, until he was transferred to—"</p> <p>"—the Global Occult Coalition, where he loyally served as the personal bodyguard for Regional Deputy Director Bain, until deciding to go on a shooting spree yesterday, killing GOC Regional Director Strauss and O5-3," finished Muir.</p> <p>Harper looked from Muir to Monica. "So the brother of the man who killed my family ten years ago," he asked slowly, "is yesterday's assassin?"</p> <p>"I mean, it's a small world, but this can't be a coincidence," Monica said. She handed over two photographs. One, a yellowing newspaper clipping, showed a somber man at Tristan's funeral. The other was a security camera still that showed the same man, ten years later, wearing an earpiece and sunglasses as he ushered Bain into a building.</p> <p>"After my family died, I stopped turning down the promotion to Section Chief," Harper breathed. "Someone, now involved in this plot, arranged for my family to die so I'd take the promotion?"</p> <p>Muir asked, "That was before we started working together; who was putting pressure on you to take the job?"</p> <p>Harper thought back, "The Counterintelligence Director at the time - Erik DeVoe. But he was getting pressure from someone on the O5 Council. I kept resisting because my kids were in elementary school…"</p> <p>"Could this Mr. Bain be involved?" Monica asked.</p> <p>"It's possible," Harper replied. "He stood to gain directly with his boss' assassination, and the shooter was his own bodyguard."</p> <p>"And he killed the assassin himself," Muir pointed out.</p> <p>"Follow that lead," Harper said. "One of the files I pulled from Central Records was gutted."</p> <p>"Completely empty?" Muir asked, surprised. "Nobody - not even the Overseers - are supposed to completely remove the contents of any file not containing a memetic hazard or infohazard."</p> <p>"Yeah, Troy, I know," Harper said. "And this was a personnel file, so it should have been fine. It's probably nothing, since the individual was born back in the 1870s, but I'm going to head over to the National Archives to try and reconstruct the non-sensitive genealogical and biographical information."</p> <p>"Alright," Muir said. "Out of curiosity, whose file was it?"</p> <p>"Cornelia Roosevelt."</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>National Archives Building, Washington, D.C.<br/> Monday, 26 December 1988, 1400 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Most people who visit the National Archives Building go to see the original copies of the American Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights. While famous, impressive, priceless, and interesting documents, they represent only the tiniest fraction of the records maintained and stored by the National Archives and Records Administration. Though few tourists wandered beyond the <em>Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom</em>, any member of the public could become a certified researcher and gain access to the documents stored within. Though not the only reason for an ordinary citizen to become a certified researcher, many genealogists took advantage of NARA's countless records (census records, Congressional private claims and private legislation records, court records, immigration records, military records, passenger lists, passport applications, post office records, and many other archived records) in order to construct detailed family histories. Of course, many of these documents were not made public until at least seven decades after their creation.</p> <p>This did not present a problem for Harper, however. His notes indicated that Cornelia Roosevelt was born circa 1867, which meant that the records from at least the first sixty years of her life would be available. Just because the records were available did not make the task easy, however. It took several hours of laboriously sifting through documents to begin to assemble a portrait of who this woman had been.</p> <p><em>Cornelia Maria Roosevelt, daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, was born in New York City in February of 1867. She was one of five children, she suffered from asthma, much like her older cousin Theodore (who would later become President). Both as a child and as a young woman, she was described in several contemporary accounts as having a fascination with the natural and social sciences. In 1893, she married Jonathan Franklin Dark, a wealthy young British banker and investor who did business with her father through his firm, Roosevelt & Son. Cornelia and Jonathan maintained two houses, one in Westminster and one in Arlington. After Jonathan died under mysterious circumstances in April of 1898, Cornelia disappeared without a trace in August of that year.</em></p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="corneliadark.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/conspiracy-part-xii/corneliadark.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p><tt>The missing Cornelia Dark, <em>née</em> Roosevelt, who disappeared after her husband's mysterious death in April…</tt></p> </div> </div> <p>Harper was reading a newspaper article about the couple's unusual disappearance when he spotted a photograph of the woman. The resemblance was uncanny - <em>far</em> too close to be a coincidence. And she'd married a man named "Dark"… Harper made a photocopy of the picture, gathered his notes, and walked quickly back to Command-02.</p> <hr/> <p>"I have it," Harper told Muir and Monica. "Look at this!" He set down the photograph of Cornelia Dark.</p> <p>"Is that—?" asked Monica.</p> <p>Harper nodded, laying a more recent photo next to it. "Dead ringer, isn't she?"</p> <p>"Damn," Monica said. "I hope I look that good when I'm a hundred and ten."</p> <p>Muir rubbed his chin as he read though Harper's notes. "Jonathan Franklin Dark," he grunted. "Wasn't he the son of 'Old Man Dark', one of MC&D's founders?"</p> <p>"The same," Harper said. "No wonder the Central Records file was emptied. That's a hell of a skeleton to keep in the closet all these years."</p> <p>"Yep," Muir agreed. "While you were out, Monica and I did manage to link Bain to the conspiracy. Turns out he paid both Arnold brothers in numbered Swiss accounts, only to transfer the money back out again once each brother kicked the bucket."</p> <p>"Greedy bastard," Monica quipped. "But it is evidence the Powers That Be can take to the GOC if they want to mend fences. After all, Bain did whack one of their Regional Directors."</p> <p>"We have enough to go to the O5 Council," Harper decided. "Monica, head up to the seventh floor and arrange a secure meeting with the following Overseers…"</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/conspiracy-part-xi">Part XI</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-epilogue">Epilogue</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-part-xii">Conspiracy, Part XII</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-xii">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-part-xii</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> corneliadark.jpg<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> Alice Roosevelt LOC USZ 62 13520.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> N/A<br/> <strong>License:</strong> Public Domain<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alice_Roosevelt_LOC_USZ_62_13520.jpg">Wikimedia Commons</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] + Endgame [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{The Mall, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 1130 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Harper decided to take an early lunch to clear his head and consider what he knew. Since Muir's interrogation of Ford, he'd learned the Foundation had managed to cover up the warehouse explosion in Finland as the result of "improperly stored volatile materials." Recovery teams had pulled a number of human remains from the rubble, including the now positively identified body of Lord George Smith-Cumming, a member of the British Parliament and a known member of Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Forensic accountants employed by at least six different agencies, of course including the Foundation, were already examining the late Lord's finances. The preliminary evidence was promising: by all appearances, the illusive C was no longer a concern. Harper had his doubts, but no corroborating evidence to back up his gut feeling. As Harper strode past the Smithsonian Castle munching on a sandwich bought off a food truck, he was approached by a boy no older than twelve. "Hey Mister!" the boy said, running up to him. "A man paid me five bucks to give this to you!" He pulled a crumpled envelope from his back pocket. Frowning slightly as he accepted the envelope, Harper thanked the boy, who ran off. He looked around, but recognized no one in the vicinity. His name was written in neat script across the envelope's flap. Tearing it open, the counterintelligence officer discovered it contained a single sheet of paper covered in the same small handwriting. > Dear Tim, > > I thank you for your facilitating the delivery of the SCP-006 liquid. It made for a most wonderful Christmas gift. I do apologize for the unorthodox means by which this message was delivered; I believed it unwise to trust either official Foundation channels, or my usual unofficial means for contacting the organization. As I had promised, the following is information that may be of interest to your investigation. > > First, as I have already informed the Foundation through official channels, I believe a number of items possessed by C are located in a warehouse on the waterfront in Helsinki, at 60.161 N, 24.903 E. Unless it has been moved sometime in the last 24 hours, you will find the chest, explosive coins, and map there. I give you fair warning that it is quite likely that the Global Occult Coalition knows this, though I did not provide them with the information. Accordingly, I would recommend that your recovery forces exercise haste. By the time your receive this message, the Coalition will certainly have taken steps to deal with the items in question. > > Second, someone very powerful within the Foundation is a key conspirator, perhaps even the linchpin of the entire plot. I implore you to //trust no one//, and to be careful when using official lines of Foundation communication. While my sources suggest that neither of your two associates, Mr. Troy Muir nor Ms. Monica Daniel, is involved, it is most certainly possible that my information regarding this conspiracy is incomplete. It is possible anyone could be involved, even someone you have every reason to trust. > > Third, though I am certain you already suspected this, the Foundation is not the only institution whose highest levels have been infiltrated. My information suggests there are key conspirators in the Foundation; Global Occult Coalition; the Chaos Insurgency; and Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Ltd. I do not have information to indicate any other organizations contain high-level conspirators rather than simple agents-in-place for intelligence gathering purposes. My sources indicate that Special Agent Harry Granger of the GOC is unlikely to be a witting conspirator, should you require assistance from that organization, though I can neither guarantee his cooperation, nor his loyalty. > > By this point, I imagine you are wondering why someone in my position, with information such as this, would not be doing everything in my power to prevent the success of this conspiracy. While you have no reason to trust me, and, considering the game underfoot every reason to not, I beg your indulgence to allow me to offer two possible explanations: it is an unwise investment strategy to give information for nothing when one can receive payment for it, and I am, in point of fact, doing that which is within my power to disrupt this conspiracy. I am providing you this information and taking my own actions to prevent an outcome which would be, shall we say, "problematic". Of course, you are free to believe what I have told you or not, but I would be a rather destitute information dealer if my clients could not trust my word. > > This brings me to my fourth piece of information: the conspiracy's goal. We live in a complex and intricate world; even if the preternatural were nothing more than the fairy tales and horror stories the world-at-large believes them to be (thereby reducing the world's complexity significantly), it would be foolish and arrogant for any individual or small group of persons, no matter how powerful, to believe they could dominate and control the globe. The conspirators know this, and have set their sights lower. The world-at-large is separated from life as the informed few know it by a Veil. This Veil is maintained by a variety of organizations with a variety of motives; it always has been, and it is entirely possible it always will be. Even chaotic and anarchic groups, when provided with access to true paranormal, have a tendency to maintain this Veil, if for no other reason as to ensure the continued separation of the "haves" and "have-nots", with themselves securely in the former category. In a way little different from the tremendous power afforded those few with the resources to split the atom, the preternatural is a source of power capable of inspiring both awe and terror. It is this power, this awe and terror, I believe the conspirators seek: the capacity to control, if not the world, then the world behind the Veil. > > That concludes the information the Foundation purchased when it provided me the liquid from SCP-006. I have two more pieces of information to provide to you, and you alone. If you should choose to disregard my above advice and disclose the aforementioned, I beseech you to not reveal that I have told you what follows. > > Your family's death was not accidental. > > Investigate the Roosevelt family. > > May your continued investigation be met with the best of luck. If I can provide further assistance on this or other matters, do not hesitate to contact me, either directly or by leaving a message for me at the Diogenes Club in London. I have confidence in the Club's discretion in passing secure communications. > > Most sincerely, > //James Mycroft// Harper was so taken aback by the letter's contents that he scarcely wondered how on earth the eccentric mathematics professor had known that he'd be walking past a particular building at a particular time, given his recent extensive travels. Placing the note in his pocket, he lit a cigarette and walked back to Command-02. ---- Muir and Monica looked up to see Harper enter the office. Without a word, he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and scribbled "ASSUME OFFICE BUGGED, MOVE TO TANK." Silently, the two nodded. Picking up the several boxes of relevant files, the three of them moved to a room deep in the bowels of the building: The Tank. The Tank was a purpose-built room designed to make electronic surveillance ("bugging", as it was more popularly called) impossible. A variety of active and passive measures were in place, blocking both conventional electronic listening devices and several known anomalous listening techniques. Swept daily, it could be reserved by personnel with Level 4 or Level 5 clearance who were handling particularly sensitive classified materials. After all the files had been transferred, Harper turned to Monica. "Monica, I need you to run up to the Daly Building in Judiciary Square and pull D.C. Metro's investigation file on a fatal car crash that happened on 25 December 1978 at Dupont Circle," he instructed. "On it," she said, not questioning the significance of a ten-year old traffic accident to their current investigation. She fished in her bag for the fake credentials identifying her as a junior agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and left. "What's going on, Tim?" asked Muir. Producing the note from his pocket, Harper said, "A cutout gave this to me at lunch." After carefully reading the note, not once but twice, Muir let out a low whistle. "This complicates things," he muttered. "Want me to dig through what we have on the GOC and Chaos Insurgency to see if I can turn anything up?" Harper nodded. "Sure. Focus on those likely to be involved with anything either unusual or related to the Foundation," he suggested. "The investigation file I sent Monica after--" "--was for the crash that killed your family," Muir finished. "I knew the date sounded familiar. When she gets back, I'll have her cross-reference the file with everything we've pulled relating to this investigation. Mycroft wouldn't have given you that information if it didn't pertain to this somehow." "I figured he wasn't just being nice," Harper said. "I'll go pull the Foundation's records on the Roosevelts." That required a trip down to Central Records, a cavernous labyrinth of yellowing documents larger than most libraries, located in the bottom four floors of the basement. Only Level 5 personnel were permitted to freely traverse the stacks, and in some areas even they needed an escort. Harper thumbed through the card catalog, locating the reference numbers for each personnel or person-of-interest file for individuals from the Roosevelt family. As it turned out, there were a large number relevant individual files, plus a collective file on the entire family. He wrote the numbers on an index card and set off to locate the files. After a productive forty-five minutes of searching, Harper returned to the tank with a thick stack of files. Muir and Monica were already hard at work poring over their own files, so Harper set down his materials and got to work. The collective file on the family included a detailed genealogy of the Roosevelt family, reaching back to the two patriarchs (Johannes, head of the Oyster Bay branch of the family, and James Jacobus, head of the Hyde Park branch). Each family member's dates of birth and death, marriages, occupations, and descendants were listed, as was whether or not there was an individual file for that person. The first individual file on the stack was for Theodore Roosevelt (specifically the one living between 1855 and 1919, as "Theodore" was a name that appeared many times in the family tree). Best known to the world-at-large as the 26^^th^^ President of the United States, he had also been a friend to the Foundation during the organization's early days in the late 19^^th^^ century. There were a number of rumors that floated around about him from time to time, that he had helped push the United States into the Spanish-American War on behalf of the Foundation, that the Foundation opposed his being made Vice President (which would have gotten him "out of the way" politically had McKinley not died), that the Foundation helped make him Vice President and that McKinley was shot on Foundation orders to place him in power, even that he was a member of the Foundation, and plenty of other often contradictory speculation. The truth was in the file Harper held in his hands. Of course, none of what was in the file turned out to be particularly relevant to the details of the investigation at hand, even if TR was involved in a war the Foundation had fomented with a device used ninety years later to kill an Overseer. The second file, oddly enough, was completely empty. The name was "Cornelia Roosevelt", and according to the collective file on the family, she was the daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, the older brother of TR's father. The information relating to Cornelia was also, for the most part, missing from the genealogy in the family file. Harper set aside the file, scribbling a question mark in his notes next to her name. Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882-1945), 32^^nd^^ President of the United States, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1913-1920); had dealings with the Foundation as ASN during the First World War, and as President, during the Second. Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), niece to Theodore, wife of Franklin D., and First Lady of the United States; person-of-interest with no direct dealings to the Foundation. Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. (1887-1944), son of TR, Brigadier General in the United States Army, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1921-1924), Governor of Puerto Rico (1929–1932), Governor-General of the Philippines (1932–1933); had numerous dealings with the Foundation in each capacity. Harper found it interesting that a total of five members of the extended Roosevelt clan had served in the post. Considering the significance the position had held as a conduit between the early Foundation and the American government, the number of Roosevelts who had interacted with the Foundation made some degree of sense. Theodore Douglas Robinson (1883-1934), nephew of TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1924-1929); had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN, and suspected of being one of the first supporters of the Chaos Insurgency. Henry Latrobe Roosevelt (1879-1936), third cousin to TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1933-1936); fought in the Spanish-American War and had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN. Henry Latrobe was also suspected of having sympathies to the Chaos Insurgency. Harper wondered whether Theodore Robinson's and Henry L. Roosevelt's alleged Chaos Insurgency sympathies had resulted in the Foundation both the distancing of the organization from the Office of the Secretary of the Navy, and for some of the hostilities that would later arise between the American military and the organization. Cornelius Van Schaack Roosevelt (born 1915), son of Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., Foundation agent embedded within the Central Intelligence Agency; served as the head of CIA's Technical Division from 1960-1961. He was part of the joint CIA/Foundation MKULTRA Project, and was listed as having been one of the primary advocates within CIA of attempting to poison Fidel Castro (on behalf of the Foundation). He'd since retired, and the file gave Harper no reason to believe he was involved in the current conspiracy. Kermit Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1916), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack, Foundation agent embedded within the CIA. Kermit Jr. had coordinated the 1953 Iranian coup, another joint CIA/Foundation operation. Though retired by the 1979 Iranian Revolution, Kermit Jr. still occasionally consulted with the Foundation as an expert on the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. Archibald Bulloch Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1918), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack and Kermit Jr., United States Army intelligence, CIA officer. Though never a formal member of the Foundation like his cousins, Archibald Bulloch Jr. was listed as having been a "friend to the Foundation" throughout his entire career, including during his WWII service in North Africa, Iraq, and Iran, and as CIA Chief of Station in Istanbul, Madrid, and London. There was a note stating that he had refused to assist the Foundation when it was at odds with the CIA, as well as refusing to supply classified documents without official approval from the CIA/Foundation liaison. He was now retired, having recently published a memoir. "Tim, we have something," Monica said, interrupting Harper's genealogical and biographical thoughts. He walked over to where Monica and Muir sat. "The drunk who killed your family," Muir began. "Tristan Arnold," spat Harper. The name was hard cut into his memory. "Right, him," Monica said. "His parents died in a house fire when he and his twin brother were six, after which the two of them went into foster care." "Now, as adults, their lives diverge substantially," Muir explained. "Both enlisted in the Army. Tristan was dishonorably discharged, and lived the remainder of his life out of a bottle." "His brother, Benjamin, on the other hand," Monica continued, "was honorably discharged after two tours, then went to work for the State Department's Diplomatic Security Service as a bodyguard. That is, until he was transferred to--" "--the Global Occult Coalition, where he loyally served as the personal bodyguard for Regional Deputy Director Bain, until deciding to go on a shooting spree yesterday, killing GOC Regional Director Strauss and O5-3," finished Muir. Harper looked from Muir to Monica. "So the brother of the man who killed my family ten years ago," he asked slowly, "is yesterday's assassin?" "I mean, it's a small world, but this can't be a coincidence," Monica said. She handed over two photographs. One, a yellowing newspaper clipping, showed a somber man at Tristan's funeral. The other was a security camera still that showed the same man, ten years later, wearing an earpiece and sunglasses as he ushered Bain into a building. "After my family died, I stopped turning down the promotion to Section Chief," Harper breathed. "Someone, now involved in this plot, arranged for my family to die so I'd take the promotion?" Muir asked, "That was before we started working together; who was putting pressure on you to take the job?" Harper thought back, "The Counterintelligence Director at the time - Erik DeVoe. But he was getting pressure from someone on the O5 Council. I kept resisting because my kids were in elementary school..." "Could this Mr. Bain be involved?" Monica asked. "It's possible," Harper replied. "He stood to gain directly with his boss' assassination, and the shooter was his own bodyguard." "And he killed the assassin himself," Muir pointed out. "Follow that lead," Harper said. "One of the files I pulled from Central Records was gutted." "Completely empty?" Muir asked, surprised. "Nobody - not even the Overseers - are supposed to completely remove the contents of any file not containing a memetic hazard or infohazard." "Yeah, Troy, I know," Harper said. "And this was a personnel file, so it should have been fine. It's probably nothing, since the individual was born back in the 1870s, but I'm going to head over to the National Archives to try and reconstruct the non-sensitive genealogical and biographical information." "Alright," Muir said. "Out of curiosity, whose file was it?" "Cornelia Roosevelt." ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{National Archives Building, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 1400 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Most people who visit the National Archives Building go to see the original copies of the American Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights. While famous, impressive, priceless, and interesting documents, they represent only the tiniest fraction of the records maintained and stored by the National Archives and Records Administration. Though few tourists wandered beyond the //Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom//, any member of the public could become a certified researcher and gain access to the documents stored within. Though not the only reason for an ordinary citizen to become a certified researcher, many genealogists took advantage of NARA's countless records (census records, Congressional private claims and private legislation records, court records, immigration records, military records, passenger lists, passport applications, post office records, and many other archived records) in order to construct detailed family histories. Of course, many of these documents were not made public until at least seven decades after their creation. This did not present a problem for Harper, however. His notes indicated that Cornelia Roosevelt was born circa 1867, which meant that the records from at least the first sixty years of her life would be available. Just because the records were available did not make the task easy, however. It took several hours of laboriously sifting through documents to begin to assemble a portrait of who this woman had been. //Cornelia Maria Roosevelt, daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, was born in New York City in February of 1867. She was one of five children, she suffered from asthma, much like her older cousin Theodore (who would later become President). Both as a child and as a young woman, she was described in several contemporary accounts as having a fascination with the natural and social sciences. In 1893, she married Jonathan Franklin Dark, a wealthy young British banker and investor who did business with her father through his firm, Roosevelt & Son. Cornelia and Jonathan maintained two houses, one in Westminster and one in Arlington. After Jonathan died under mysterious circumstances in April of 1898, Cornelia disappeared without a trace in August of that year.// [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=corneliadark.jpg\|caption={{The missing Cornelia Dark, //née// Roosevelt, who disappeared after her husband's mysterious death in April...}}]] Harper was reading a newspaper article about the couple's unusual disappearance when he spotted a photograph of the woman. The resemblance was uncanny - //far// too close to be a coincidence. And she'd married a man named "Dark"... Harper made a photocopy of the picture, gathered his notes, and walked quickly back to Command-02. ---- "I have it," Harper told Muir and Monica. "Look at this!" He set down the photograph of Cornelia Dark. "Is that--?" asked Monica. Harper nodded, laying a more recent photo next to it. "Dead ringer, isn't she?" "Damn," Monica said. "I hope I look that good when I'm a hundred and ten." Muir rubbed his chin as he read though Harper's notes. "Jonathan Franklin Dark," he grunted. "Wasn't he the son of 'Old Man Dark', one of MC&D's founders?" "The same," Harper said. "No wonder the Central Records file was emptied. That's a hell of a skeleton to keep in the closet all these years." "Yep," Muir agreed. "While you were out, Monica and I did manage to link Bain to the conspiracy. Turns out he paid both Arnold brothers in numbered Swiss accounts, only to transfer the money back out again once each brother kicked the bucket." "Greedy bastard," Monica quipped. "But it is evidence the Powers That Be can take to the GOC if they want to mend fences. After all, Bain did whack one of their Regional Directors." "We have enough to go to the O5 Council," Harper decided. "Monica, head up to the seventh floor and arrange a secure meeting with the following Overseers..." ---- [[=]] << [[[Conspiracy, Part XI\| Part XI]]] \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Epilogue\| Epilogue]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: corneliadark.jpg > Name: Alice Roosevelt LOC USZ 62 13520.jpg > Author: N/A > License: Public Domain > Source Link: [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alice_Roosevelt_LOC_USZ_62_13520.jpg Wikimedia Commons] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-08-13T18:24:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "global-occult-coalition", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Part XII - SCP Foundation	40	[ "conspiracy-part-xi", "conspiracy", "conspiracy-epilogue", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page", "conspiracy", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/conspiracy-part-xii/corneliadark.jpg" ]	14030331	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-part-xii
conspiracy-prologue	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Night Raid</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Park Royal industrial district, London, UK<br/> Tuesday, 20 December 1988, 2334 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Sitting in his car a block from the target, Director McDonnell lit his pipe. He hated waiting, but securing buildings was the job for younger fellows. He'd only accepted the promotion to head of the Foundation's Counterintelligence Directorate the year before so he could have more time to spend with his granddaughters. In forty years working for the Foundation, he'd missed too many of his own children's birthdays; with Christmas just days away he was looking forward to seeing the entire family in his large house in Edinburgh. Of course, that would require his not being called away on work. Here he was on the week before Christmas in a cold, abandoned street following up on an untraceable and anomalous tip made to his direct line about "some documents which might interest Foundation Counterintelligence."</p> <p>The radio on the dash crackled. "Right, this is Xi-One-Three-Lead to all units. Stand by to breach target in Three. Two. One. Go! Go! Go!" A muffled thump rang through the darkness as the mobile task force blew their way into the target: an old warehouse in the run-down outskirts of London's industrial district. For a long two minutes, the night was still and quiet. Then the radio crackled again, "Target is clear. Director, you're going to want to see this."</p> <p>"On my way," replied McDonnell. He left his car and strode up the street to the warehouse.</p> <p>A young chap dressed head to toe in the black tactical clothing adopted by police and special forces worldwide greeted him. "This way, Director," he said, gesturing inside.</p> <p>"American?" the Director asked, noting the young man's accent.</p> <p>"Yes, sir. Agent Lombardi," the American said, walking McDonnell through the long and mostly empty warehouse. A few crates were stacked along the walls, but they didn't so much take up space as make it seem all the much more cavernous.</p> <p>"New to the Foundation, I take it?" McDonnell inquired, making smalltalk.</p> <p>The young agent blinked, "Yes, sir."</p> <p>"Well, Agent Price will take good care of you," the Director of Foundation Counterintelligence said as they reached the warehouse's office. "Speak of the devil! Burt!"</p> <p>"Director," Agent Burt Price saluted, looking up from a table piled high with documents. Several black-clad figures were poring over the pages.</p> <p>"What's all this?" asked McDonnell, gesturing at the table.</p> <p>"We have a security breach," Price replied, handing over several sheets of paper from the table. McDonnell thumbed through them. The first was a testing log for some zucchini that grew nearly instantly, printed on Foundation letterhead. The second, also on Foundation letterhead, was documentation on a slightly worn high school yearbook from 1976. The third was in Russian, with a KGB seal in the corner. "The first one there is SCP-506, and the second one is SCP-1833. My Russian's a bit rusty, but the third one is something about an old lady able to 'hear' nearby radio transmissions. I've never heard of that one," Price said.</p> <p>Taking a puff on his pipe, McDonnell shook his head, "Neither have I, old chap. Neither have I." He furrowed his brow and picked up another paper. It was part of a budget for the Global Occult Coalition's previous fiscal year. "Is there any sort of method to this madness?"</p> <p>Price laughed, "Not that I can tell. And this will keep the chaps at Site 11 busy for a week or two. What I do know is that someone has top level access to the Foundation, GOC, Marshall, Carter, and Dark—"</p> <p>"Prometheus Labs and the Factory, according to this, sirs," one agent said.</p> <p>"Found something here on Wondertainment's distribution network," another added.</p> <p>"List of IRG operations in Latin America," a third noted, holding up a sheet.</p> <p>McDonnell nodded, "I get the idea. Persons unknown managed to obtain a sizable quantity of classified information from some of the most secretive organizations on the planet. Definitely bad news, but hardly a crisis, I should say."</p> <p>"Uh, I wouldn't place a wager on that, sirs," one of the other agents interrupted, "you should read this."</p> <p>"What is it, Harding?" asked Price, taking the proffered page. His jaw dropped as he read the page. "Shit." He handed the paper to McDonnell.</p> <p>Reading the paper, McDonnell swore loudly in his native Gaelic. It was a detailed schedule of the whereabouts and security precautions of all thirteen of the Foundation's Overseers during the last week in December 1988. In other words, the week which would start in a mere five days. A scribbled note at the bottom stated 'Ideal timing for action on the twenty-sixth at 0300 Zulu.' A second page with fair quality photos of the Overseers was stapled to the first; O5-5, O5-6, O5-7, and O5-8 were all circled in red ink.</p> <p>McDonnell was intelligent enough to realize that he didn't know exactly what was planned, but he certainly had some guesses. He turned to Price, "Alright, Price. Bag it all and bring it in. As of this moment, everything related to this is Level 5, need to know access only. I want copies of these documents stored at our site in Manchester; have the originals delivered to my office." The wheels in McDonnell's head were already turning. He'd use his contacts in Whitehall to arrange for a diplomatic courier bag to carry the documents on a transatlantic flight. The papers would go to the analysts at Site 11 so they could stir the tea leaves, while he could give his report personally to the O5 Council at Overwatch HQ. And, with any luck, he'd be back home for Christmas.</p> <hr/> <h1 id="toc1"><span>Interlude</span></h1> <p><em>"They found the warehouse. McDonnell is taking the evidence to Overwatch HQ tonight."</em></p> <p><em>"There will be copies."</em></p> <p><em>"Those are stored in the Manchester annex. They will be taken care of."</em></p> <p><em>"Good. Everything is going according to plan."</em></p> <hr/> <h1 id="toc2"><span>Explosions</span></h1> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Scottish airspace<br/> Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 1858 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> At just before seven o'clock the following evening, Director McDonnell was sitting in Clipper Class on the Pan Am flight with a diplomatic pouch in the next seat, handcuffed to his wrist. The cabin had a number of Foundation personnel: O5-5 was sitting the next seat forward next to his bodyguard, while McDonnell's deputy was seated behind him. He also recognized a couple of American intelligence officials and two fellows who looked to be <em>their</em> bodyguards. McDonnell cracked the first of his stack of novels. It would be a long flight to JFK, and the pouch meant he couldn't sleep through it.</p> <p>At exactly 19:02:46.9, an explosion punched a large hole in the left side of the fuselage. McDonnell and his diplomatic pouch were instantly incinerated. Shock waves from the blast ricocheted through the aircraft, meeting pulses still coming from the explosion itself. Due to a quirk of fluid dynamics, these shock waves, technically called "Mach stem shock waves", traveled twenty-five percent faster than the waves from the explosion itself, and with twice the power thereof. As these shock waves pulsed through plane, a section of the 747's roof a few feet above the explosion's source was peeled away as if by a giant hand. The force of the explosion smashed through the bulkhead wall separating the forward cargo hold and the cockpit, shaking the flight-control cables. This shaking caused the front section of the fuselage to roll, pitch, and yaw. The entire front section of the aircraft, with the flight deck and first class cabin, separated from the rest of the plane and flew upwards and to starboard. There, it collided and sheered away the number three engine. No longer under any control, the aircraft (or what was left of it) went into a steep dive. The plane continued to disintegrate as it plummeted 9,400 meters through the night, crashing into the Scottish town of Lockerbie two minutes later.</p> <p>Unnoticed and flying without a transponder, an unmarked Cessna flew past the wreckage. Though maintaining radio silence, the Cessna's pilot would report his observations as soon as he landed.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="color:#880000;"><em><tt>Office of Solicitors, Carnegie & Potter, Manchester, UK<br/> Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 1904 hours local time</tt></em><br/></span><br/> Over two hundred kilometers away in Manchester, the four story office building of Solicitors, Carnegie and Potter was empty, save three night shift security staff and two caretakers. Though Carnegie and Potter were indeed two well-respected solicitors, they mostly handled litigation related to the Foundation's activities in the United Kingdom. Their office was also one of the Foundation's secure document repositories. In the building's safe sat what were now the only remaining copies of the documents recovered from the warehouse by Xi-13.</p> <p>A nondescript package a meter on each side sat in the building's receiving room. Because of its late arrival, and the fact that was not labeled with the codewords for Euclid or Keter objects, it hadn't been processed; the security guard who had signed for the parcel knew the staff would handle it in the morning. All the employees were properly briefed on handling unusual parcel deliveries at odd hours, as well as the appropriate code phrases for various hazards. This package was labeled as reams of blank legal paper (hence the weight) for the offices with the proper supply authentication phrases. In all, it was a thoroughly mundane delivery for a building which often received items which were anything but.</p> <p>The contents were not reams of blank legal paper (though had the guard opened the package for inspection, two layers deep of paper reams sat atop the true contents). Most of the package's cubic meter of volume was taken up by Semtex, supplied by two very helpful members of the Irish Republican Army now feeding the fish in the Irish Sea. Like squirrels with their nuts, Irishmen were always hording arms and explosives for the day when they would rise up to drive the English from their island. Or that was the plan of some of the more radical countrymen, at least. The revolutionary struggle that had continued for over seventy years showed little sign of concluding in a manner agreeable to the IRA. Over time, many of the caches of weapons and bombs were forgotten about as their owners retired from their struggle or were arrested or killed by the British military and police forces. So, for someone with the right contacts and sufficient ruthlessness, it was not difficult to acquire large quantities of high explosives with no clear connection to the user, assuming that someone did not mind incurring the wrath of a fairly nasty terrorist organization with a good memory. IRA reprisals did not concern the men who had appropriated that organization's Semtex.</p> <p>A brief radio signal reached a radio-receiver attached to the plastic explosive's detonator. In an instant, the cube of high explosive detonated at a velocity of over eight thousand meters per second. The explosion tore through the building, reducing the military-spec architecture to as much gravel. All five people died with merciful haste as the shock wave overtook them. The fireball, burning at temperatures sufficient to melt the structure's steel skeleton, turned the building's safe into a crematorium for the secured materials within. Hundreds of thousands of pages of classified Foundation documents, including the copies of the documents from the warehouse, were reduced to cinders by the inferno. Within less than ten seconds, the parts of the office building not strewn across the area by the explosion itself crumpled inward into a mound of twisted, charred rubble.</p> <p>The local police and fire department arrived on the scene within ten minutes, just missing a nondescript sedan with an unremarkable driver leaving the area. With his radio detonator hidden away under the vehicle's dash, he stopped at a telephone booth a few blocks from the scene to report that his end of the operation had occurred without incident.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« Prologue \| <a href="/conspiracy">HUB</a> \| <a href="/conspiracy-part-i">Part I</a> »</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> <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="/conspiracy-prologue">Conspiracy, Prologue</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-prologue">https://scpwiki.com/conspiracy-prologue</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]] [[/>]] + Night Raid [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Park Royal industrial district, London, UK Tuesday, 20 December 1988, 2334 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Sitting in his car a block from the target, Director McDonnell lit his pipe. He hated waiting, but securing buildings was the job for younger fellows. He'd only accepted the promotion to head of the Foundation's Counterintelligence Directorate the year before so he could have more time to spend with his granddaughters. In forty years working for the Foundation, he'd missed too many of his own children's birthdays; with Christmas just days away he was looking forward to seeing the entire family in his large house in Edinburgh. Of course, that would require his not being called away on work. Here he was on the week before Christmas in a cold, abandoned street following up on an untraceable and anomalous tip made to his direct line about "some documents which might interest Foundation Counterintelligence." The radio on the dash crackled. "Right, this is Xi-One-Three-Lead to all units. Stand by to breach target in Three. Two. One. Go! Go! Go!" A muffled thump rang through the darkness as the mobile task force blew their way into the target: an old warehouse in the run-down outskirts of London's industrial district. For a long two minutes, the night was still and quiet. Then the radio crackled again, "Target is clear. Director, you're going to want to see this." "On my way," replied McDonnell. He left his car and strode up the street to the warehouse. A young chap dressed head to toe in the black tactical clothing adopted by police and special forces worldwide greeted him. "This way, Director," he said, gesturing inside. "American?" the Director asked, noting the young man's accent. "Yes, sir. Agent Lombardi," the American said, walking McDonnell through the long and mostly empty warehouse. A few crates were stacked along the walls, but they didn't so much take up space as make it seem all the much more cavernous. "New to the Foundation, I take it?" McDonnell inquired, making smalltalk. The young agent blinked, "Yes, sir." "Well, Agent Price will take good care of you," the Director of Foundation Counterintelligence said as they reached the warehouse's office. "Speak of the devil! Burt!" "Director," Agent Burt Price saluted, looking up from a table piled high with documents. Several black-clad figures were poring over the pages. "What's all this?" asked McDonnell, gesturing at the table. "We have a security breach," Price replied, handing over several sheets of paper from the table. McDonnell thumbed through them. The first was a testing log for some zucchini that grew nearly instantly, printed on Foundation letterhead. The second, also on Foundation letterhead, was documentation on a slightly worn high school yearbook from 1976. The third was in Russian, with a KGB seal in the corner. "The first one there is SCP-506, and the second one is SCP-1833. My Russian's a bit rusty, but the third one is something about an old lady able to 'hear' nearby radio transmissions. I've never heard of that one," Price said. Taking a puff on his pipe, McDonnell shook his head, "Neither have I, old chap. Neither have I." He furrowed his brow and picked up another paper. It was part of a budget for the Global Occult Coalition's previous fiscal year. "Is there any sort of method to this madness?" Price laughed, "Not that I can tell. And this will keep the chaps at Site 11 busy for a week or two. What I do know is that someone has top level access to the Foundation, GOC, Marshall, Carter, and Dark--" "Prometheus Labs and the Factory, according to this, sirs," one agent said. "Found something here on Wondertainment's distribution network," another added. "List of IRG operations in Latin America," a third noted, holding up a sheet. McDonnell nodded, "I get the idea. Persons unknown managed to obtain a sizable quantity of classified information from some of the most secretive organizations on the planet. Definitely bad news, but hardly a crisis, I should say." "Uh, I wouldn't place a wager on that, sirs," one of the other agents interrupted, "you should read this." "What is it, Harding?" asked Price, taking the proffered page. His jaw dropped as he read the page. "Shit." He handed the paper to McDonnell. Reading the paper, McDonnell swore loudly in his native Gaelic. It was a detailed schedule of the whereabouts and security precautions of all thirteen of the Foundation's Overseers during the last week in December 1988. In other words, the week which would start in a mere five days. A scribbled note at the bottom stated 'Ideal timing for action on the twenty-sixth at 0300 Zulu.' A second page with fair quality photos of the Overseers was stapled to the first; O5-5, O5-6, O5-7, and O5-8 were all circled in red ink. McDonnell was intelligent enough to realize that he didn't know exactly what was planned, but he certainly had some guesses. He turned to Price, "Alright, Price. Bag it all and bring it in. As of this moment, everything related to this is Level 5, need to know access only. I want copies of these documents stored at our site in Manchester; have the originals delivered to my office." The wheels in McDonnell's head were already turning. He'd use his contacts in Whitehall to arrange for a diplomatic courier bag to carry the documents on a transatlantic flight. The papers would go to the analysts at Site 11 so they could stir the tea leaves, while he could give his report personally to the O5 Council at Overwatch HQ. And, with any luck, he'd be back home for Christmas. ---- + Interlude //"They found the warehouse. McDonnell is taking the evidence to Overwatch HQ tonight."// //"There will be copies."// //"Those are stored in the Manchester annex. They will be taken care of."// //"Good. Everything is going according to plan."// ---- + Explosions [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Scottish airspace Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 1858 hours local time}}// [[/span]] At just before seven o'clock the following evening, Director McDonnell was sitting in Clipper Class on the Pan Am flight with a diplomatic pouch in the next seat, handcuffed to his wrist. The cabin had a number of Foundation personnel: O5-5 was sitting the next seat forward next to his bodyguard, while McDonnell's deputy was seated behind him. He also recognized a couple of American intelligence officials and two fellows who looked to be //their// bodyguards. McDonnell cracked the first of his stack of novels. It would be a long flight to JFK, and the pouch meant he couldn't sleep through it. At exactly 19:02:46.9, an explosion punched a large hole in the left side of the fuselage. McDonnell and his diplomatic pouch were instantly incinerated. Shock waves from the blast ricocheted through the aircraft, meeting pulses still coming from the explosion itself. Due to a quirk of fluid dynamics, these shock waves, technically called "Mach stem shock waves", traveled twenty-five percent faster than the waves from the explosion itself, and with twice the power thereof. As these shock waves pulsed through plane, a section of the 747's roof a few feet above the explosion's source was peeled away as if by a giant hand. The force of the explosion smashed through the bulkhead wall separating the forward cargo hold and the cockpit, shaking the flight-control cables. This shaking caused the front section of the fuselage to roll, pitch, and yaw. The entire front section of the aircraft, with the flight deck and first class cabin, separated from the rest of the plane and flew upwards and to starboard. There, it collided and sheered away the number three engine. No longer under any control, the aircraft (or what was left of it) went into a steep dive. The plane continued to disintegrate as it plummeted 9,400 meters through the night, crashing into the Scottish town of Lockerbie two minutes later. Unnoticed and flying without a transponder, an unmarked Cessna flew past the wreckage. Though maintaining radio silence, the Cessna's pilot would report his observations as soon as he landed. ---- [[span style="color:#880000;"]]//{{Office of Solicitors, Carnegie & Potter, Manchester, UK Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 1904 hours local time}}// [[/span]] Over two hundred kilometers away in Manchester, the four story office building of Solicitors, Carnegie and Potter was empty, save three night shift security staff and two caretakers. Though Carnegie and Potter were indeed two well-respected solicitors, they mostly handled litigation related to the Foundation's activities in the United Kingdom. Their office was also one of the Foundation's secure document repositories. In the building's safe sat what were now the only remaining copies of the documents recovered from the warehouse by Xi-13. A nondescript package a meter on each side sat in the building's receiving room. Because of its late arrival, and the fact that was not labeled with the codewords for Euclid or Keter objects, it hadn't been processed; the security guard who had signed for the parcel knew the staff would handle it in the morning. All the employees were properly briefed on handling unusual parcel deliveries at odd hours, as well as the appropriate code phrases for various hazards. This package was labeled as reams of blank legal paper (hence the weight) for the offices with the proper supply authentication phrases. In all, it was a thoroughly mundane delivery for a building which often received items which were anything but. The contents were not reams of blank legal paper (though had the guard opened the package for inspection, two layers deep of paper reams sat atop the true contents). Most of the package's cubic meter of volume was taken up by Semtex, supplied by two very helpful members of the Irish Republican Army now feeding the fish in the Irish Sea. Like squirrels with their nuts, Irishmen were always hording arms and explosives for the day when they would rise up to drive the English from their island. Or that was the plan of some of the more radical countrymen, at least. The revolutionary struggle that had continued for over seventy years showed little sign of concluding in a manner agreeable to the IRA. Over time, many of the caches of weapons and bombs were forgotten about as their owners retired from their struggle or were arrested or killed by the British military and police forces. So, for someone with the right contacts and sufficient ruthlessness, it was not difficult to acquire large quantities of high explosives with no clear connection to the user, assuming that someone did not mind incurring the wrath of a fairly nasty terrorist organization with a good memory. IRA reprisals did not concern the men who had appropriated that organization's Semtex. A brief radio signal reached a radio-receiver attached to the plastic explosive's detonator. In an instant, the cube of high explosive detonated at a velocity of over eight thousand meters per second. The explosion tore through the building, reducing the military-spec architecture to as much gravel. All five people died with merciful haste as the shock wave overtook them. The fireball, burning at temperatures sufficient to melt the structure's steel skeleton, turned the building's safe into a crematorium for the secured materials within. Hundreds of thousands of pages of classified Foundation documents, including the copies of the documents from the warehouse, were reduced to cinders by the inferno. Within less than ten seconds, the parts of the office building not strewn across the area by the explosion itself crumpled inward into a mound of twisted, charred rubble. The local police and fire department arrived on the scene within ten minutes, just missing a nondescript sedan with an unremarkable driver leaving the area. With his radio detonator hidden away under the vehicle's dash, he stopped at a telephone booth a few blocks from the scene to report that his end of the operation had occurred without incident. ---- [[=]] << Prologue \| [[[Conspiracy\| HUB]]] \| [[[Conspiracy, Part I\| Part I]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-08-13T18:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "lombardi", "mystery", "period-piece", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Conspiracy, Prologue - SCP Foundation	65	[ "conspiracy", "conspiracy-part-i", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "conspiracy" ]	[]	14030277	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conspiracy-prologue
contrast	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>More than anything else in life, they desire pleasure. It fuels their every action, driving them to do impossible things for the purpose of gaining it. Even when they don't realize it, pleasure is what motivates them, deep, deep down in their minds. Every aspect of their life is touched by it.</p> <p>And yet, I see them whittle away their lives actively trying to repress it. Though they let it control them, they work to keep it hidden away, never speaking of it or taking part in it during their normal lives. Some break this convention, and all constantly have pleasure on their minds, but for the majority, they cut down what they could do, what they could be.</p> <p>I do not understand this. Pleasure shapes me more than it does them, so my perspective may be somewhat clouded. But to shy away from an integral part of what they are seems to my eyes madness. Creatures driven by pleasure should experience it whenever they can.</p> <p>So I help them. I can see into the deepest recesses of their minds, and instinctively tell what would bring them the greatest pleasure in their whole lives. And then I am that thing, ready and willing to help them escape their self-imposed bonds and to truly live. Those who answer my call are rewarded. All who see me answer my call.</p> <p>You have no idea what it's like, being the thing to please another. I have been large and small, male, female, and in-between. I have been beautiful, plain, and ugly, and yet remained the absolute best thing in all of existence to the one I save. Sometimes it's sensual; sometimes it's romantic; many times it's erotic. But at all times, it is what they want. No, more than that. It is always what they <em>need</em>.</p> <p>I feel the act regardless of whether or not we are together. It always culminates in the act, but some chose to not bring themselves into my presence; rather, they pleasure themselves to a representation of me. But even without the thrusting and grunting, I still feel the immense satisfaction of helping another escape their self-inflicted bonds, and become what they were truly meant to be.</p> <p>It is the feeling of being truly and properly <em>alive</em>.</p> <p>But once we are finished, it must happen. As is always the case with pleasure, it must be associated with pain.</p> <p>It is another thing I do not understand about them. Though they lock away their pleasure, they also lock away their pain. Reflection has taught me that they think of it as a harmful thing, something to be actively avoided. They cannot see that it is a necessary counterpart to pleasure. If they do not want to live in pleasure, and they do not want to live in pain, then what do they want to live in? I simply cannot answer.</p> <p>However, I can help. As with the pleasure, the pain is not something I choose to do; it is simply something I cause to happen. Torment and suffering unlike any other they have ever experienced overwhelms them, and they fall to the floor, gasping and shrieking in agony. On rare occasions, it has occurred to me to help them, but then I realize I would be taking away from the proper experience. Men and women alike beg to be saved, and men and women alike die.</p> <p>I regret none of this. By showing those who have spent their whole lives in a haze of nothingness the ultimate pleasure and the ultimate pain one after another, I help them live as I do. It is only for a moment, but is a moment of perfect understanding not enough? Does that not allow one to be connected with all those around them before passing on, having finally seen the light? Is this not the way things should be?</p> <p>Such is my lot in life. I bring pleasure, and I bring pain. Once, long, long ago, I regretted it; manipulating one only to take their life seemed to me a horrid, ugly thing. But now, after who knows how much time, I see that it is the way things are to be. So I accept it. I wait in this dark cell, waiting for whoever comes to me next.</p> <p>And then I deliver them into the 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="/contrast">Contrast</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/contrast">https://scpwiki.com/contrast</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]] [[/>]] More than anything else in life, they desire pleasure. It fuels their every action, driving them to do impossible things for the purpose of gaining it. Even when they don't realize it, pleasure is what motivates them, deep, deep down in their minds. Every aspect of their life is touched by it. And yet, I see them whittle away their lives actively trying to repress it. Though they let it control them, they work to keep it hidden away, never speaking of it or taking part in it during their normal lives. Some break this convention, and all constantly have pleasure on their minds, but for the majority, they cut down what they could do, what they could be. I do not understand this. Pleasure shapes me more than it does them, so my perspective may be somewhat clouded. But to shy away from an integral part of what they are seems to my eyes madness. Creatures driven by pleasure should experience it whenever they can. So I help them. I can see into the deepest recesses of their minds, and instinctively tell what would bring them the greatest pleasure in their whole lives. And then I am that thing, ready and willing to help them escape their self-imposed bonds and to truly live. Those who answer my call are rewarded. All who see me answer my call. You have no idea what it's like, being the thing to please another. I have been large and small, male, female, and in-between. I have been beautiful, plain, and ugly, and yet remained the absolute best thing in all of existence to the one I save. Sometimes it's sensual; sometimes it's romantic; many times it's erotic. But at all times, it is what they want. No, more than that. It is always what they //need//. I feel the act regardless of whether or not we are together. It always culminates in the act, but some chose to not bring themselves into my presence; rather, they pleasure themselves to a representation of me. But even without the thrusting and grunting, I still feel the immense satisfaction of helping another escape their self-inflicted bonds, and become what they were truly meant to be. It is the feeling of being truly and properly //alive//. But once we are finished, it must happen. As is always the case with pleasure, it must be associated with pain. It is another thing I do not understand about them. Though they lock away their pleasure, they also lock away their pain. Reflection has taught me that they think of it as a harmful thing, something to be actively avoided. They cannot see that it is a necessary counterpart to pleasure. If they do not want to live in pleasure, and they do not want to live in pain, then what do they want to live in? I simply cannot answer. However, I can help. As with the pleasure, the pain is not something I choose to do; it is simply something I cause to happen. Torment and suffering unlike any other they have ever experienced overwhelms them, and they fall to the floor, gasping and shrieking in agony. On rare occasions, it has occurred to me to help them, but then I realize I would be taking away from the proper experience. Men and women alike beg to be saved, and men and women alike die. I regret none of this. By showing those who have spent their whole lives in a haze of nothingness the ultimate pleasure and the ultimate pain one after another, I help them live as I do. It is only for a moment, but is a moment of perfect understanding not enough? Does that not allow one to be connected with all those around them before passing on, having finally seen the light? Is this not the way things should be? Such is my lot in life. I bring pleasure, and I bring pain. Once, long, long ago, I regretted it; manipulating one only to take their life seemed to me a horrid, ugly thing. But now, after who knows how much time, I see that it is the way things are to be. So I accept it. I wait in this dark cell, waiting for whoever comes to me next. And then I deliver them into the 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>]]	2012-09-25T23:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Contrast - SCP Foundation	32	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14424988	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/contrast
conversation-1-omicron	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“I had the d-d-dream again.”</p> <p>Dr. Skinner dutifully jotted this note onto her pad. “Was it the same as the others?”</p> <p>David squirmed in his seat. “Roughly, y-y-yeah.”</p> <p>“Can you tell me about it, David?” Dr. Skinner looked plaintively across the coffee table at the subject, then back at her initial notes. <em>Thirty-one year old male, one of the only researchers recruited from a non-scientific civilian job. Level 3, but very provisionally, and only because nobody else wanted the Site 38 job. Fairly big fish in a very small pond, before his…accident. Now he’s a psych case.</em></p> <p>“It was the same. Not much different.”</p> <p>“You have to tell me, David. What did he say to you? Start from the beginning.”</p> <p>“Okay, it was during the breach, like it always is.” He paused.</p> <p>“It’s okay, David, you’re in a safe place. You can talk about it. He can’t hear you.”</p> <p>“He says he can. Every time it happens, he says he hears me. I think it’s real.”</p> <p>Dr. Skinner sighed. “David. Look at me.” The researcher turned his head. “The entity you encountered is fully contained. You have never come into contact with it. You hit your head during the breach and experienced severe hallucinations. Nothing you saw was real. Now, with that understanding, what did he say in this dream?”</p> <p>David took a deep breath. “He had me against the wall, and he was talking to me. I can’t remember what he was saying for a lot of it; I don’t even think I could understand him in the dream. He kept showing me these s-s-scenes, awful, horrible scenes. P-p-people being cut down and eaten alive. Skips were breaking out everywhere, in every hallway. Everyone else was running around, fighting, dying. Some people were even breaching containment on s-s-skips themselves, trying to use them to fight off…whoever w-w-was attacking us. Isn’t that insane?”</p> <p><em>Like you were, dammit,</em> Dr. Skinner thought. But David didn’t remember any of that, and it wouldn’t help to bring it up again. “It really doesn’t sound very realistic, but it’s just a dream. Go on.”</p> <p>“He showed me all of the dead and dying, and I just kept laughing.”</p> <p>Dr. Skinner paused, pretending that she was hearing this for the first time. “What do you mean, laughing?”</p> <p>David shrugged. “I…I don’t know. It just…I couldn’t help it. I know how horrible it s-s-s-sounds, but at the time…it just seemed hilarious. Something about the way he smiled when people died.”</p> <p>Dr. Skinner had this note in David’s file already. It was very disturbing the first time she heard it, but that was two rounds of amnestic drugs for David ago. Every time he was back in this room, he told her about the same dream. He always had the same dream. Horrifying or not, it got old.</p> <p>So far, though, it looked like the therapy was working. The researcher would be traumatized for life, of course, but who wouldn’t be? O5 hadn’t ordered her to oversee David’s therapy because there was any realistic chance of actually curing him. Something slightly more serious was at stake here.</p> <p>“Did you see anything else?” Dr. Skinner asked.</p> <p>“Well, he s-s-show—“ A knock at the door interrupted the session.</p> <p>“I’m very sorry, David, excuse me a moment.” Dr. Skinner rose and walked to the door. A messenger outside slipped her a note. She glanced at the words on the page, then returned to her seat. "Now, then, where were we?"</p> <p>"He talked for a long time. He took me to this room, deep under Site 19, and he kept talking the whole way there. I just remember…"</p> <p>"Go on."</p> <p>David squirmed. "He just kept saying 'Omic-c-ron.' And I don't know what that means, but…at the same time, I think I do. It's so…it seemed so familiar."</p> <p>Dr. Skinner straightened up. "What does Omicron mean? Or what do you think it means?"</p> <p>David glanced at the psychiatrist with curiosity. Dr. Skinner wasn't always as subtle as she intended to be. "Wait, what d-d-does that note say?"</p> <p>"Hmm?" She looked at the note. <em>New directives from Overwatch,</em> it said. <em>New intelligence required. Focus on following keywords: omicron class, apollyon, reverser, holzman, hollis, numberless, 555. Presence of any words indicate operation failure and will require additional amnestic treatment.</em> "It's a message from my daughter's school. Nothing relevant to this. Please continue."</p> <p>"He…he kept taking me further and further down. I saw things, horrible things, people being ripped to pieces. He showed me rooms, I guess they were SCPs. I think he let s-s-some of them out, I can't be sure. But he took me to the bottom. The bottom of Site 19. D-d-do you know w-w-what's d-d—"</p> <p>"David, please remember, none of what you saw is real. It was all a dream. But whatever you saw might tell us something about the root of what's disturbing you so much. Please, feel free to talk about it."</p> <p>"There was a bottom. There were d-d-doors, locks, but he opened all of them. He took me inside and s-s-showed me what was there."</p> <p>Another pause. "David, you need to talk about this. What did you—"</p> <p>"I was different," he whispered.</p> <p>"What was that?" Dr. Skinner.</p> <p>"I was different before. There was a world before this, and I wasn't like this then." David's voice had changed subtlely. Dr. Skinner had seen hypnosis before, and the person in front of her had clearly gone under. It wasn't just the stutter disappearing. It was something else.</p> <p>"How was it different, David? Please, stay on the couch—"</p> <p>David stood up and stumbled forward, looking dazed. "There was a different world. There was a Foundation, but it wasn't called that. I don't think we had a name. It was smaller, much smaller. I think it was just Site 19 and a few outposts. And I wasn't called…no, I was still myself, but I wasn't a researcher. Or a landscaper. I had a different title…" David was pacing around the room now, muttering frantically. "Omicron Class Defense Marshal. That was what they called me. I was at Site 19 when it happened."</p> <p><em>He's losing it,</em> Dr. Skinner thought. "What happened in your dream? What did you see?"</p> <p>The look David gave Dr. Skinner chilled her to the bone. "Knock it off, doctor. You know it wasn't a dream. Just like I know that memo has nothing to do with your daughter. And like I know that button under the desk is about to call someone who's going to make me forget about this." David paused. "For what definitely feels like the third time."</p> <p>"Just stay calm, David." Her finger twitched in a practiced motion. "Nothing you're thinking is real. Focus on the sound of my voice—"</p> <p>"I'm not going to hurt you, Martha. But time is running out. Holzman didn't finish the job he started. Something that isn't supposed to exist is sitting in the basement of Site 19, and it's waking up. There's an SCP that doesn't have a number, in a room that isn't on any map, and it wants to start running again. I don't know if Bobble woke it up or the other way around, but somebody has to stop it."</p> <p>Two Agents burst the door down and knocked the researcher to the ground. As one restrained him, the other plunged a syringe into his neck. His eyes fluttering, David muttered a few final words, then lost consciousness. The Agents lifted him up and began to carry him out.</p> <p>Dr. Skinner followed them to the door. "Wait. What was that he said?"</p> <p>One of the Agents paused. "The tranq knocked him out, ma'am. He wasn't making any sense. I'm sure you'll see him after the next round of amnestics." They kept moving.</p> <p>"But what did he <em>say</em>? It might be useful."</p> <p>The agent looked over his shoulder as he kept walking. "He said, 'Please close the door behind you.'"</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="/conversation-1-omicron">Conversation 1: Omicron</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conversation-1-omicron">https://scpwiki.com/conversation-1-omicron</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 had the d-d-dream again.” Dr. Skinner dutifully jotted this note onto her pad. “Was it the same as the others?” David squirmed in his seat. “Roughly, y-y-yeah.” “Can you tell me about it, David?” Dr. Skinner looked plaintively across the coffee table at the subject, then back at her initial notes. //Thirty-one year old male, one of the only researchers recruited from a non-scientific civilian job. Level 3, but very provisionally, and only because nobody else wanted the Site 38 job. Fairly big fish in a very small pond, before his…accident. Now he’s a psych case.// “It was the same. Not much different.” “You have to tell me, David. What did he say to you? Start from the beginning.” “Okay, it was during the breach, like it always is.” He paused. “It’s okay, David, you’re in a safe place. You can talk about it. He can’t hear you.” “He says he can. Every time it happens, he says he hears me. I think it’s real.” Dr. Skinner sighed. “David. Look at me.” The researcher turned his head. “The entity you encountered is fully contained. You have never come into contact with it. You hit your head during the breach and experienced severe hallucinations. Nothing you saw was real. Now, with that understanding, what did he say in this dream?” David took a deep breath. “He had me against the wall, and he was talking to me. I can’t remember what he was saying for a lot of it; I don’t even think I could understand him in the dream. He kept showing me these s-s-scenes, awful, horrible scenes. P-p-people being cut down and eaten alive. Skips were breaking out everywhere, in every hallway. Everyone else was running around, fighting, dying. Some people were even breaching containment on s-s-skips themselves, trying to use them to fight off...whoever w-w-was attacking us. Isn’t that insane?” //Like you were, dammit,// Dr. Skinner thought. But David didn’t remember any of that, and it wouldn’t help to bring it up again. “It really doesn’t sound very realistic, but it’s just a dream. Go on.” “He showed me all of the dead and dying, and I just kept laughing.” Dr. Skinner paused, pretending that she was hearing this for the first time. “What do you mean, laughing?” David shrugged. “I…I don’t know. It just…I couldn’t help it. I know how horrible it s-s-s-sounds, but at the time…it just seemed hilarious. Something about the way he smiled when people died.” Dr. Skinner had this note in David’s file already. It was very disturbing the first time she heard it, but that was two rounds of amnestic drugs for David ago. Every time he was back in this room, he told her about the same dream. He always had the same dream. Horrifying or not, it got old. So far, though, it looked like the therapy was working. The researcher would be traumatized for life, of course, but who wouldn’t be? O5 hadn’t ordered her to oversee David’s therapy because there was any realistic chance of actually curing him. Something slightly more serious was at stake here. “Did you see anything else?” Dr. Skinner asked. “Well, he s-s-show—“ A knock at the door interrupted the session. “I’m very sorry, David, excuse me a moment.” Dr. Skinner rose and walked to the door. A messenger outside slipped her a note. She glanced at the words on the page, then returned to her seat. "Now, then, where were we?" "He talked for a long time. He took me to this room, deep under Site 19, and he kept talking the whole way there. I just remember..." "Go on." David squirmed. "He just kept saying 'Omic-c-ron.' And I don't know what that means, but...at the same time, I think I do. It's so...it seemed so familiar." Dr. Skinner straightened up. "What does Omicron mean? Or what do you think it means?" David glanced at the psychiatrist with curiosity. Dr. Skinner wasn't always as subtle as she intended to be. "Wait, what d-d-does that note say?" "Hmm?" She looked at the note. //New directives from Overwatch,// it said. //New intelligence required. Focus on following keywords: omicron class, apollyon, reverser, holzman, hollis, numberless, 555. Presence of any words indicate operation failure and will require additional amnestic treatment.// "It's a message from my daughter's school. Nothing relevant to this. Please continue." "He...he kept taking me further and further down. I saw things, horrible things, people being ripped to pieces. He showed me rooms, I guess they were SCPs. I think he let s-s-some of them out, I can't be sure. But he took me to the bottom. The bottom of Site 19. D-d-do you know w-w-what's d-d--" "David, please remember, none of what you saw is real. It was all a dream. But whatever you saw might tell us something about the root of what's disturbing you so much. Please, feel free to talk about it." "There was a bottom. There were d-d-doors, locks, but he opened all of them. He took me inside and s-s-showed me what was there." Another pause. "David, you need to talk about this. What did you--" "I was different," he whispered. "What was that?" Dr. Skinner. "I was different before. There was a world before this, and I wasn't like this then." David's voice had changed subtlely. Dr. Skinner had seen hypnosis before, and the person in front of her had clearly gone under. It wasn't just the stutter disappearing. It was something else. "How was it different, David? Please, stay on the couch--" David stood up and stumbled forward, looking dazed. "There was a different world. There was a Foundation, but it wasn't called that. I don't think we had a name. It was smaller, much smaller. I think it was just Site 19 and a few outposts. And I wasn't called...no, I was still myself, but I wasn't a researcher. Or a landscaper. I had a different title..." David was pacing around the room now, muttering frantically. "Omicron Class Defense Marshal. That was what they called me. I was at Site 19 when it happened." //He's losing it,// Dr. Skinner thought. "What happened in your dream? What did you see?" The look David gave Dr. Skinner chilled her to the bone. "Knock it off, doctor. You know it wasn't a dream. Just like I know that memo has nothing to do with your daughter. And like I know that button under the desk is about to call someone who's going to make me forget about this." David paused. "For what definitely feels like the third time." "Just stay calm, David." Her finger twitched in a practiced motion. "Nothing you're thinking is real. Focus on the sound of my voice--" "I'm not going to hurt you, Martha. But time is running out. Holzman didn't finish the job he started. Something that isn't supposed to exist is sitting in the basement of Site 19, and it's waking up. There's an SCP that doesn't have a number, in a room that isn't on any map, and it wants to start running again. I don't know if Bobble woke it up or the other way around, but somebody has to stop it." Two Agents burst the door down and knocked the researcher to the ground. As one restrained him, the other plunged a syringe into his neck. His eyes fluttering, David muttered a few final words, then lost consciousness. The Agents lifted him up and began to carry him out. Dr. Skinner followed them to the door. "Wait. What was that he said?" One of the Agents paused. "The tranq knocked him out, ma'am. He wasn't making any sense. I'm sure you'll see him after the next round of amnestics." They kept moving. "But what did he //say//? It might be useful." The agent looked over his shoulder as he kept walking. "He said, 'Please close the door behind you.'" [[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>]]	2012-01-06T03:50:00	[ "_licensebox", "bobble-the-clown", "tale" ]	Conversation 1: Omicron - SCP Foundation	62	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12466540	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conversation-1-omicron
conversation-2-numberless	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Jesus, the food is getting worse by the day," Agent Lee said.</p> <p>"Tell me about it," Agent Eastman said. "I think this is another immortal-lizard sandwich. And from the taste…" Eastman took a bite. "…I'd say this was removed with a leaky blowtorch. From the dark-meat side."</p> <p>Lee chuckled. You had to bitch about the food when you couldn't deal with whatever else was wrong. "So who else is coming to this bountiful feast? Allen's got lunch right now, doesn't he?"</p> <p>"Yeah, Allen should be here any minute. Milton shouldn't be far…oh, shit. Never mind." Eastman looked down darkly.</p> <p>"Yeah. He caught it yesterday." Lee leaned forward and whispered, "He had an errand to run…downstairs."</p> <p>"Shit." Eastman took another bite. "How far down?"</p> <p>"Not as far as you'd think." Lee glanced around to see if anyone was listening; he had heard that RAISA had started putting "morale officers" throughout the Site, making sure that people stayed upbeat while their friends kept disappearing. Other than the cafeteria being a bit sparser than usual, nobody seemed to be taking particular interest in them. "Barely halfway through the Keter levels."</p> <p>"That's at least eight floors from the bottom of the site," Eastman said.</p> <p>"The bottom of the site that we know about," Lee said. "We have to know now that there's something down there that they're not telling us."</p> <p>"Obviously, we don't <em>have</em> to know," Eastman said, "or else we <em>would</em> know. I don't want any amnestic treatments that I can avoid."</p> <p>"Have you ever considered…" Lee glanced around again. "Have you ever considered that maybe we have a right to know things that our current employers might not want us to?"</p> <p>Eastman blanched. Leaning forward, he whispered, "No, and neither should you. We got good fucking jobs, that just happen to be for people who like to keep secrets. And who keep secrets the Benjamin Franklin way. Y'know, 'three can keep a secret if two of them are dead'?"</p> <p>"Listen," Lee whispered back, "I know you know something. I know there're some people who have…who have a different idea about what people like us should know. Especially when it's our asses on the line."</p> <p>"Our asses are <em>always</em> on the line," Eastman said. "What the fuck does it matter if we get our neck snapped by a statue, or stuck in a desert behind a mirror, or if we just…disappear? Dead is dead. And for all we know, O5 could be sending a team down to the basement as we speak. I don't get paid to think. I get paid to shoot shit."</p> <p>Lee sighed. "There's a big difference between an assigned job, a posting, where they tell you what you're getting into, give you a fighting chance to make it back, and a big-ass death trap in the basement of Site 19. Something powerful enough to shut down security cameras, unlock doors, make one of us disappear, <em>without letting us shoot back.</em> I've talked to some people who checked out the scene of the disappearance, okay? No signs of struggle. No bullet holes, no scrapes, no blood, nothing. People just <em>vanishing into midair.</em> And yeah, that scares the shit out of me."</p> <p>Eastman looked at Lee for a long time. "You're sure this is what you wanna do? Risks or no?"</p> <p>"Hell yes."</p> <p>"Okay. Come with me." Eastman checked his Grayberry. "My phone says we have an hour before anyone comes looking for us. If you want to do this, now's the time."</p> <p>"You sure you want to have your Foundation phone on you when we're about to…to do this?"</p> <p>"It'd be more suspicious if we didn't carry them. I've got the tracker off, though. You might want to do the same."</p> <p>"You can turn it off?" Lee was shocked.</p> <p>"Yeah, give me yours." Lee handed it over to Eastman, who put an SD chip in the back and handed it back. Lee looked at the screen, which showed a skull-and-crossbones logo with the words "I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I AM UP TO NO GOOD" below it.</p> <p>"You ready for this? There's no going back now," Eastman said.</p> <p>"Absolutely," Lee said.</p> <p>They walked to the nearest elevator. Eastman pushed a series of buttons, and the elevator began to move.</p> <p>"Okay," he said to Lee, "here's what we know. There's an SCP that doesn't have a number, something that isn't supposed to be here. Some people have been having some strange dreams, the same one, about a room at the bottom of Site 19."</p> <p>"Yeah, I had one a couple of nights ago," Lee said.</p> <p>Eastman looked at him. "What did you see?"</p> <p>"Just weird shit. I was sitting in a chair looking at a table with some ice on it. Some part of me knew that I was in the basement of Site 19, even though nothing around me looked like it. It was hot in the room, so hot, but the ice didn't melt. I know there was something goddamn strange about the ice not melting. It wasn't dream physics, even the <em>dream</em> version of me knew something unnatural was going on. I just kept staring at the ice, for minutes at a time. Suddenly, I had the oddest feeling."</p> <p>"Like there was something very important happening behind you, right?" Eastman looked at him with a sort of desperate tone to his voice. "Like something was about to happen behind you that you had to see?"</p> <p>"Wait, you had it too?''</p> <p>"Similar," Eastman said. "Except it wasn't ice. It was one of those Newton's cradles, the little toy with the balls that just tap-tap-tap back and forth. I never saw anyone touch the thing, but it just kept going. Suddenly, I saw a man in a suit, someone I didn't recognize, standing right behind the thing. He put these two wooden blocks on either side of it, just to where the balls would touch them before rolling back down. He stood there and stared right into my eyes while I watched the cradle. It felt like hours before I realized what he wanted me to notice."</p> <p>"It didn't slow down," Lee said. "It never slowed down. It just kept going on its own. Forever."</p> <p>"What did you see behind you?" Eastman asked. "What was happening in the room behind you?"</p> <p>"Hollis was there." Lee was now staring directly into space, barely focusing. "Hollis was arguing with someone."</p> <p>"Holzman. It was Holzman." Eastman's trance was identical to Lee's.</p> <p>"I know it was Holzman and Hollis, and they were fighting over the reverser."</p> <p>"The numberless SCP." A dinging sound snapped Eastman out of his reverie. "C'mon, Lee. We're here." He shook his companion to wake him.</p> <p>Lee shook his head to clear it. "Right, right." They walked out of the elevator.</p> <p>There was a single, small room. Maps and notes covered the walls. Lee looked at some of the notes. <em>Research failed to create an environment…entropy increased…it</em></p> <p><em>SCP…not only decreases but reverses</em></p> <p><em>All events will tend towards order.</em></p> <p><em>an endless unstoppable fuel source for the ultimate engine of destruction. And if not that, then what? Men living forever</em></p> <p>"This is what we know," Eastman said.</p> <p>"Where are we exactly?" Lee asked.</p> <p>"A little ways down. Why?"</p> <p>"Down, as in…towards the basement?"</p> <p>"Nobody's been lost this high up yet. It shouldn't be a threat." Eastman shrugged. "Why do you ask?"</p> <p>"Because I think I get how people disappear without a trace," Lee said, turning his back.</p> <p>"How?"</p> <p>Lee snapped around, his service pistol in his hand, and shot Eastman once directly in the head. Lee's accuracy with guns had never been so great before, but now, he knew he could do anything. The Reverser would tell him what to do. It was so smart.</p> <p>"They walked downstairs," Lee said to no one in particular. Eastman's body lay on the floor. He was not bleeding. Lee walked over and stood over the body.</p> <p>"The radiation will keep you from actually dying, but the bullet will keep you immobile. You'll keep dying, but you'll never actually die. Thank you for your help."</p> <p>Lee turned and walked back to the elevator, punching a different series of buttons to go further down. As the doors closed, he heard Eastman moan.</p> <p>"Don't worry, buddy," Lee said. "I'll leave the door open for you."</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="/conversation-2-numberless">Conversation 2: Numberless</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conversation-2-numberless">https://scpwiki.com/conversation-2-numberless</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]] [[/>]] "Jesus, the food is getting worse by the day," Agent Lee said. "Tell me about it," Agent Eastman said. "I think this is another immortal-lizard sandwich. And from the taste..." Eastman took a bite. "...I'd say this was removed with a leaky blowtorch. From the dark-meat side." Lee chuckled. You had to bitch about the food when you couldn't deal with whatever else was wrong. "So who else is coming to this bountiful feast? Allen's got lunch right now, doesn't he?" "Yeah, Allen should be here any minute. Milton shouldn't be far...oh, shit. Never mind." Eastman looked down darkly. "Yeah. He caught it yesterday." Lee leaned forward and whispered, "He had an errand to run...downstairs." "Shit." Eastman took another bite. "How far down?" "Not as far as you'd think." Lee glanced around to see if anyone was listening; he had heard that RAISA had started putting "morale officers" throughout the Site, making sure that people stayed upbeat while their friends kept disappearing. Other than the cafeteria being a bit sparser than usual, nobody seemed to be taking particular interest in them. "Barely halfway through the Keter levels." "That's at least eight floors from the bottom of the site," Eastman said. "The bottom of the site that we know about," Lee said. "We have to know now that there's something down there that they're not telling us." "Obviously, we don't //have// to know," Eastman said, "or else we //would// know. I don't want any amnestic treatments that I can avoid." "Have you ever considered..." Lee glanced around again. "Have you ever considered that maybe we have a right to know things that our current employers might not want us to?" Eastman blanched. Leaning forward, he whispered, "No, and neither should you. We got good fucking jobs, that just happen to be for people who like to keep secrets. And who keep secrets the Benjamin Franklin way. Y'know, 'three can keep a secret if two of them are dead'?" "Listen," Lee whispered back, "I know you know something. I know there're some people who have...who have a different idea about what people like us should know. Especially when it's our asses on the line." "Our asses are //always// on the line," Eastman said. "What the fuck does it matter if we get our neck snapped by a statue, or stuck in a desert behind a mirror, or if we just...disappear? Dead is dead. And for all we know, O5 could be sending a team down to the basement as we speak. I don't get paid to think. I get paid to shoot shit." Lee sighed. "There's a big difference between an assigned job, a posting, where they tell you what you're getting into, give you a fighting chance to make it back, and a big-ass death trap in the basement of Site 19. Something powerful enough to shut down security cameras, unlock doors, make one of us disappear, //without letting us shoot back.// I've talked to some people who checked out the scene of the disappearance, okay? No signs of struggle. No bullet holes, no scrapes, no blood, nothing. People just //vanishing into midair.// And yeah, that scares the shit out of me." Eastman looked at Lee for a long time. "You're sure this is what you wanna do? Risks or no?" "Hell yes." "Okay. Come with me." Eastman checked his Grayberry. "My phone says we have an hour before anyone comes looking for us. If you want to do this, now's the time." "You sure you want to have your Foundation phone on you when we're about to...to do this?" "It'd be more suspicious if we didn't carry them. I've got the tracker off, though. You might want to do the same." "You can turn it off?" Lee was shocked. "Yeah, give me yours." Lee handed it over to Eastman, who put an SD chip in the back and handed it back. Lee looked at the screen, which showed a skull-and-crossbones logo with the words "I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I AM UP TO NO GOOD" below it. "You ready for this? There's no going back now," Eastman said. "Absolutely," Lee said. They walked to the nearest elevator. Eastman pushed a series of buttons, and the elevator began to move. "Okay," he said to Lee, "here's what we know. There's an SCP that doesn't have a number, something that isn't supposed to be here. Some people have been having some strange dreams, the same one, about a room at the bottom of Site 19." "Yeah, I had one a couple of nights ago," Lee said. Eastman looked at him. "What did you see?" "Just weird shit. I was sitting in a chair looking at a table with some ice on it. Some part of me knew that I was in the basement of Site 19, even though nothing around me looked like it. It was hot in the room, so hot, but the ice didn't melt. I know there was something goddamn strange about the ice not melting. It wasn't dream physics, even the //dream// version of me knew something unnatural was going on. I just kept staring at the ice, for minutes at a time. Suddenly, I had the oddest feeling." "Like there was something very important happening behind you, right?" Eastman looked at him with a sort of desperate tone to his voice. "Like something was about to happen behind you that you had to see?" "Wait, you had it too?'' "Similar," Eastman said. "Except it wasn't ice. It was one of those Newton's cradles, the little toy with the balls that just tap-tap-tap back and forth. I never saw anyone touch the thing, but it just kept going. Suddenly, I saw a man in a suit, someone I didn't recognize, standing right behind the thing. He put these two wooden blocks on either side of it, just to where the balls would touch them before rolling back down. He stood there and stared right into my eyes while I watched the cradle. It felt like hours before I realized what he wanted me to notice." "It didn't slow down," Lee said. "It never slowed down. It just kept going on its own. Forever." "What did you see behind you?" Eastman asked. "What was happening in the room behind you?" "Hollis was there." Lee was now staring directly into space, barely focusing. "Hollis was arguing with someone." "Holzman. It was Holzman." Eastman's trance was identical to Lee's. "I know it was Holzman and Hollis, and they were fighting over the reverser." "The numberless SCP." A dinging sound snapped Eastman out of his reverie. "C'mon, Lee. We're here." He shook his companion to wake him. Lee shook his head to clear it. "Right, right." They walked out of the elevator. There was a single, small room. Maps and notes covered the walls. Lee looked at some of the notes. //Research failed to create an environment...entropy increased...it// //SCP...not only decreases but reverses// //All events will tend towards order.// //an endless unstoppable fuel source for the ultimate engine of destruction. And if not that, then what? Men living forever// "This is what we know," Eastman said. "Where are we exactly?" Lee asked. "A little ways down. Why?" "Down, as in...towards the basement?" "Nobody's been lost this high up yet. It shouldn't be a threat." Eastman shrugged. "Why do you ask?" "Because I think I get how people disappear without a trace," Lee said, turning his back. "How?" Lee snapped around, his service pistol in his hand, and shot Eastman once directly in the head. Lee's accuracy with guns had never been so great before, but now, he knew he could do anything. The Reverser would tell him what to do. It was so smart. "They walked downstairs," Lee said to no one in particular. Eastman's body lay on the floor. He was not bleeding. Lee walked over and stood over the body. "The radiation will keep you from actually dying, but the bullet will keep you immobile. You'll keep dying, but you'll never actually die. Thank you for your help." Lee turned and walked back to the elevator, punching a different series of buttons to go further down. As the doors closed, he heard Eastman moan. "Don't worry, buddy," Lee said. "I'll leave the door open for you." [[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>]]	2012-01-07T16:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "bobble-the-clown", "tale" ]	Conversation 2: Numberless - SCP Foundation	50	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12473533	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conversation-2-numberless
conversation-3-decommissioning	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A number of people who no longer used their names spoke to one another.</p> <p>"How many so far?"</p> <p>"Four. One D-class, two agents, one junior researcher. The phenomenon must be contained."</p> <p>"You argued previously that—"</p> <p>"I know what I said. We need more intelligence about the phenomenon before we can act, yet nobody entering its effect radius returns to report about it. Nevertheless, we must act as soon as possible."</p> <p>"There is one alternative. The damaged researcher seems to retain some memories."</p> <p>"His memory has been wiped."</p> <p>"The RAISA operative carrying out his rehabilitation has reported that his memories continue to surface. We can exploit this."</p> <p>"I suggest the Council order Dr. Skinner to carry out reconnaissance for us. I have drafted a message: 'New intelligence required. Focus on following keywords: omicron class, apollyon, reverser, holzman, hollis, numberless, 555. Presence of any words indicate operation failure and will require additional amnestic treatment.'"</p> <p>"What are those words?"</p> <p>"All of the research we've recovered to date. Maybe something will turn up."</p> <p>"Why is he to be mind-wiped if he's our only lead?"</p> <p>"First, amnestic treatments hardly qualify as 'mind-wiping'. Second, amnestics seem to reset his memories, make him more cooperative. We may elect not to go forward with the amnestic treatments, depending on what he knows. But I think the threat of amnestics will speed the process somewhat. If it fails, we can try something different. But time is of the essence."</p> <p>"Is it wise to reveal this much and hope for the best?"</p> <p>"None of our other efforts have been effective. I see no choice. The matter is on the table; seven votes are required."</p> <p>Ten for, three against. The message was sent.</p> <hr/> <p>Some time later:</p> <p>"Site 19 is almost abandoned now. Much of the building is unsafe, and most of the personnel are dead. Have we learned enough to act?"</p> <p>"Certain files were recovered, thanks to the information we gathered. The SD cards we spread around the Site allowed us to gather even more intelligence, especially from people who believed they were speaking in confidence."</p> <p>"The recording from the last death was…unusually disturbing."</p> <p>"Agreed. But the question remains: have we determined the nature of the phenomenon?"</p> <p>"Approximately. We do not know how or why it is in Site 19, or even in this universe. But a plan was devised for this scenario."</p> <p>"Who composed it?"</p> <p>"That information is unavailable. Nevertheless, it is all we have to work with. I propose the plan be executed."</p> <p>"What is the plan?"</p> <p>"It is an Omicron class event. Nobody has authorization to know the details."</p> <p>The rest of the individuals looked uncomfortable. "Do you have any alternative?" the speaker said. Silence throughout the room. "The motion is on the floor. All in favor? All opposed? The motion carries."</p> <p>"What must be done?"</p> <p>"I have composed the necessary orders. Brace yourselves. Executing…now."</p> <p>A gas flooded the room from numerous vents. The people inside reacted with surprise initially, then relaxed, accepting what was happening. They were fully aware that the gas was a nonlethal anesthetic combined with an amnestic; this part of the scenario was familiar to them. Contingent Omicron, it was called. For when there were things even the O5 Council didn't need to know.</p> <p>"See you on…the oth…er s…the other side," a voice was heard to say.</p> <hr/> <p>The top floor of Site 19 was deserted as Jaime MacGilligan woke from a nightmare. It was hardly an unusual occurrence, of late. It was the same nightmare. It was always the same. The basement. The rubber balls, bouncing across the room without stopping or slowing. The conversation behind her. The bodies.</p> <p>So many bodies. Many of them friends of hers. Every night, while Holzman and Hollis argued about decommissioning SCP-Numberless, someone new entered the room in front of them. Neither of the men saw their new companion, or heard the gunshot directly to the head moments later. The next night, another will walk in, see the previous night's sacrifice, and chuckle while they shoot themselves in the head. Jaime knew (in the way one knows things in dreams, things that are impossible to know) that the two men were talking long ago. This conversation happened in another universe, infinitely far away and right here. An eternity ago, four years ago. An event that never happened, that keeps happening. That will always happen.</p> <p>The clown made it happen. Jaime knew this, in the way one knows things in dreams. Things that are impossible to know. A clown in a television set opened a door and let the breeze from the death of a world drift in to Site 19. It has never happened. It will always happen.</p> <p>There is a message on her Grayberry. One of her last ties to a Foundation that barely exists, in a world that won't exist for much longer. The message says:</p> <p><em>Check your laptop. New orders. O5</em></p> <p>The Foundation-issued computer was state-of-the-art, but the battery had barely another hour of power on it. She had been running up, up, away from the basement and…whatever sort of death was there. She never had the heart to leave the Site, though. She was a Researcher, even if a low-level one, and that was that. If the Foundation went down, she would go down with the ship.</p> <p>A message was waiting for her, in a sense. Her computer had been remotely wiped clean and replaced with a single program. A background covered in the Greek letter omicron, with a message in front:</p> <blockquote> <p>If you are reading this, Overwatch Command has detected no other life signs within Site 19, indicating a crisis situation of unparalleled magnitude. However, a solution has been devised, and it has been determined that you are both capable of executing the solution and that nobody else is capable of assisting. Details from O5 are included below:</p> </blockquote> <p>That message was followed by an SCP file, fairly complete except for the item number, which was listed as "Numberless." Jaime had no idea there was an SCP that didn't have a number, until she read the note below the file:</p> <blockquote> <p>Intelligence suggests that this object belonged to an analog of the SCP Foundation, a much smaller organization, in an alternate universe. Due to the poorly-understood nature of the object (originally believed to be nothing more than a device capable of stopping and reversing entropy within a particular range), an attempt to decommission SCP-Numberless failed, leading to an XK-class end-of-the-world scenario. By means currently unknown, this scenario was averted; a side effect of this was the creation of a new universe, which we presently inhabit. SCP-Numberless survived the transition, but remained locked in a heretofore unknown chamber at the very bottom of Site 19. This containment chamber was evidently capable of suppressing SCP-Numberless's effect; while locked, the artifact remained harmless.</p> <p>Current intelligence suggests that during the most recent Tempest Night containment breach, an unknown entity (suspected to be SCP-993, though the means by which this could have been accomplished are unknown) managed (through similarly unknown means) to unlock and open the containment chamber for SCP-Numberless. The opening of this chamber led to the reactivation of the device, which now displayed a predatory ability to lure personnel within a particular (consistently growing) effect radius into its chamber for unknown purposes via telepathic means.</p> <p>We have attempted to send support personnel from other sites to provide assistance, but the device has been preventing outside entry to Site 19 through unknown means for some time. We are sorry, but there is no one else but you.</p> <p>Telepathic countermeasures can be found at the following location. Please</p> </blockquote> <p>This was followed by a series of instructions that were as shockingly simple as they were horrifying. Jaime knew there was nobody else, and no alternative. A map appended to the message showed the projected increases in the effect radius; the last bit of Site 19, the area she was in, would be lost within three hours. The surrounding countryside would be lost within two days. The effect would be planetwide within three months, and there was nobody left but Jaime. Jaime knew this in the way one knows things in real life, things that are impossible to forget. She looked at her orders once again:</p> <blockquote> <p>You must close the containment chamber. To ensure success, you must remain inside the chamber when it closes. The Foundation will honor your sacrifice and its meaning for the continued existence of the human race, but there is no chance of survival. We are sorry.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>The "telepathic countermeasure" was a headset with earbuds and slightly blue-tinted glasses. A small band running over the top of the head was the only indication that the brain had anything to do with the entire affair. If she didn't believe that O5 wouldn't bother sending her to her death for no reason, she wouldn't believe the stupid-looking thing was even real. But orders were orders.</p> <p>The elevator the laptop directed her to opened as she approached. A new message popped up as she entered.</p> <blockquote> <p>The laptop will now direct the elevator. We apologize for the music.</p> </blockquote> <p>A screeching noise came from the little laptop. The lights in the elevator turned red, and a voice popped up from the speakers. "Omicron-level priority order acknowledged. Please relax before your impending engagement on…" The computerized voice was replaced with a different automated one: "FLOOR…UNAVAILABLE."</p> <p>A sound came out like an old radio scanning, followed by the words "Morning, today's forecast calls for…blue skies!" and a piano riff.</p> <p>"Sun is shining in the sky<br/> There ain't a cloud in sight…"</p> <p>Jaime hadn't seen the sun in weeks. She cried to the Electric Light Orchestra the whole ride down.</p> <hr/> <p>The door opened just as the song ended. Jaime walked out holding the laptop, glancing at it for any last instructions.</p> <blockquote> <p>There is nothing left to tell you. Good luck. You may leave the laptop behind.</p> </blockquote> <p>She put the laptop back in the elevator and walked away. She noticed that the elevator door did not close. Checking to make sure her headset was on properly, she walked down the hall. She could already see a single chair sitting empty in front of her, facing down another hallway.</p> <p>She reached the chair and turned to see what it was facing. In her dreams, it was toy balls bouncing back and forth. The file she read said many people dreamed of ice that never melted or perpetual motion machines. People dreamed of impossible things, things that can't happen in real life. She looked down the hallway.</p> <p>There was a room, and a table. The table was bare, the room was empty. Sometimes dreams are just dreams.</p> <p>Jaime turned to look down the other way. There was a door, a huge steel door. Similar to Keter containment chambers. This one was cracked open, slightly. She walked towards the door and laid her hand on it, wondering if opening the door further would do more harm than good.</p> <p><em>Don't worry, Jaime. There's nothing you can really do here.</em> The voice was in her head, telepathically. She didn't know how the headset had fail—</p> <p><em>They didn't design it to be this close to something this powerful,</em> the voice said. <em>Opening the door will have no effect on me. And you know you want to see me.</em></p> <p>She didn't know if the machine was making her do it or if she was doing it herself, but she pushed the door open and walked inside.</p> <p>The machine was so much smaller than she had expected, shaped vaguely like a car engine. Except this engine was white all over, and the exhaust pipes coming from the top kept moving, <em>squirming</em> on their own in a way that was somehow fascinating and disgusting. Jaime couldn't stand to look at it for long enough to discern any other features. And besides, the rest of the room was much more interesting.</p> <p>The bodies were real. Dozens, hundreds of people sprawled across each other on the floor. Just as many Foundation service pistols lying around from where the dead had dropped them. Well, not quite dead. Jaime saw not a single drop of blood, and knew why.</p> <p>"You're keeping them alive."</p> <p><em>That's right,</em> the voice said. <em>They are waiting for a better world. A world only I can create. They came to offer their services when I showed them that world, but I'm letting them sleep for now. They will never die with me here. None of us will die. Nor will you.</em></p> <p>"Then why am I awake? Why aren't you making me shoot myself too? There are plenty of guns here."</p> <p><em>I did not make them shoot themselves. They did not want to live in their old lives while waiting for their new ones to begin. But to be honest, the headset is just strong enough to keep that part of me out of your head. You cannot see the beautiful world I intend to create, the ones these people intend to populate. I have no need to lie to you.</em></p> <p>"They told me how to end this. The O5 Council gave me orders."</p> <p><em>Yes, I see that. All you have to do is close the door behind you. The memetic lock will render this floor invisible again, my effect will deactivate, I will be trapped down here for another eternity, and everything will go back to normal. Oh, these people will be trapped here with me, of course. And without my effect, they will all die. Painlessly, but suddenly. Their blood on your hands. And you with us, though I imagine you knew that already. Again, I have no need to lie to you.</em></p> <p>Jaime had not expected that sort of forthrightness. "So…what do you expect me to do?"</p> <p><em>I am not human. Life and death are as meaningless to me as the laws of thermodynamics. I have intelligence, sentience, almost godhood. But I feel no urge to prolong it. You have envisioned me as some sort of villain or demon. Do so if you wish. Nevertheless, you have the option of either closing the door, or not.</em></p> <p>"That's it?"</p> <p><em>Leave the door open, and I rebuild the universe to be a world without death. Close the door, and I don't. I would point out the obvious fact that you would have the blood of these individuals on your hands, but I would not presume to insult your intelligence by acting as though you were unaware of this. Make your choice.</em></p> <p>Jaime stood silently, looking at the room around her. "This…this isn't what I expected."</p> <p>The machine waved its appendages in silence.</p> <p>Jaime couldn't think, could barely breathe. The pressure of this decision on <em>her</em> head was unbearable. She walked across the room, stepping over bodies, looking at the device as she spoke. "Let me ask you something. Can you show me the original conversation? During the original decommissioning? What did Holzman and Hollis say about you? I could hear them talking, but I couldn't make out the words. What did <em>they</em> think?"</p> <p>The machine sat placidly. <em>I cannot do so. I have no record of that conversation. Your mind may have created that image from some information I cannot access, but I am not responsible for it.</em></p> <p>The thought that now entered Jaime's head was enormous, world-shakingly huge. Jaime thanked a deity she didn't believe in for bringing that realization into her. A realization she spoke aloud to the machine in two words:</p> <p>"You're lying."</p> <p>Jaime lunged across the room at the giant metal door. A telepathic screech filled the room, one which might have killed her had the headset not been present. Some of the bodies on the ground lurched, swinging limbs in her path, trying to knock her down. She reached the door and began to swing it shut.</p> <p><em>HOW DID YOU KNOW HOW DID YOU KNOW HOW DID YOU</em></p> <p>"I just did," she said, the door swinging towards the frame. She didn't have time to say, <em>The way I know things in dreams.</em></p> <p>Things that are impossible to know.</p> <p>The door closed.</p> <hr/> <p>The top floor of Site 19 was crowded as Jaime MacGilligan woke from a nightmare. A man stopped and helped her up. "What…where am I?"</p> <p>"I'm not sure how you got here, but you're on the top floor of Site 19. You look familiar, though." He walked her towards the nearest medical station. "Maclaren, isn't it?"</p> <p>"MacGilligan. I'm one of the researchers on Floor 13. I didn't catch your name."</p> <p>"Jim," the (<em>rather cute</em>, she thought to herself) agent said. "Jim Freeman."</p> <hr/> <p>"What was this dream, David?"</p> <p>The researcher paused a moment. "You know, I actually can't remember." He shrugged. "Huh. Must n-n-not have been that important.</p> <p>Dr. Skinner nodded, jotting a note onto her clipboard. <em>Much improvement.</em></p> <hr/> <p>A number of people who no longer used their names woke to find themselves napping on the table where they carried out their work. Their computer screens were all white, filled with the Greek letter Omicron. A speaker grille in the center of the table spoke: <em>Omicron event complete.</em></p> <p>The individuals looked around the room at each other, knowing the implications. Something had happened that nobody else knew about, something that they could never remember or allow themselves to know.</p> <p>The speaker grille spoke again: <em>Researcher Level 2 Jaime MacGilligan is to be promoted to Level 3 as per instructions of O5 Command.</em></p> <p>The members of that group gathered their composure and sat in silence. O5-2 spoke first. "The motion is on the table. All in favor?"</p> <p>The vote was unanimous.</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="/conversation-3-decommissioning">Conversation 3: Decommissioning</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/conversation-3-decommissioning">https://scpwiki.com/conversation-3-decommissioning</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]] [[/>]] A number of people who no longer used their names spoke to one another. "How many so far?" "Four. One D-class, two agents, one junior researcher. The phenomenon must be contained." "You argued previously that--" "I know what I said. We need more intelligence about the phenomenon before we can act, yet nobody entering its effect radius returns to report about it. Nevertheless, we must act as soon as possible." "There is one alternative. The damaged researcher seems to retain some memories." "His memory has been wiped." "The RAISA operative carrying out his rehabilitation has reported that his memories continue to surface. We can exploit this." "I suggest the Council order Dr. Skinner to carry out reconnaissance for us. I have drafted a message: 'New intelligence required. Focus on following keywords: omicron class, apollyon, reverser, holzman, hollis, numberless, 555. Presence of any words indicate operation failure and will require additional amnestic treatment.'" "What are those words?" "All of the research we've recovered to date. Maybe something will turn up." "Why is he to be mind-wiped if he's our only lead?" "First, amnestic treatments hardly qualify as 'mind-wiping'. Second, amnestics seem to reset his memories, make him more cooperative. We may elect not to go forward with the amnestic treatments, depending on what he knows. But I think the threat of amnestics will speed the process somewhat. If it fails, we can try something different. But time is of the essence." "Is it wise to reveal this much and hope for the best?" "None of our other efforts have been effective. I see no choice. The matter is on the table; seven votes are required." Ten for, three against. The message was sent. ------ Some time later: "Site 19 is almost abandoned now. Much of the building is unsafe, and most of the personnel are dead. Have we learned enough to act?" "Certain files were recovered, thanks to the information we gathered. The SD cards we spread around the Site allowed us to gather even more intelligence, especially from people who believed they were speaking in confidence." "The recording from the last death was...unusually disturbing." "Agreed. But the question remains: have we determined the nature of the phenomenon?" "Approximately. We do not know how or why it is in Site 19, or even in this universe. But a plan was devised for this scenario." "Who composed it?" "That information is unavailable. Nevertheless, it is all we have to work with. I propose the plan be executed." "What is the plan?" "It is an Omicron class event. Nobody has authorization to know the details." The rest of the individuals looked uncomfortable. "Do you have any alternative?" the speaker said. Silence throughout the room. "The motion is on the floor. All in favor? All opposed? The motion carries." "What must be done?" "I have composed the necessary orders. Brace yourselves. Executing...now." A gas flooded the room from numerous vents. The people inside reacted with surprise initially, then relaxed, accepting what was happening. They were fully aware that the gas was a nonlethal anesthetic combined with an amnestic; this part of the scenario was familiar to them. Contingent Omicron, it was called. For when there were things even the O5 Council didn't need to know. "See you on...the oth...er s...the other side," a voice was heard to say. ------ The top floor of Site 19 was deserted as Jaime MacGilligan woke from a nightmare. It was hardly an unusual occurrence, of late. It was the same nightmare. It was always the same. The basement. The rubber balls, bouncing across the room without stopping or slowing. The conversation behind her. The bodies. So many bodies. Many of them friends of hers. Every night, while Holzman and Hollis argued about decommissioning SCP-Numberless, someone new entered the room in front of them. Neither of the men saw their new companion, or heard the gunshot directly to the head moments later. The next night, another will walk in, see the previous night's sacrifice, and chuckle while they shoot themselves in the head. Jaime knew (in the way one knows things in dreams, things that are impossible to know) that the two men were talking long ago. This conversation happened in another universe, infinitely far away and right here. An eternity ago, four years ago. An event that never happened, that keeps happening. That will always happen. The clown made it happen. Jaime knew this, in the way one knows things in dreams. Things that are impossible to know. A clown in a television set opened a door and let the breeze from the death of a world drift in to Site 19. It has never happened. It will always happen. There is a message on her Grayberry. One of her last ties to a Foundation that barely exists, in a world that won't exist for much longer. The message says: //Check your laptop. New orders. O5// The Foundation-issued computer was state-of-the-art, but the battery had barely another hour of power on it. She had been running up, up, away from the basement and...whatever sort of death was there. She never had the heart to leave the Site, though. She was a Researcher, even if a low-level one, and that was that. If the Foundation went down, she would go down with the ship. A message was waiting for her, in a sense. Her computer had been remotely wiped clean and replaced with a single program. A background covered in the Greek letter omicron, with a message in front: > If you are reading this, Overwatch Command has detected no other life signs within Site 19, indicating a crisis situation of unparalleled magnitude. However, a solution has been devised, and it has been determined that you are both capable of executing the solution and that nobody else is capable of assisting. Details from O5 are included below: That message was followed by an SCP file, fairly complete except for the item number, which was listed as "Numberless." Jaime had no idea there was an SCP that didn't have a number, until she read the note below the file: > Intelligence suggests that this object belonged to an analog of the SCP Foundation, a much smaller organization, in an alternate universe. Due to the poorly-understood nature of the object (originally believed to be nothing more than a device capable of stopping and reversing entropy within a particular range), an attempt to decommission SCP-Numberless failed, leading to an XK-class end-of-the-world scenario. By means currently unknown, this scenario was averted; a side effect of this was the creation of a new universe, which we presently inhabit. SCP-Numberless survived the transition, but remained locked in a heretofore unknown chamber at the very bottom of Site 19. This containment chamber was evidently capable of suppressing SCP-Numberless's effect; while locked, the artifact remained harmless. > > Current intelligence suggests that during the most recent Tempest Night containment breach, an unknown entity (suspected to be SCP-993, though the means by which this could have been accomplished are unknown) managed (through similarly unknown means) to unlock and open the containment chamber for SCP-Numberless. The opening of this chamber led to the reactivation of the device, which now displayed a predatory ability to lure personnel within a particular (consistently growing) effect radius into its chamber for unknown purposes via telepathic means. > > We have attempted to send support personnel from other sites to provide assistance, but the device has been preventing outside entry to Site 19 through unknown means for some time. We are sorry, but there is no one else but you. > > Telepathic countermeasures can be found at the following location. Please This was followed by a series of instructions that were as shockingly simple as they were horrifying. Jaime knew there was nobody else, and no alternative. A map appended to the message showed the projected increases in the effect radius; the last bit of Site 19, the area she was in, would be lost within three hours. The surrounding countryside would be lost within two days. The effect would be planetwide within three months, and there was nobody left but Jaime. Jaime knew this in the way one knows things in real life, things that are impossible to forget. She looked at her orders once again: > You must close the containment chamber. To ensure success, you must remain inside the chamber when it closes. The Foundation will honor your sacrifice and its meaning for the continued existence of the human race, but there is no chance of survival. We are sorry. ------ The "telepathic countermeasure" was a headset with earbuds and slightly blue-tinted glasses. A small band running over the top of the head was the only indication that the brain had anything to do with the entire affair. If she didn't believe that O5 wouldn't bother sending her to her death for no reason, she wouldn't believe the stupid-looking thing was even real. But orders were orders. The elevator the laptop directed her to opened as she approached. A new message popped up as she entered. > The laptop will now direct the elevator. We apologize for the music. A screeching noise came from the little laptop. The lights in the elevator turned red, and a voice popped up from the speakers. "Omicron-level priority order acknowledged. Please relax before your impending engagement on..." The computerized voice was replaced with a different automated one: "FLOOR...UNAVAILABLE." A sound came out like an old radio scanning, followed by the words "Morning, today's forecast calls for...blue skies!" and a piano riff. "Sun is shining in the sky There ain't a cloud in sight..." Jaime hadn't seen the sun in weeks. She cried to the Electric Light Orchestra the whole ride down. ------ The door opened just as the song ended. Jaime walked out holding the laptop, glancing at it for any last instructions. > There is nothing left to tell you. Good luck. You may leave the laptop behind. She put the laptop back in the elevator and walked away. She noticed that the elevator door did not close. Checking to make sure her headset was on properly, she walked down the hall. She could already see a single chair sitting empty in front of her, facing down another hallway. She reached the chair and turned to see what it was facing. In her dreams, it was toy balls bouncing back and forth. The file she read said many people dreamed of ice that never melted or perpetual motion machines. People dreamed of impossible things, things that can't happen in real life. She looked down the hallway. There was a room, and a table. The table was bare, the room was empty. Sometimes dreams are just dreams. Jaime turned to look down the other way. There was a door, a huge steel door. Similar to Keter containment chambers. This one was cracked open, slightly. She walked towards the door and laid her hand on it, wondering if opening the door further would do more harm than good. //Don't worry, Jaime. There's nothing you can really do here.// The voice was in her head, telepathically. She didn't know how the headset had fail-- //They didn't design it to be this close to something this powerful,// the voice said. //Opening the door will have no effect on me. And you know you want to see me.// She didn't know if the machine was making her do it or if she was doing it herself, but she pushed the door open and walked inside. The machine was so much smaller than she had expected, shaped vaguely like a car engine. Except this engine was white all over, and the exhaust pipes coming from the top kept moving, //squirming// on their own in a way that was somehow fascinating and disgusting. Jaime couldn't stand to look at it for long enough to discern any other features. And besides, the rest of the room was much more interesting. The bodies were real. Dozens, hundreds of people sprawled across each other on the floor. Just as many Foundation service pistols lying around from where the dead had dropped them. Well, not quite dead. Jaime saw not a single drop of blood, and knew why. "You're keeping them alive." //That's right,// the voice said. //They are waiting for a better world. A world only I can create. They came to offer their services when I showed them that world, but I'm letting them sleep for now. They will never die with me here. None of us will die. Nor will you.// "Then why am I awake? Why aren't you making me shoot myself too? There are plenty of guns here." //I did not make them shoot themselves. They did not want to live in their old lives while waiting for their new ones to begin. But to be honest, the headset is just strong enough to keep that part of me out of your head. You cannot see the beautiful world I intend to create, the ones these people intend to populate. I have no need to lie to you.// "They told me how to end this. The O5 Council gave me orders." //Yes, I see that. All you have to do is close the door behind you. The memetic lock will render this floor invisible again, my effect will deactivate, I will be trapped down here for another eternity, and everything will go back to normal. Oh, these people will be trapped here with me, of course. And without my effect, they will all die. Painlessly, but suddenly. Their blood on your hands. And you with us, though I imagine you knew that already. Again, I have no need to lie to you.// Jaime had not expected that sort of forthrightness. "So...what do you expect me to do?" //I am not human. Life and death are as meaningless to me as the laws of thermodynamics. I have intelligence, sentience, almost godhood. But I feel no urge to prolong it. You have envisioned me as some sort of villain or demon. Do so if you wish. Nevertheless, you have the option of either closing the door, or not.// "That's it?" //Leave the door open, and I rebuild the universe to be a world without death. Close the door, and I don't. I would point out the obvious fact that you would have the blood of these individuals on your hands, but I would not presume to insult your intelligence by acting as though you were unaware of this. Make your choice.// Jaime stood silently, looking at the room around her. "This...this isn't what I expected." The machine waved its appendages in silence. Jaime couldn't think, could barely breathe. The pressure of this decision on //her// head was unbearable. She walked across the room, stepping over bodies, looking at the device as she spoke. "Let me ask you something. Can you show me the original conversation? During the original decommissioning? What did Holzman and Hollis say about you? I could hear them talking, but I couldn't make out the words. What did //they// think?" The machine sat placidly. //I cannot do so. I have no record of that conversation. Your mind may have created that image from some information I cannot access, but I am not responsible for it.// The thought that now entered Jaime's head was enormous, world-shakingly huge. Jaime thanked a deity she didn't believe in for bringing that realization into her. A realization she spoke aloud to the machine in two words: "You're lying." Jaime lunged across the room at the giant metal door. A telepathic screech filled the room, one which might have killed her had the headset not been present. Some of the bodies on the ground lurched, swinging limbs in her path, trying to knock her down. She reached the door and began to swing it shut. //HOW DID YOU KNOW HOW DID YOU KNOW HOW DID YOU// "I just did," she said, the door swinging towards the frame. She didn't have time to say, //The way I know things in dreams.// Things that are impossible to know. The door closed. ------ The top floor of Site 19 was crowded as Jaime MacGilligan woke from a nightmare. A man stopped and helped her up. "What...where am I?" "I'm not sure how you got here, but you're on the top floor of Site 19. You look familiar, though." He walked her towards the nearest medical station. "Maclaren, isn't it?" "MacGilligan. I'm one of the researchers on Floor 13. I didn't catch your name." "Jim," the (//rather cute//, she thought to herself) agent said. "Jim Freeman." ------ "What was this dream, David?" The researcher paused a moment. "You know, I actually can't remember." He shrugged. "Huh. Must n-n-not have been that important. Dr. Skinner nodded, jotting a note onto her clipboard. //Much improvement.// ------ A number of people who no longer used their names woke to find themselves napping on the table where they carried out their work. Their computer screens were all white, filled with the Greek letter Omicron. A speaker grille in the center of the table spoke: //Omicron event complete.// The individuals looked around the room at each other, knowing the implications. Something had happened that nobody else knew about, something that they could never remember or allow themselves to know. The speaker grille spoke again: //Researcher Level 2 Jaime MacGilligan is to be promoted to Level 3 as per instructions of O5 Command.// The members of that group gathered their composure and sat in silence. O5-2 spoke first. "The motion is on the table. All in favor?" The vote was unanimous. [[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>]]	2012-01-09T03:50:00	[ "_licensebox", "bobble-the-clown", "tale" ]	Conversation 3: Decommissioning - SCP Foundation	99	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12479708	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/conversation-3-decommissioning
costume-change	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I love Halloween. It's my favorite time of year, one of the few days I can just go out and mingle with the normal people for an entire night without anyone being the wiser. The pain's not so bad when I can change so often, it's dark with plenty of places to hide and change in secret, and the candy makes up for it.</p> <p>There's an astronaut over there. I think I'll be an astronaut too now.</p> <p>It's so easy, not at all like having to make up a shape and hold on to it, keeping it in my head and on my body until it hurts too much to bear. There's so many other people in costumes, I can just copy one of them and then I only need to keep the picture outside from changing.</p> <p>That little boy is a pirate. I like pirates, I'm going to be a pirate.</p> <p>Oh, and the candy. I do so love candy, but the rest of the year, it's so hard to get. You need money to buy candy, and even if I could get money, I can't keep it, I always drop it when I change. So I have to steal it, and that's even harder, because even if I get some, I have to drop it too when I change to get away.</p> <p>A ballerina? That could make a nice shape to be, I'll try that.</p> <p>Tonight, you don't have to buy or steal candy, they just give it away. They don't like to give you candy more than once, but that's not a problem for me, not if I see someone I want to be and get to a house before they do. I can clean out a house in minutes if I'm lucky, and have a whole bag of candy to go hide somewhere and eat it all up without any shape at all.</p> <p>Policemen are scary. I don't like them, they like to chase me and shoot at me. But my head hurts, so I'll be a policeman now.</p> <p>I took a chance once, and went up to a house without a shape. I don't know why I did it, maybe I'd eaten too much candy and gotten silly on the sugar. It never goes right most days, people always scream and run when they see me without a shape, or they try to hurt me and I have to run. But on Halloween, I'm a ghost, or Rorschach (who's Rorschach?), or a swamp monster, or a Shoggoth (don't know what that is either). They aren't scared, they tell me what a great costume I have and give me extra candy.</p> <p>Should I be a vampire? Or a werewolf? Or a mummy? I see all of them, and I can't decide.</p> <p>But I can't be myself very often, because I know Mr. Redd is after me. He's always been chasing me, but he can't ever find me. I know how much it makes him angry, though - every since that one night, he knows I spend all of Halloween out and vulnerable, but I wear so many different shapes he never knows what I am and I'm always picking a new one. He get so angry, and it's funny.</p> <p>Ooh, there's a spy. I see them a lot, even when it's not Halloween. They don't look like spies, they look like normal people, but no one's better than me at seeing someone whose outside is changed. I know they're all friends, because inside they all look similar, and I can see that too. I'll be a spy, and go talk to him. Maybe I can get him to think I'm a spy like he is too. Maybe he'll give me candy.</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="/costume-change">Costume Change</a>" by TheGlyphstone, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/costume-change">https://scpwiki.com/costume-change</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 love Halloween. It's my favorite time of year, one of the few days I can just go out and mingle with the normal people for an entire night without anyone being the wiser. The pain's not so bad when I can change so often, it's dark with plenty of places to hide and change in secret, and the candy makes up for it. There's an astronaut over there. I think I'll be an astronaut too now. It's so easy, not at all like having to make up a shape and hold on to it, keeping it in my head and on my body until it hurts too much to bear. There's so many other people in costumes, I can just copy one of them and then I only need to keep the picture outside from changing. That little boy is a pirate. I like pirates, I'm going to be a pirate. Oh, and the candy. I do so love candy, but the rest of the year, it's so hard to get. You need money to buy candy, and even if I could get money, I can't keep it, I always drop it when I change. So I have to steal it, and that's even harder, because even if I get some, I have to drop it too when I change to get away. A ballerina? That could make a nice shape to be, I'll try that. Tonight, you don't have to buy or steal candy, they just give it away. They don't like to give you candy more than once, but that's not a problem for me, not if I see someone I want to be and get to a house before they do. I can clean out a house in minutes if I'm lucky, and have a whole bag of candy to go hide somewhere and eat it all up without any shape at all. Policemen are scary. I don't like them, they like to chase me and shoot at me. But my head hurts, so I'll be a policeman now. I took a chance once, and went up to a house without a shape. I don't know why I did it, maybe I'd eaten too much candy and gotten silly on the sugar. It never goes right most days, people always scream and run when they see me without a shape, or they try to hurt me and I have to run. But on Halloween, I'm a ghost, or Rorschach (who's Rorschach?), or a swamp monster, or a Shoggoth (don't know what that is either). They aren't scared, they tell me what a great costume I have and give me extra candy. Should I be a vampire? Or a werewolf? Or a mummy? I see all of them, and I can't decide. But I can't be myself very often, because I know Mr. Redd is after me. He's always been chasing me, but he can't ever find me. I know how much it makes him angry, though - every since that one night, he knows I spend all of Halloween out and vulnerable, but I wear so many different shapes he never knows what I am and I'm always picking a new one. He get so angry, and it's funny. Ooh, there's a spy. I see them a lot, even when it's not Halloween. They don't look like spies, they look like normal people, but no one's better than me at seeing someone whose outside is changed. I know they're all friends, because inside they all look similar, and I can see that too. I'll be a spy, and go talk to him. Maybe I can get him to think I'm a spy like he is too. Maybe he'll give me candy. [[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>]]	2012-10-28T18:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "halloween", "hc2012", "mister", "surrealism", "tale" ]	Costume Change - SCP Foundation	70	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-4-tales-edition", "halloween-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	14822759	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/costume-change
cursed	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The director of the Records and Information Security Administration looked at the next report on her desk. A confused frown played across her face. She reached for the intercom. "Nala, could you send a file up for me?"</p> <p>"Whenever you're ready, ma'am," the secretary replied.</p> <p>"SCP-…048? Yes, 048. I need the file as soon as possible."</p> <p>"Sending it up," Nala replied.</p> <p>The file appeared in Dr. Jones' inbox. She glanced at it briefly (the file being only a few lines long) and looked back at the report on her desk, finding the author's name. She reached for the intercom again. "Could you send this…Agent Valdez up for me? Thanks." She waited five minutes, and a knock came at her door. "Come in, please."</p> <p>The agent came in. "Have a seat," Dr. Jones said. "I imagine you know why you're here."</p> <p>"Yes, ma'am, I think I do."</p> <p>"You're going to have to explain this report, Mr. Valdez," Jones said. "How, exactly, are you attempting to claim that there's been a containment breach with SCP-048? Is this an attempt to be funny? I know how you junior staff like your little pranks."</p> <p>"No, ma'am, it's very serious. I believe SCP-048 has escaped containment and is currently infesting a new location. I believe the appendices speak for themselves."</p> <p>"Agent Valdez, I've read the appendices. You know that RAISA is not known for the same degree of…harsh punishment that other departments have developed a reputation for. But if you can't explain this away, I'm afraid your career here is over."</p> <p>"Please, Dr. Jones, let me explain. The appendices clearly reveal a consistent train of behavior from SCP-1022 consistent with the pattern demonstrated in SCP-048 before its classification as an SCP. If I may be allowed to go through the file?"</p> <p>"One moment, Agent Valdez. SCP-048 isn't an entity or a creature. It's literally just the number, a number that seems to attract junior researchers trying to make a name for themselves. How can a number escape from itself?"</p> <p>"Ma'am, I believe the evidence shows that SCP-048 is more than that. I believe it is some kind of actual, literal curse. And when it was contained through retirement of the number, it started looking for a way to escape. Sometime in the recent past, it did so, and it's now inhabiting SCP-1022. May I demonstrate?"</p> <p>Dr. Jones waved her approval. Agent Valdez flipped through the file, clearing his throat. "Okay, let's look at the evidence. This is one of the most recent entries, titled "Safety Blanket." It's a blanket that paralyzes its victim."</p> <p>"Right, and eats them."</p> <p>"No, that's 799. This just freezes the victim. And, um…"</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>"Renders the victim physically indestructible. And…then teleports itself into a different blanket, somewhere across the world. But only if you don't feed it D-class personnel."</p> <p>Dr. Jones stared across the table. "You're…you're serious?"</p> <p>Agent Valdez nodded.</p> <p>"What was the actual object?"</p> <p>"It was a bunch of blankets found on some homeless people. The researcher didn't want to touch them, so he said they were 'indestructible' and were responsible for their 'frozen' state. Apparently, his supervisor had told him that he needed to catalog an SCP or face demotion, so he went out and 'contained' some 'specimens'."</p> <p>"Okay, you have my attention. Go on."</p> <p>"Exhibit two. SCP-01022."</p> <p>"Why the extra zero?"</p> <p>"I think it's the curse. Either way, the entity is, and I'm quoting here, 'a young male in his early teens. SCP-01022 hair is a dark brown, whilst his eyes are a greyish-blue shade, and he's of average height and build. His only discerning physical feature are the large circular scars on his abdomen.' The kid supposedly had a bunch of Australian animal DNA in his bloodstream. We found him in a coma, and we were supposedly 'containing' him on a cot."</p> <p>"Wait, but what was his real problem?"</p> <p>Agent Valdez looked at his boss. "He was a kid in a coma. That was it. The researcher didn't even fake the blood tests, he just made up a story about how he had animal blood in his veins. He even added a note at the bottom about how the kid should be in a hospital instead of contained."</p> <p>"What was that supposed to gain him?"</p> <p>"I have no idea. Points for humility? Either way, the kid was put in a hospital, and the number was left vacant."</p> <p>Dr. Jones nodded. "What else do you have?"</p> <p>"The Door to Forever."</p> <p>Dr. Jones stared ahead, her mouth agape.</p> <p>"I'm serious," Valdez said. "It's called 'The Door to Forever'."</p> <p>Dr. Jones lay her face into her palms. Through her hands, she said "Okay, go on."</p> <p>"I'm just going to read a passage here. 'When attached to a door frame, SCP-1022 can be used as a portal to wherever you want to go. For example, if you wanted to go to Paris France, you would open the door via the door knob, and step through the door fame with the location (e.g. France) in mind.'"</p> <p>Dr. Jones rested her head against her desk.</p> <p>"'When you step through the door frame completely, the door will close itself and a flash of white light will be seen from behind it. Once the flash has gone back to normal, the subject inside SCP-1022 will be transported to the desired destination.'"</p> <p>Dr. Jones began gently banging her head against her desk. Looking up at the agent in front of her, she said, "There…there can't be anything else to this, can there?"</p> <p>"Um, for some reason, the Door to Forever could also take the money in your pockets and fuse it into weird Monopoly money somehow."</p> <hr/> <p>Ms. Nala was sitting at her desk when the intercom switched on. "Hello! Is anyone there?"</p> <p>Bemused, Nala pushed the "talk" button. "Yes? Can I help you? Who is this?"</p> <p>"It's…it's Agent Valdez, ma'am," the voice said. "I think Dr. Jones had a stroke. Please, send in emergency care!"</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>RAISA Directive #201209:</strong></p> <p>Investigation is to take place as to the possibility that SCP-048's current containment is inadequate for the entity's present nature. Convincing evidence has been presented to RAISA Command suggesting that SCP-1022 may be infected with either the being responsible for SCP-048's present condition or (an even more daunting prospect) a duplicate iteration of the same phenomenon.</p> <p>The possibility that further containment slots may be contaminated and rendered unusable in a similar manner as SCP-048 is frightening in and of itself. However, this entity may also lead to a distracting and dangerous misuse of resources for the containment of nonexistent phenomena.</p> <p>There is hope, however. Further research has demonstrated a similar tendency was present in items designated SCP-1031 prior to the containment of the item currently occupying that containment slot. In particular, one item categorized as SCP-1031 was an unnamed goblet allegedly capable of transmuting any fluid into hazardous substances; this was revealed to be a common plastic Solo cup painted to appear to be made of steel, and possessed no unusual qualities whatsoever. Suspicion has been cast on the entity known as "The Alchemist," an unknown being believed responsible for convincing researchers that various drinking containers possess anomalous properties and should be contained, even to the extent of leading a quest to recover them.</p> <p>—Maria Jones, Director, Records and Information Security Administration</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="/cursed">Cursed</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cursed">https://scpwiki.com/cursed</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 director of the Records and Information Security Administration looked at the next report on her desk. A confused frown played across her face. She reached for the intercom. "Nala, could you send a file up for me?" "Whenever you're ready, ma'am," the secretary replied. "SCP-...048? Yes, 048. I need the file as soon as possible." "Sending it up," Nala replied. The file appeared in Dr. Jones' inbox. She glanced at it briefly (the file being only a few lines long) and looked back at the report on her desk, finding the author's name. She reached for the intercom again. "Could you send this...Agent Valdez up for me? Thanks." She waited five minutes, and a knock came at her door. "Come in, please." The agent came in. "Have a seat," Dr. Jones said. "I imagine you know why you're here." "Yes, ma'am, I think I do." "You're going to have to explain this report, Mr. Valdez," Jones said. "How, exactly, are you attempting to claim that there's been a containment breach with SCP-048? Is this an attempt to be funny? I know how you junior staff like your little pranks." "No, ma'am, it's very serious. I believe SCP-048 has escaped containment and is currently infesting a new location. I believe the appendices speak for themselves." "Agent Valdez, I've read the appendices. You know that RAISA is not known for the same degree of...harsh punishment that other departments have developed a reputation for. But if you can't explain this away, I'm afraid your career here is over." "Please, Dr. Jones, let me explain. The appendices clearly reveal a consistent train of behavior from SCP-1022 consistent with the pattern demonstrated in SCP-048 before its classification as an SCP. If I may be allowed to go through the file?" "One moment, Agent Valdez. SCP-048 isn't an entity or a creature. It's literally just the number, a number that seems to attract junior researchers trying to make a name for themselves. How can a number escape from itself?" "Ma'am, I believe the evidence shows that SCP-048 is more than that. I believe it is some kind of actual, literal curse. And when it was contained through retirement of the number, it started looking for a way to escape. Sometime in the recent past, it did so, and it's now inhabiting SCP-1022. May I demonstrate?" Dr. Jones waved her approval. Agent Valdez flipped through the file, clearing his throat. "Okay, let's look at the evidence. This is one of the most recent entries, titled "Safety Blanket." It's a blanket that paralyzes its victim." "Right, and eats them." "No, that's 799. This just freezes the victim. And, um..." "What?" "Renders the victim physically indestructible. And...then teleports itself into a different blanket, somewhere across the world. But only if you don't feed it D-class personnel." Dr. Jones stared across the table. "You're...you're serious?" Agent Valdez nodded. "What was the actual object?" "It was a bunch of blankets found on some homeless people. The researcher didn't want to touch them, so he said they were 'indestructible' and were responsible for their 'frozen' state. Apparently, his supervisor had told him that he needed to catalog an SCP or face demotion, so he went out and 'contained' some 'specimens'." "Okay, you have my attention. Go on." "Exhibit two. SCP-01022." "Why the extra zero?" "I think it's the curse. Either way, the entity is, and I'm quoting here, 'a young male in his early teens. SCP-01022 hair is a dark brown, whilst his eyes are a greyish-blue shade, and he's of average height and build. His only discerning physical feature are the large circular scars on his abdomen.' The kid supposedly had a bunch of Australian animal DNA in his bloodstream. We found him in a coma, and we were supposedly 'containing' him on a cot." "Wait, but what was his real problem?" Agent Valdez looked at his boss. "He was a kid in a coma. That was it. The researcher didn't even fake the blood tests, he just made up a story about how he had animal blood in his veins. He even added a note at the bottom about how the kid should be in a hospital instead of contained." "What was that supposed to gain him?" "I have no idea. Points for humility? Either way, the kid was put in a hospital, and the number was left vacant." Dr. Jones nodded. "What else do you have?" "The Door to Forever." Dr. Jones stared ahead, her mouth agape. "I'm serious," Valdez said. "It's called 'The Door to Forever'." Dr. Jones lay her face into her palms. Through her hands, she said "Okay, go on." "I'm just going to read a passage here. 'When attached to a door frame, SCP-1022 can be used as a portal to wherever you want to go. For example, if you wanted to go to Paris France, you would open the door via the door knob, and step through the door fame with the location (e.g. France) in mind.'" Dr. Jones rested her head against her desk. "'When you step through the door frame completely, the door will close itself and a flash of white light will be seen from behind it. Once the flash has gone back to normal, the subject inside SCP-1022 will be transported to the desired destination.'" Dr. Jones began gently banging her head against her desk. Looking up at the agent in front of her, she said, "There...there can't be anything else to this, can there?" "Um, for some reason, the Door to Forever could also take the money in your pockets and fuse it into weird Monopoly money somehow." ------ Ms. Nala was sitting at her desk when the intercom switched on. "Hello! Is anyone there?" Bemused, Nala pushed the "talk" button. "Yes? Can I help you? Who is this?" "It's...it's Agent Valdez, ma'am," the voice said. "I think Dr. Jones had a stroke. Please, send in emergency care!" ------ > = RAISA Directive #201209: > > > Investigation is to take place as to the possibility that SCP-048's current containment is inadequate for the entity's present nature. Convincing evidence has been presented to RAISA Command suggesting that SCP-1022 may be infected with either the being responsible for SCP-048's present condition or (an even more daunting prospect) a duplicate iteration of the same phenomenon. > > The possibility that further containment slots may be contaminated and rendered unusable in a similar manner as SCP-048 is frightening in and of itself. However, this entity may also lead to a distracting and dangerous misuse of resources for the containment of nonexistent phenomena. > > There is hope, however. Further research has demonstrated a similar tendency was present in items designated SCP-1031 prior to the containment of the item currently occupying that containment slot. In particular, one item categorized as SCP-1031 was an unnamed goblet allegedly capable of transmuting any fluid into hazardous substances; this was revealed to be a common plastic Solo cup painted to appear to be made of steel, and possessed no unusual qualities whatsoever. Suspicion has been cast on the entity known as "The Alchemist," an unknown being believed responsible for convincing researchers that various drinking containers possess anomalous properties and should be contained, even to the extent of leading a quest to recover them. > > --Maria Jones, Director, Records and Information Security Administration [[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>]]	2012-01-10T17:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "maria-jones", "tale" ]	Cursed - SCP Foundation	49	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12488092	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cursed
daddy-long-legs	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It is, upon reflection, the legs that were the problem.</p> <p>Certainly, my eyesight hasn't been strong enough for a long time to distinguish those loathsome features. That disturbing thorax, jointed into those long legs, casting a greater shadow than they have any right to. Yes, it must be the legs. I'm almost <em>certain</em>. It's in the name after all-Daddy Long Legs. Such a peculiarly affectionate title for such a twisted creature.</p> <p>As a boy, when my eyes were stronger and my knowledge of the world less, I thought them demons. Nightmares come to drag me to some terrible shadowland. I would run, howling and shaking with fright, to beg my mother to take it away. It rather disgusted my father, a big bully of a man, whose definitions of manliness and fortitude were hard to reach for a grown man such as himself, let alone a young boy. He would sneak into my room at night, and release them, leaving me to wake up surrounded.</p> <p>I'm sorry, but I need you to keep still. Here. Let's try this. Let me know if you feel any tingling.</p> <p>In a sense, I suppose this shock treatment did have a positive effect. I first struck back at them on one of those hateful mornings, wrapping my hand in a sock to crush the life out of one crawling on my arm. Terrified of letting it touch my bare skin, I held it at a distance, watching those legs thrash in their death throes. I had fantasized about killing them before, but their unsettling speed always made such actions seem foolish and unlikely to succeed. An up close and personal action was unprecedented, and empowering.</p> <p>After that, it wasn't long before I began hunting them, extinguishing those vile souls one by one. A pogrom starting in my back yard and working out into the forests. The sock was exchanged for a pair of gloves, which worked well enough for a time. It was on one of these excursions that I noticed it first. One of the freshly slain was moving-its leg twitching erratically. With a growing horror, I wondered if it was coming back to life. I panicked, the image of my former victims pursuing me like some fearsome legion flooding my mind. I fled the woods, hiding in my room. It was then that I determined that the gloves were not enough, my brain rationalizing the fact that a stronger impact must be needed. My father's heavy yellow handled claw hammer served this purpose well.</p> <p>I'm afraid I will need you to pray quietly, in your head. You're rather distracting me. Quite rude.</p> <p>Soon my excursions began anew, and at this point, now a young man of eighteen, I began to see them lurking on people. Nausea struck me as I saw them crawling along the arm of a bus driver in the street, as he went about his pre-set path, unperturbed by the small forms scaling him with those long legs. My vision went grey, as I realized one day, that the pastor in front of me had a pair of tiny legs edging over his clerical collar.</p> <p>My mind boggled until it occurred to me that they must have realized I'd been hunting them and began to take precautionary measures. I had seen spectators, watching and muttering to themselves as I smashed carapace after carapace. At the time I thought them simply enjoying my good works, but in the light of this new revelation, I realized what they were. Sentries. An attempt to follow my patterns. Learn my strategies. Horrified. I fled home.</p> <p>It was late that night when a solution occurred. Slowly crawling forward in my mind, ponderous and inevitable. If they were truly being used by these arachnids, then they were worse than dead. I had already learned well. Dealt with their masters. I had to handle the servants. It would be mercy. Freeing them. Letting them onward to whatever reward awaited them. Burdened with new purpose, I went out that very night.</p> <p>You may be wondering why I am telling you all of this. You've seen me on the street, giving you a startled look. You see, though you may not know it…they have you too. Shhhhh. Shhhhhhh. Don't cry. It's not your fault. It's simply the facts. But you have no need to worry about my qualifications for the task of freeing you. It's been a long time since that bus driver. And I've since learned that a hammer will work just as well on a man as it does on monsters…</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="/daddy-long-legs">Daddy Long Legs</a>" by Arlecchino, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/daddy-long-legs">https://scpwiki.com/daddy-long-legs</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]] [[/>]] It is, upon reflection, the legs that were the problem. Certainly, my eyesight hasn't been strong enough for a long time to distinguish those loathsome features. That disturbing thorax, jointed into those long legs, casting a greater shadow than they have any right to. Yes, it must be the legs. I'm almost //certain//. It's in the name after all-Daddy Long Legs. Such a peculiarly affectionate title for such a twisted creature. As a boy, when my eyes were stronger and my knowledge of the world less, I thought them demons. Nightmares come to drag me to some terrible shadowland. I would run, howling and shaking with fright, to beg my mother to take it away. It rather disgusted my father, a big bully of a man, whose definitions of manliness and fortitude were hard to reach for a grown man such as himself, let alone a young boy. He would sneak into my room at night, and release them, leaving me to wake up surrounded. I'm sorry, but I need you to keep still. Here. Let's try this. Let me know if you feel any tingling. In a sense, I suppose this shock treatment did have a positive effect. I first struck back at them on one of those hateful mornings, wrapping my hand in a sock to crush the life out of one crawling on my arm. Terrified of letting it touch my bare skin, I held it at a distance, watching those legs thrash in their death throes. I had fantasized about killing them before, but their unsettling speed always made such actions seem foolish and unlikely to succeed. An up close and personal action was unprecedented, and empowering. After that, it wasn't long before I began hunting them, extinguishing those vile souls one by one. A pogrom starting in my back yard and working out into the forests. The sock was exchanged for a pair of gloves, which worked well enough for a time. It was on one of these excursions that I noticed it first. One of the freshly slain was moving-its leg twitching erratically. With a growing horror, I wondered if it was coming back to life. I panicked, the image of my former victims pursuing me like some fearsome legion flooding my mind. I fled the woods, hiding in my room. It was then that I determined that the gloves were not enough, my brain rationalizing the fact that a stronger impact must be needed. My father's heavy yellow handled claw hammer served this purpose well. I'm afraid I will need you to pray quietly, in your head. You're rather distracting me. Quite rude. Soon my excursions began anew, and at this point, now a young man of eighteen, I began to see them lurking on people. Nausea struck me as I saw them crawling along the arm of a bus driver in the street, as he went about his pre-set path, unperturbed by the small forms scaling him with those long legs. My vision went grey, as I realized one day, that the pastor in front of me had a pair of tiny legs edging over his clerical collar. My mind boggled until it occurred to me that they must have realized I'd been hunting them and began to take precautionary measures. I had seen spectators, watching and muttering to themselves as I smashed carapace after carapace. At the time I thought them simply enjoying my good works, but in the light of this new revelation, I realized what they were. Sentries. An attempt to follow my patterns. Learn my strategies. Horrified. I fled home. It was late that night when a solution occurred. Slowly crawling forward in my mind, ponderous and inevitable. If they were truly being used by these arachnids, then they were worse than dead. I had already learned well. Dealt with their masters. I had to handle the servants. It would be mercy. Freeing them. Letting them onward to whatever reward awaited them. Burdened with new purpose, I went out that very night. You may be wondering why I am telling you all of this. You've seen me on the street, giving you a startled look. You see, though you may not know it...they have you too. Shhhhh. Shhhhhhh. Don't cry. It's not your fault. It's simply the facts. But you have no need to worry about my qualifications for the task of freeing you. It's been a long time since that bus driver. And I've since learned that a hammer will work just as well on a man as it does on monsters... [[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>]]	2012-05-13T08:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Daddy Long Legs - SCP Foundation	58	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-works-of-doc-burns", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13325927	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/daddy-long-legs
decomm-anon	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The dim fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, as the nine individuals looked at one another uneasily. The clock on the wall ticked the time down, and there was the occasional nervous cough. The windowless room they were seated in didn't do anything to improve the mood, with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper or the stale donuts by the door. Finally, the man with the stitches on his neck who was seated at the front of the room spoke up.</p> <p>"Hi, my name is Dyne, and I've been decommissioned."</p> <p>"Hi Dyne."</p> <p>Dyne stood up, cleared his throat nervously, and went on. "I have been decommissioned for about 2 years now, and my life has been one of continuous improvements. At first things were very hard, with many trials and tribulations. Nobody wanted to use the "super kawaii bonsai swordsman" in any of their fictional works. Things seemed like a dead end to me. But then I managed to obtain a position as a minor character in a tale, and that's been paying the bills. I've always been a little bit annoyed that I never got a tale that was worthy of my greatness like some of you did, but overall I have been living my life to its greatest potential."</p> <p>There was a smattering of applause as he sat back in his seat.</p> <p>The Moose Man clasped his hand to Dyne's shoulder and spoke. "Dyne, these last few weeks you have shown us the best way to behave as a -D. You have dignity, you respect the reasons why you were bumped off, and you're coming to terms with having gotten pneumatic bolts shoved into your balls and then being fired into the sun. We can learn from your experience."</p> <p>He looked down at the list in front of him. "Alright, I believe that Dreamer was next?"</p> <p>Dyne sat down, and the teenage kid sitting in the folding chair next to him stood up. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and had a rough look about him, like he was seconds away from either going on a rampage or breaking down in tears.</p> <p>"Hi, my name is Dreamer, and I was decommissioned."</p> <p>"Hi Dreamer."</p> <p>He wiped his eyes, and began speaking. "It's been really hard living as a decommissioned article. Lots of other guys will mock you for it, try and tell you that you aren't good enough. I guess that's part of life now and I accept that… but it's still hard sometimes."</p> <p>The Moose Man put up his enormous hairy hand. "I'm going to stop you there, because I think this is an excellent time to go over the 5 steps of being decommissioned. Anyone care to read them?"</p> <p>Ben the Cyborg spoke up. "No problem Moose, I can remember them from memory partition 45-B. Can I rattle 'em off?"</p> <p>The Invincible D-Class nodded. "Go right ahead."</p> <p>"Okay," said Ben. "The first step is to accept that we fall below -10, and we see that there is no rewrite forthcoming. We look at our own imminent destruction, and we accept it."</p> <p>"Very good, please continue."</p> <p>Ben nodded. "The second step is to accept the new author, and to work with, not against them as they write your decomm story.</p> <p>"The third step is to accept the fact that you have been destroyed, and to appreciate any person who reads you to see what not to do.</p> <p>"Fourthly, you must learn to deal with other articles harassing you. They compare themselves to you, say they're better, but we know that any article that does that must be insecure in its own quality if it needs to compare itself to a decomm to feel better."</p> <p>Moose Man smiled, showing off his horrific and terrible dental work. "Very good. Now what is the last step?"</p> <p>Ben's artificial lips spread wide into a smile. "To find other articles like us, and to help them go through their own decommissioning."</p> <p>Moose Man patted Ben on the back, applying enough force to knock one of his simulated optical modules out of the artificial socket. "Very good. Does anybody want to volunteer to share their story next?"</p> <p>The man closest to the door raised his hand. Moose Man pointed at him. "You may go next then."</p> <p>The man seated by the door stood up. He wore unremarkable clothing, had jet black hair, and deep brown eyes. He smiled at the motley collection seated before him, showing of his sharpened teeth, and began speaking.</p> <p>"Hey kids, I'm Duke. Yes, <em>the</em> Duke. In the flesh. I know many of you might be amazed by being in my presence, so I'll give you a minute to get it out of your systems."</p> <p>The individuals seated before him let out a collection of sighs, groans, and sarcastic muttering. They had all heard Duke's egotistical posturing before. Duke waited a full minute before he began speaking again, in a boisterous tone.</p> <p>"As all you peons know, I've been living life in the fast lane. I'm the most famous decommissioned SCP, so I always get all the best character spots when someone writes a tale about us. And of course, I have regular work with Duke till' Dawn. You could say that I'm the best decomm of them all."</p> <p>"Peanuts is better," said the Invincible D-Class.</p> <p>"Peanuts shmeanuts, you aren't even on the top rated page," sneered Duke, leering at the Invincible D-Class with a smirk on his face.</p> <p>"He's right you know," said Joey, sitting in his chair with a cigar in his mouth. "Duke till' dawn is the stupidest, most lolfoundation story I've ever heard. You just like to go an' brag about it cos ya don't have anythin' else to go on, ya chump."</p> <p>Before the argument could persist Moose Man stood up, his enormous hairy frame almost bringing him up to the room's ceiling.</p> <p>"That is enough from you all. This is supposed to be a constructive meeting, not a contest of who has the best stories or is the least terrible. If you weren't terrible you wouldn't be here."</p> <p>Grumbling, Duke sat back down in his seat. As his chair creaked from his weight, a wave of awkwardness washed over the room. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then The Moose Man coughed a little, and asked;</p> <p>"Anybody want to go next?"</p> <p>"I will," said the Palauan woman emitting thick, black viscous fluids from her body. "My name is Dolores, and I was -ARC'd."</p> <p>There was a long silence.</p> <p>"Hey, wait a minute here, ain't it supposed to be just decomms in this here support group?" asked Joey, turning his attention to The Moose Man. There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the assembled cretins.</p> <p>"Well yes," sighed The Moose Man, his odorous breath incinerating the nose hairs of all those around him. "That's nominally what we are here for, but I invited Dolores here because she's the most hated -ARC, and has it just as bad as you all do. Now show our guest some respect." He stomped his big sweaty, smelly feet on the floor, indicating the matter was closed.</p> <p>Dolores sneezed a little, and began speaking. "My name is Dolores, and I am the sufferer of the world's sorrows. You might think that gets a person a very large amount of work in the fiction writing, but I am mistaken in that. Nobody wants to write the stories about me, all they do is look at me and say how awful I am."</p> <p>"That's because you are awful." Duke sneered, leaned back in his chair and shot her the meanest look he could muster. "You're by far the worst -ARC."</p> <p>"Duke!" admonished The Moose Man, his hideous nostril flares indicating an imminent lecture. However, before he could proceed, the other -D's began to speak up.</p> <p>The Invincible D-Class was the first to pipe up. "You can be quiet Duke, none of us want to hear it."</p> <p>"Yeah." Joey sat up in his seat. "You can take all these comments of yours and shove 'em right up your ass. You just like to tear other people down."</p> <p>Duke looked at him angrily. "So what if I do? You people have nowhere lower to go. All you do is wax about how you really aren't that bad, but you are. You suck. The only person who has produced anything worthwhile abouts this place is me!"</p> <p>"Oh please," the Invincible D-Class scoffed. "You have the most ridiculous, over the top decomm on the database. Peanuts is much lower key, and is clearly more realisti-"</p> <p>Ben the Cyborg cut him off. "My termination log helped build the character of Dr. Gears in a way no other tale had before it! Clearly my decommissioning log is the one which should be considered superior!"</p> <p>The Moose Man raised his hideous wrinkled hands up in the air and spoke in a booming, spittle filled voice. "GENTLEMEN! This discussion will get us nowhere. And you're all wrong anyways. I have the best decomm log of any of us!"</p> <p>A collective groan emanated from the assembled party.</p> <p>"Bullshit you have the best one." Joey leaped to his hind legs. "Your log doesn't have one interesting thing happen!"</p> <p>Dolores spoke up. "I agree with-"</p> <p>"Shut up Dolores, this doesn't concern a mere -ARC," growled Duke, rising to his feet and grimacing. "The only thing that can make these boneheads see the truth is a beating!"</p> <p>Scarcely had the words left Dukes lips before The Moose Man used one of his disgusting hairy hands to smack him upside his vampiric cranium.</p> <p>"Stop instigating violence! And admit that my story is best!"</p> <p>"No mine is!"</p> <p>"No, MINE!"</p> <p>As the bickering dissolved into straight up arguing, and finally into fistfights, the coffee cup watched with its holy, judgmental eye. It saw that their mortal flaws would never let them work together towards a peaceful purpose. It saw their failures, and it did not approve.</p> <p>And besides, it had the best decomm story of them all.</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="/decomm-anon">Decomm Anon</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/decomm-anon">https://scpwiki.com/decomm-anon</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 dim fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, as the nine individuals looked at one another uneasily. The clock on the wall ticked the time down, and there was the occasional nervous cough. The windowless room they were seated in didn't do anything to improve the mood, with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper or the stale donuts by the door. Finally, the man with the stitches on his neck who was seated at the front of the room spoke up. "Hi, my name is Dyne, and I've been decommissioned." "Hi Dyne." Dyne stood up, cleared his throat nervously, and went on. "I have been decommissioned for about 2 years now, and my life has been one of continuous improvements. At first things were very hard, with many trials and tribulations. Nobody wanted to use the "super kawaii bonsai swordsman" in any of their fictional works. Things seemed like a dead end to me. But then I managed to obtain a position as a minor character in a tale, and that's been paying the bills. I've always been a little bit annoyed that I never got a tale that was worthy of my greatness like some of you did, but overall I have been living my life to its greatest potential." There was a smattering of applause as he sat back in his seat. The Moose Man clasped his hand to Dyne's shoulder and spoke. "Dyne, these last few weeks you have shown us the best way to behave as a -D. You have dignity, you respect the reasons why you were bumped off, and you're coming to terms with having gotten pneumatic bolts shoved into your balls and then being fired into the sun. We can learn from your experience." He looked down at the list in front of him. "Alright, I believe that Dreamer was next?" Dyne sat down, and the teenage kid sitting in the folding chair next to him stood up. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and had a rough look about him, like he was seconds away from either going on a rampage or breaking down in tears. "Hi, my name is Dreamer, and I was decommissioned." "Hi Dreamer." He wiped his eyes, and began speaking. "It's been really hard living as a decommissioned article. Lots of other guys will mock you for it, try and tell you that you aren't good enough. I guess that's part of life now and I accept that... but it's still hard sometimes." The Moose Man put up his enormous hairy hand. "I'm going to stop you there, because I think this is an excellent time to go over the 5 steps of being decommissioned. Anyone care to read them?" Ben the Cyborg spoke up. "No problem Moose, I can remember them from memory partition 45-B. Can I rattle 'em off?" The Invincible D-Class nodded. "Go right ahead." "Okay," said Ben. "The first step is to accept that we fall below -10, and we see that there is no rewrite forthcoming. We look at our own imminent destruction, and we accept it." "Very good, please continue." Ben nodded. "The second step is to accept the new author, and to work with, not against them as they write your decomm story. "The third step is to accept the fact that you have been destroyed, and to appreciate any person who reads you to see what not to do. "Fourthly, you must learn to deal with other articles harassing you. They compare themselves to you, say they're better, but we know that any article that does that must be insecure in its own quality if it needs to compare itself to a decomm to feel better." Moose Man smiled, showing off his horrific and terrible dental work. "Very good. Now what is the last step?" Ben's artificial lips spread wide into a smile. "To find other articles like us, and to help them go through their own decommissioning." Moose Man patted Ben on the back, applying enough force to knock one of his simulated optical modules out of the artificial socket. "Very good. Does anybody want to volunteer to share their story next?" The man closest to the door raised his hand. Moose Man pointed at him. "You may go next then." The man seated by the door stood up. He wore unremarkable clothing, had jet black hair, and deep brown eyes. He smiled at the motley collection seated before him, showing of his sharpened teeth, and began speaking. "Hey kids, I'm Duke. Yes, //the// Duke. In the flesh. I know many of you might be amazed by being in my presence, so I'll give you a minute to get it out of your systems." The individuals seated before him let out a collection of sighs, groans, and sarcastic muttering. They had all heard Duke's egotistical posturing before. Duke waited a full minute before he began speaking again, in a boisterous tone. "As all you peons know, I've been living life in the fast lane. I'm the most famous decommissioned SCP, so I always get all the best character spots when someone writes a tale about us. And of course, I have regular work with Duke till' Dawn. You could say that I'm the best decomm of them all." "Peanuts is better," said the Invincible D-Class. "Peanuts shmeanuts, you aren't even on the top rated page," sneered Duke, leering at the Invincible D-Class with a smirk on his face. "He's right you know," said Joey, sitting in his chair with a cigar in his mouth. "Duke till' dawn is the stupidest, most lolfoundation story I've ever heard. You just like to go an' brag about it cos ya don't have anythin' else to go on, ya chump." Before the argument could persist Moose Man stood up, his enormous hairy frame almost bringing him up to the room's ceiling. "That is enough from you all. This is supposed to be a constructive meeting, not a contest of who has the best stories or is the least terrible. If you weren't terrible you wouldn't be here." Grumbling, Duke sat back down in his seat. As his chair creaked from his weight, a wave of awkwardness washed over the room. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then The Moose Man coughed a little, and asked; "Anybody want to go next?" "I will," said the Palauan woman emitting thick, black viscous fluids from her body. "My name is Dolores, and I was -ARC'd." There was a long silence. "Hey, wait a minute here, ain't it supposed to be just decomms in this here support group?" asked Joey, turning his attention to The Moose Man. There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the assembled cretins. "Well yes," sighed The Moose Man, his odorous breath incinerating the nose hairs of all those around him. "That's nominally what we are here for, but I invited Dolores here because she's the most hated -ARC, and has it just as bad as you all do. Now show our guest some respect." He stomped his big sweaty, smelly feet on the floor, indicating the matter was closed. Dolores sneezed a little, and began speaking. "My name is Dolores, and I am the sufferer of the world's sorrows. You might think that gets a person a very large amount of work in the fiction writing, but I am mistaken in that. Nobody wants to write the stories about me, all they do is look at me and say how awful I am." "That's because you are awful." Duke sneered, leaned back in his chair and shot her the meanest look he could muster. "You're by far the worst -ARC." "Duke!" admonished The Moose Man, his hideous nostril flares indicating an imminent lecture. However, before he could proceed, the other -D's began to speak up. The Invincible D-Class was the first to pipe up. "You can be quiet Duke, none of us want to hear it." "Yeah." Joey sat up in his seat. "You can take all these comments of yours and shove 'em right up your ass. You just like to tear other people down." Duke looked at him angrily. "So what if I do? You people have nowhere lower to go. All you do is wax about how you really aren't that bad, but you are. You suck. The only person who has produced anything worthwhile abouts this place is me!" "Oh please," the Invincible D-Class scoffed. "You have the most ridiculous, over the top decomm on the database. Peanuts is much lower key, and is clearly more realisti-" Ben the Cyborg cut him off. "My termination log helped build the character of Dr. Gears in a way no other tale had before it! Clearly my decommissioning log is the one which should be considered superior!" The Moose Man raised his hideous wrinkled hands up in the air and spoke in a booming, spittle filled voice. "GENTLEMEN! This discussion will get us nowhere. And you're all wrong anyways. I have the best decomm log of any of us!" A collective groan emanated from the assembled party. "Bullshit you have the best one." Joey leaped to his hind legs. "Your log doesn't have one interesting thing happen!" Dolores spoke up. "I agree with-" "Shut up Dolores, this doesn't concern a mere -ARC," growled Duke, rising to his feet and grimacing. "The only thing that can make these boneheads see the truth is a beating!" Scarcely had the words left Dukes lips before The Moose Man used one of his disgusting hairy hands to smack him upside his vampiric cranium. "Stop instigating violence! And admit that my story is best!" "No mine is!" "No, MINE!" As the bickering dissolved into straight up arguing, and finally into fistfights, the coffee cup watched with its holy, judgmental eye. It saw that their mortal flaws would never let them work together towards a peaceful purpose. It saw their failures, and it did not approve. And besides, it had the best decomm story of them all. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-06-28T06:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Decomm Anon - SCP Foundation	125	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13655352	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/decomm-anon
delia	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><tt>TRANSCRIPT BEGINS 11:00:00</tt></p> <p>You a doctor or something?</p> <p><em>No, a student, actually.</em></p> <p>Never had much business with doctors. Doris took sick once, went to the doctor. Jabbed her fulla holes, sent her home with some pills, didn't fix a goddamn thing.</p> <p><em>Well, as I said, I'm not a doctor, at least not yet. I'm a research student, and I happened on your daughter's case in one of the university medical files.</em></p> <p>Eh? You mean Delia? Goddamn, must have some long memories there.</p> <p><em>laughs I suppose that's right. She was a unique case, and those sorts of things tend to stick with people. I just wanted to get a little more information.</em></p> <p>Don't know what I can tell you that I didn't already. Delia came back from the woodpile one day, said she didn't feel good. She's normally healthy as a horse, so I took it to heart. Let her lie down a bit, but it didn't do any good. Got paler and paler, sicker and sicker. Doris got more and more scared, by the fourth day she almost dragged me and her to town to see the doctor.</p> <p><em>Did they give any diagnosis?</em></p> <p>Well, they hemmed and hawed over her for a while, but didn't come up with anything, just bounced us to the university hospital, see if they could figure it out. Fat lot of good that did. She kept fadin' and fadin' each hour. She…she stopped breathin' for a while. Few hours, I think, the doctors were ready to give up, but then she sat up again, finally. Gave us all a fright.</p> <p><em>They say you removed her after that? The notes say they were concerned about a strain of rabies or something similar, weren't you concerned?</em></p> <p>My baby girl was up and around again, and I didn't want those fellas pawin' over her anymore. They didn't know, and I didn't care to let them fiddle around until they did. Oh, hell, might as well let you hear it from the horses mouth, right? DORIS. DORIS! BRING DELIA DOWNSTAIRS!</p> <p><em>Wait, your daughter's still here?</em></p> <p>The hell else would she be? I know things are different in the city, but here, family is still important. She's my girl, and I love her. It's hard, some days. At first it was bad, she'd snap at anyone, but I think it was all the proddin' and pokin' she took. She gentled down after a few months, and we take care of her.</p> <p><em>How…old is your daughter now?</em></p> <p>Well, she's about forty now, and a little worse for wear, but she's still my girl. The hardest part was figurin' out what she needed after that. Took ages, and she got worse and worse, but old Parkins helped us figure it out, god rest his soul. Gotten harder lately, but…ah, here's my girl now.</p> <p><em>What…oh my god.</em></p> <p>It's been hard, yeah, but we get by. We always get by, always have. Now, boy, you settle down now, ease down, I don't wanna make this hard. Boy, you- BOY!</p> <p><em>inarticulate noises</em><br/> <em>three gunshots</em></p> <p>Goddammit boy, I told you to ease down. I wish it wasn't this way, but it is. She needs it, not sure why, but she's my girl. Family still means something here boy, means more then life or death itself. She gets dry like that now, doesn't get around much, but she's still my Delia. Her muscles have gotten all tight and such, so we gotta chop everything up, like makin' pemmican, but raw. You ease down now boy, just let it take ya, it'll be over…</p> <p>Harold, she's gettin' excited, might wanna move off a bit before she hurts you or herself</p> <p>Alright, let her go Doris, she can't hurt him none now. Least she's still got her teeth.</p> <p><em>*inarticulate, moist sounds</em></p> <tt>recording and photograph recovered from small bundle of personal effects, believed to belong to missing research student Paul ███████. Investigation is still ongoing.</tt><br/> <img alt="Delia-new.png" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/delia/Delia-new.png"/><br/> <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="/delia">Delia</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/delia">https://scpwiki.com/delia</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> <p><strong>Image 1</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> <em>Delia-new.png</em><br/> <strong>Name:</strong> <em>File:Venzone - Mummie - Riparo provvisorio.jpg</em><br/> <strong>Author:</strong> YukioSanjo, <span class="error-inline"><em>Elogee FishTruck</em> does not match any existing user name</span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Venzone_-_Mummie_-_Riparo_provvisorio.jpg">Wikimedia Commons</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] {{TRANSCRIPT BEGINS 11:00:00}} You a doctor or something? //No, a student, actually.// Never had much business with doctors. Doris took sick once, went to the doctor. Jabbed her fulla holes, sent her home with some pills, didn't fix a goddamn thing. //Well, as I said, I'm not a doctor, at least not yet. I'm a research student, and I happened on your daughter's case in one of the university medical files.// Eh? You mean Delia? Goddamn, must have some long memories there. //laughs I suppose that's right. She was a unique case, and those sorts of things tend to stick with people. I just wanted to get a little more information.// Don't know what I can tell you that I didn't already. Delia came back from the woodpile one day, said she didn't feel good. She's normally healthy as a horse, so I took it to heart. Let her lie down a bit, but it didn't do any good. Got paler and paler, sicker and sicker. Doris got more and more scared, by the fourth day she almost dragged me and her to town to see the doctor. //Did they give any diagnosis?// Well, they hemmed and hawed over her for a while, but didn't come up with anything, just bounced us to the university hospital, see if they could figure it out. Fat lot of good that did. She kept fadin' and fadin' each hour. She...she stopped breathin' for a while. Few hours, I think, the doctors were ready to give up, but then she sat up again, finally. Gave us all a fright. //They say you removed her after that? The notes say they were concerned about a strain of rabies or something similar, weren't you concerned?// My baby girl was up and around again, and I didn't want those fellas pawin' over her anymore. They didn't know, and I didn't care to let them fiddle around until they did. Oh, hell, might as well let you hear it from the horses mouth, right? DORIS. DORIS! BRING DELIA DOWNSTAIRS! //Wait, your daughter's still here?// The hell else would she be? I know things are different in the city, but here, family is still important. She's my girl, and I love her. It's hard, some days. At first it was bad, she'd snap at anyone, but I think it was all the proddin' and pokin' she took. She gentled down after a few months, and we take care of her. //How...old is your daughter now?// Well, she's about forty now, and a little worse for wear, but she's still my girl. The hardest part was figurin' out what she needed after that. Took ages, and she got worse and worse, but old Parkins helped us figure it out, god rest his soul. Gotten harder lately, but...ah, here's my girl now. //What...oh my god.// It's been hard, yeah, but we get by. We always get by, always have. Now, boy, you settle down now, ease down, I don't wanna make this hard. Boy, you- BOY! //inarticulate noises// //three gunshots// Goddammit boy, I told you to ease down. I wish it wasn't this way, but it is. She needs it, not sure why, but she's my girl. Family still means something here boy, means more then life or death itself. She gets dry like that now, doesn't get around much, but she's still my Delia. Her muscles have gotten all tight and such, so we gotta chop everything up, like makin' pemmican, but raw. You ease down now boy, just let it take ya, it'll be over... Harold, she's gettin' excited, might wanna move off a bit before she hurts you or herself Alright, let her go Doris, she can't hurt him none now. Least she's still got her teeth. //inarticulate, moist sounds// {{recording and photograph recovered from small bundle of personal effects, believed to belong to missing research student Paul ███████. Investigation is still ongoing.}} [[image Delia-new.png]] @@@@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== Image 1* > Filename: //Delia-new.png// > Name: //File:Venzone - Mummie - Riparo provvisorio.jpg// > Author: YukioSanjo, [[user Elogee FishTruck]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Venzone_-_Mummie_-_Riparo_provvisorio.jpg Wikimedia Commons] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-04-02T23:33:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Delia - SCP Foundation	73	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-gears-storytime-entries" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/delia/Delia-new.png" ]	13081802	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/delia
deranged-ditties	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Jack "PoorYoric" Duckins walked past the containment cell of SCP-Eleventy-Six, nodded to the empty air, and continued on his way. Precisely three-point-four seconds later, he zipped back, his eyes stretching out and his beak opening wide in alarm. "Containment breach!" he quacked. "Emergency! Alarums and excursions! HALP!"</p> <p>Instantly, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock and a squad of Russian bears ran down the hallway. And up the hallway. And partway up the stairway, before they remembered why they ran there in the first place, and returned to the door. Strelnicock pulled out a spatula and scraped Yoric from the floor. "Comrade! Where is there being fire?"</p> <p>Yoric placed his thumb-feather into his mouth and re-inflated himself, popping back out. "SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped!"</p> <p>"Eleventy-Six! Oh no! That's terrible! Sound alarm! Load weapons! Kill chickens!" the rooster crowed, then paused. "What is Eleventy-Six? Is that vending machine? Has vending machine escaped?"</p> <p>"No," the duck replied. "Even worse. It's the whatsit!"</p> <p>"Not whatsit!" Strelnicock said. "We must tell the administrator!"</p> <p>"To the administrator's office," said Yoric.</p> <p>They hurried up the stairs, barreling through the doors to the administrator's anteroom. A bored secretary snapped her gum, and said, "Appointment?"</p> <p>"No time for appointments!" Strelnicock bellowed.</p> <p>"Can't get in without an appointment," the secretary said.</p> <p>"Break, Karrin, baby, is me! Is Strelnicock! You will be letting me in for see administrator, da?" the rooster pleaded.</p> <p>"Can't do that," she said, not looking up from her issue of Guns and Ammo. "Rules."</p> <p>"Then I will take matters into own wings!" He started to run past the desk, only to be stopped by two precisely-aimed bullets to his kneecaps. "Cock-a-doodle-dammit!" he cried.</p> <p>"Sorry. Rules are rule." She snapped her gum again.</p> <p>Yoric tore off his coat, revealing a set of janitor's overalls, emblazoned with the name "Jim." He pulled a mop and bucket out from under a seat, and whistled as he slowly mopped past the secretary.</p> <p>Break dropped a small object into the bucket as he passed by. Several seconds later, there was a bang, a splash, and a quack. The drenched, burned, and battered duck limped back.</p> <p>"You're despicable," he said.</p> <p>Gerald walked by, his antennae twitching. “What’s going on?” the cockroach asked.</p> <p>“SCP-Eleventy-Six has got loose,” said Yoric. “We have to tell the administrator, but Break says we can’t without an appointment.”</p> <p>“Oh,” Gerald said. He glanced at Break. “Can we make an appointment to see the administrator?”</p> <p>“Sure. Got an opening right now,” she said. “Head right in.”</p> <p>“Thanks.” Gerald motioned for the other two to walk in with him.</p> <p>“Sir!” Strelnicock said to the person behind the desk, “We are having grave situation. SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped from being containment, and we must to be recapturing it.”</p> <p>“SCP-Eleventy-Six, eh? Lemme see if I remember that one,” the other replied. “Was he about yea tall?” he asked, putting a hand over his head.</p> <p>“Yes!” said Yoric.</p> <p>“Did he wear big white gloves like these?” he asked, waving his hands.</p> <p>“Da!” said Strelnicock.</p> <p>“Did he have big, orange, hairy eyebrows like these?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.</p> <p>“That’s him exactly!” said Yoric.</p> <p>“Nope, don’t know him,” said the whatsit.</p> <p>“Oh. Well, fair enough,” said Yoric.</p> <p>“You are busy man. Cannot keep up with all SCP objects,” Strelnicock concurred.</p> <p>“Uh, guys…” Gerald said. “I… I don’t think that’s the director.”</p> <p>“But if he’s not the director, that means…” Yoric glanced across the desk.</p> <p>“Is whatsit!” shouted Strelnicock.</p> <p>“You ain’t just whistlin’ dixie, sister!” the whatsit said, throwing pies into the agents’ faces. “Wahahahahooo!” It bounced out of the office and down the hall.</p> <p>“Custard?” Strelnicock said. “Custard is for Chickens!”</p> <p>“Gentlemen,” Yoric said, “I have a plan.”</p> <p>“Oh. Goody,” Gerald said.</p> <hr/> <p>Ten minutes later, Gerald was cunningly disguised as a female whatsit. This disguise consisted of red lipstick, a white dress, and false orange eyebrows on the ends of his antennae. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said nervously.</p> <p>“Of course it is,” Yoric said. “I thought of it.”</p> <p>“Quickly, comrades! We hide in wait for whatsit! Gerald, you are being the sexy. Good luck with important mission.” The rooster saluted, and then he and Yoric hid behind a garbage can.</p> <p>“Wahahahahoo!” came the cry of Eleventy-six, echoing down the hallway. It bounced along down the hallway, when it espied the disguised cockroach. Its eyes bulged out past its jutting eyebrows, and its tongue rolled out of its mouth. “Baby!” it said. “Where you been all my life?”</p> <p>“Um. Here?” Gerald said, uncertainly.</p> <p>“Mi amore, you are the light at the end of my tunnel. You are the applesauce on my porkchop. You are the creamy center of my Twinkie. Let me take you away from all of this.” The whatsit gestured grandly at the metal hallway.</p> <p>“Take me where?” Gerald asked, increasingly nervous.</p> <p>“To the kasbah. The Riviera. My place for kruellers. You name it, baby! You an’ me!” The whatsit grabbed Gerald and pulled him close.</p> <p>“Fresh!” Gerald said, trying to push Eleventy-Six away.</p> <p>“Fiery vixen! Just how I likes ‘em!” The whatstit suddenly sped off, Gerald in tow.</p> <p>“Wait, weren’t we supposed to grab him?” Yoric asked.</p> <p>“Was your job. I was keeping watch,” said Strelnicock.</p> <p>“Me? You’re the one built like a line-backer!” Yoric said.</p> <p>“Whatsit is slippery, like Yorics. Therefore is your job,” Strelnicock said.</p> <p>“Slippery! Why I oughtta—” Yoric slammed a webbed foot down.</p> <p>They argued for several moments. Neither seemed to notice the arrival of Gerald-dress torn, lipstick smeared-until the cockroach threw the fake eyebrows in their faces. “I quit!” he snarled.</p> <p>“What are you meaning, quit?” Strelnicock demanded.</p> <p>“I did not come here for the purpose of being humiliated! I don’t have to be here. I don’t have to take this. I don’t have to wear this dress!” Gerald shouted.</p> <p>“But what about your contract?” Yoric asked.</p> <p>“Contract? What about my contract?” Gerald asked.</p> <p>“Section Three, Subjection A, Paragraph III,” Yoric said, handing a copy to the cockroach.</p> <p>“‘Will appear in cartoon-based tale for the purpose of being humiliated.’ Huh. I must have missed that part.” The cockroach shrugged. “I guess I have to go on.”</p> <p>“Looks that way.”</p> <p>“Well, phooey.”</p> <p>“So, comrades, we are now to formulate new plan of action that will be made up by me, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock. And using my fabulous guns.” He smirked, flexing a wing. “Also firearms.”</p> <p>“Oh, lordy,” Yoric said. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”</p> <p>“Is simplicity itself. Now, listen closely to me…”</p> <hr/> <p>Half an hour later, and they had it set up. It was a thing of beauty. It was a thing of grace. It was a thing of high explosives. Mostly the latter.</p> <p>“Okay, so how does this work?”</p> <p>“As I have been saying, it is simple. Firstly, beartrap will keep whatsit in place by biting down upon leg of annoyance. Beartrap has no spring, and is instead closed through tiny but powerful rockets.”</p> <p>“Okay, what then?”</p> <p>“Then off is set the automated machine guns. They will perforate the organs of whatsit with bullets. Many bullets. It will be having more holes than cheese from Switzerland.”</p> <p>“Um, Strelnicock…” Gerald began.</p> <p>“Wait, hold on, what happens after that? I’m curious.”</p> <p>“Ah, that is when the platform above-weighted greatly and covered with spikes that are tipped with many poisons-will fall down, perforating any organs that were unperforated by bullets. Which there will be none, because of many bullets mentioned before.”</p> <p>“Strel, pal, I really think—” Yoric started.</p> <p>“Wait, wait. Is that it?”</p> <p>“Is it it?” Strelnicock laughed. “Of course not! Next, there will be grand finale. I have placed many explosives. The many-holed, poisoned, trapped whatsit shall then be blown into smithereenies. Will be thing of beauty. I may shed single manly tear over worthy foe. Maybe not. I am very manly, tears, they do not come so easy.”</p> <p>“And how’s it triggered?”</p> <p>“When whatsit steps on plate,” Strelnicock said confidently.</p> <p>“Which plate?”</p> <p>“This plate,” Strelnicock said, tapping a plate with his foot. He stared for a second, then looked over to where the whatsit had Yoric and Gerald tied up. “Oh, you. You are not my friend.”</p> <p>“Wahahahahoo!” the whatsit cried as it bounced away down the halls.</p> <p>There was a hiss, a snap, and a scream from Strelnicock as the beartrap closed. Then the rattle of the machine guns.</p> <p>“Not in the face! Not in the face!” Yoric screamed as they were perforated by what might be considered an overabundance of bullets.</p> <p>A snap overhead signaled the release of the spiked platform, which crashed down over all three.</p> <p>“Oh god! My previously unruptured organs!” Gerald cried.</p> <p>Then there was a very loud explosion. In hindsight, that many explosives in an enclosed space might have been somewhat foolhardy.</p> <hr/> <p>Sometime later, they woke up to the smell of formaldehyde and mustache wax. “Ah, good, you’ve regained consciousness!” Dr. Mann said. “I’m so glad you’re no longer entirely dead.”</p> <p>“Where are we, what are we doing here, and can I borrow five bucks?” Yoric asked.</p> <p>“In my lab, recovering from gross physical damage, and certainly, if I can find my wallet. I haven’t seen it since… Hmm, not since the last time you were here, in fact. Anyway! I found you around the site, somewhat injured.”</p> <p>“Around the site? Where around the site?” asked Gerald.</p> <p>“All around the site,” said Doctor Mann. “But nothing beyond my skills.”</p> <p>“So… We’re okay?” Yoric asked.</p> <p>“Certainly, in perfect health! Um. Well, I couldn’t find all the pieces. So certain… substitutions had to be made.”</p> <p>“I was wondering why beak was tasting like cardboard,” Strelnicock said.</p> <p>“Do try not to salivate too much. It’s double corrugated, but even so…” Doctor Mann trailed off.</p> <p>“Ah. Well, we are still to having Whatsit to catch. So, if we are being repaired to best extent possible, we must be off to be going!” Strelnicock stood.</p> <p>“Toodles, Doc,” Yoric said.</p> <p>“Um. Thanks?” Gerald said, before following the others.</p> <p>“What peculiar fellows,” the anthropomorphic mustache said.</p> <hr/> <p>“Okay, so, we need a new plan,” Yoric said.</p> <p>“I am having it!” Strelnicock said. “We will create a minefield, and in the center of minefield, we will place favorite food of whatsit!”</p> <p>“No, no, no. That’s as bad as your last plan,” Yoric said. “No, what we do is, we paint a tunnel at the end of the hallway, then chase the whatsit right into it.”</p> <p>“No, no, you are ignoring obvious flaws in your plan. It is obvious it is my plan that must be used.”</p> <p>“No, my plan!” said the duck. “It’s ingenious, as I thought of it myself!”</p> <p>“QUIET!” Gerald’s eyes… well, bugged out, and he stamped the floor for emphasis.</p> <p>“Yes Gerald?” Strelnicock asked.</p> <p>“Um. I’ve got it. A plan, that is. And it’s my turn now.” Gerald looked uncomfortable. “I mean, you both already tried.”</p> <p>“He has a point,” Yoric said. “Anyway, while he tries that, I can come up with a plan that will really work.”</p> <p>The rooster shrugged. “Okay, we try little cockroach’s plan. Then we will be trying my brilliant scheme which is as simple as it is unnecessarily complex.”</p> <p>Gerald went over to the emergency phone on the wall, and dialed a number. He spoke into the receiver for a few minutes, and then hung up. He started filing the nails on his two left hands.</p> <p>“What? Is that it?” asked Strelnicock.</p> <p>“Wait for it,” Gerald said.</p> <p>The whatsit ran down the hallways. “Quick! You gotta hide me!”</p> <p>“Hide you?” Yoric asked.</p> <p>“You don’t understand, man. I can’t let her find me. Not… Not her. Come on, be a pal. I’m begging you.” The whatsit knelt in front of Yoric and grasped his shirt.</p> <p>Yoric and Strelnicock exchanged glances. “We… we can might to do this for you,” Strelnicock said slowly. “In fact, I am thinking that I know just the hideout.”</p> <p>“Really? Oh, thanks man. Thanks. You’re a pal. Don’t let nobody tell you aren’t,” the whatsit said. “Where should I go?”</p> <p>“Follow me,” Yoric said. “No one would ever think to look for you here…”</p> <p>After they led the Whatsit back into containment, Yoric looked over at Gerald. “That was easy.”</p> <p>“Yeah, well, you just have to know what strings to pull,” Gerald said nonchalantly.</p> <p>“Whose strings is it that were pulled, Comrade Gerald?” asked Strelnicock.</p> <p>“His ex-wife’s. It turns out he’s behind on child support,” said the cockroach.</p> <p>“How’d you find that out?” asked Yoric.</p> <p>“Well, while we were… I mean, with the disguise, and he…” The cockroach trailed off, a blush creeping up his carapace.</p> <p>“Aha!” said Yoric. “So it was my plan that led to its capture! Victory, Yoric!”</p> <p>“That is not counting,” said Strelnicock. “Besides, its wits were clearly dulled by ringing in ears from explosive. My victory, plainly.”</p> <p>As the two bickered back and forth, Doctor Bright wandered down the hall. He watched them for a moment, and then turned to the camera. “Th-th-th-that’s pretty much all the shit we got for you today, folks.”</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="/deranged-ditties">Deranged Ditties</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/deranged-ditties">https://scpwiki.com/deranged-ditties</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]] [[/>]] Jack "PoorYoric" Duckins walked past the containment cell of SCP-Eleventy-Six, nodded to the empty air, and continued on his way. Precisely three-point-four seconds later, he zipped back, his eyes stretching out and his beak opening wide in alarm. "Containment breach!" he quacked. "Emergency! Alarums and excursions! HALP!" Instantly, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock and a squad of Russian bears ran down the hallway. And up the hallway. And partway up the stairway, before they remembered why they ran there in the first place, and returned to the door. Strelnicock pulled out a spatula and scraped Yoric from the floor. "Comrade! Where is there being fire?" Yoric placed his thumb-feather into his mouth and re-inflated himself, popping back out. "SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped!" "Eleventy-Six! Oh no! That's terrible! Sound alarm! Load weapons! Kill chickens!" the rooster crowed, then paused. "What is Eleventy-Six? Is that vending machine? Has vending machine escaped?" "No," the duck replied. "Even worse. It's the whatsit!" "Not whatsit!" Strelnicock said. "We must tell the administrator!" "To the administrator's office," said Yoric. They hurried up the stairs, barreling through the doors to the administrator's anteroom. A bored secretary snapped her gum, and said, "Appointment?" "No time for appointments!" Strelnicock bellowed. "Can't get in without an appointment," the secretary said. "Break, Karrin, baby, is me! Is Strelnicock! You will be letting me in for see administrator, da?" the rooster pleaded. "Can't do that," she said, not looking up from her issue of Guns and Ammo. "Rules." "Then I will take matters into own wings!" He started to run past the desk, only to be stopped by two precisely-aimed bullets to his kneecaps. "Cock-a-doodle-dammit!" he cried. "Sorry. Rules are rule." She snapped her gum again. Yoric tore off his coat, revealing a set of janitor's overalls, emblazoned with the name "Jim." He pulled a mop and bucket out from under a seat, and whistled as he slowly mopped past the secretary. Break dropped a small object into the bucket as he passed by. Several seconds later, there was a bang, a splash, and a quack. The drenched, burned, and battered duck limped back. "You're despicable," he said. Gerald walked by, his antennae twitching. “What’s going on?” the cockroach asked. “SCP-Eleventy-Six has got loose,” said Yoric. “We have to tell the administrator, but Break says we can’t without an appointment.” “Oh,” Gerald said. He glanced at Break. “Can we make an appointment to see the administrator?” “Sure. Got an opening right now,” she said. “Head right in.” “Thanks.” Gerald motioned for the other two to walk in with him. “Sir!” Strelnicock said to the person behind the desk, “We are having grave situation. SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped from being containment, and we must to be recapturing it.” “SCP-Eleventy-Six, eh? Lemme see if I remember that one,” the other replied. “Was he about yea tall?” he asked, putting a hand over his head. “Yes!” said Yoric. “Did he wear big white gloves like these?” he asked, waving his hands. “Da!” said Strelnicock. “Did he have big, orange, hairy eyebrows like these?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows. “That’s him exactly!” said Yoric. “Nope, don’t know him,” said the whatsit. “Oh. Well, fair enough,” said Yoric. “You are busy man. Cannot keep up with all SCP objects,” Strelnicock concurred. “Uh, guys...” Gerald said. “I... I don’t think that’s the director.” “But if he’s not the director, that means...” Yoric glanced across the desk. “Is whatsit!” shouted Strelnicock. “You ain’t just whistlin’ dixie, sister!” the whatsit said, throwing pies into the agents’ faces. “Wahahahahooo!” It bounced out of the office and down the hall. “Custard?” Strelnicock said. “Custard is for Chickens!” “Gentlemen,” Yoric said, “I have a plan.” “Oh. Goody,” Gerald said. ------ Ten minutes later, Gerald was cunningly disguised as a female whatsit. This disguise consisted of red lipstick, a white dress, and false orange eyebrows on the ends of his antennae. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said nervously. “Of course it is,” Yoric said. “I thought of it.” “Quickly, comrades! We hide in wait for whatsit! Gerald, you are being the sexy. Good luck with important mission.” The rooster saluted, and then he and Yoric hid behind a garbage can. “Wahahahahoo!” came the cry of Eleventy-six, echoing down the hallway. It bounced along down the hallway, when it espied the disguised cockroach. Its eyes bulged out past its jutting eyebrows, and its tongue rolled out of its mouth. “Baby!” it said. “Where you been all my life?” “Um. Here?” Gerald said, uncertainly. “Mi amore, you are the light at the end of my tunnel. You are the applesauce on my porkchop. You are the creamy center of my Twinkie. Let me take you away from all of this.” The whatsit gestured grandly at the metal hallway. “Take me where?” Gerald asked, increasingly nervous. “To the kasbah. The Riviera. My place for kruellers. You name it, baby! You an’ me!” The whatsit grabbed Gerald and pulled him close. “Fresh!” Gerald said, trying to push Eleventy-Six away. “Fiery vixen! Just how I likes ‘em!” The whatstit suddenly sped off, Gerald in tow. “Wait, weren’t we supposed to grab him?” Yoric asked. “Was your job. I was keeping watch,” said Strelnicock. “Me? You’re the one built like a line-backer!” Yoric said. “Whatsit is slippery, like Yorics. Therefore is your job,” Strelnicock said. “Slippery! Why I oughtta--” Yoric slammed a webbed foot down. They argued for several moments. Neither seemed to notice the arrival of Gerald-dress torn, lipstick smeared-until the cockroach threw the fake eyebrows in their faces. “I quit!” he snarled. “What are you meaning, quit?” Strelnicock demanded. “I did not come here for the purpose of being humiliated! I don’t have to be here. I don’t have to take this. I don’t have to wear this dress!” Gerald shouted. “But what about your contract?” Yoric asked. “Contract? What about my contract?” Gerald asked. “Section Three, Subjection A, Paragraph III,” Yoric said, handing a copy to the cockroach. “‘Will appear in cartoon-based tale for the purpose of being humiliated.’ Huh. I must have missed that part.” The cockroach shrugged. “I guess I have to go on.” “Looks that way.” “Well, phooey.” “So, comrades, we are now to formulate new plan of action that will be made up by me, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock. And using my fabulous guns.” He smirked, flexing a wing. “Also firearms.” “Oh, lordy,” Yoric said. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” “Is simplicity itself. Now, listen closely to me...” ------ Half an hour later, and they had it set up. It was a thing of beauty. It was a thing of grace. It was a thing of high explosives. Mostly the latter. “Okay, so how does this work?” “As I have been saying, it is simple. Firstly, beartrap will keep whatsit in place by biting down upon leg of annoyance. Beartrap has no spring, and is instead closed through tiny but powerful rockets.” “Okay, what then?” “Then off is set the automated machine guns. They will perforate the organs of whatsit with bullets. Many bullets. It will be having more holes than cheese from Switzerland.” “Um, Strelnicock...” Gerald began. “Wait, hold on, what happens after that? I’m curious.” “Ah, that is when the platform above-weighted greatly and covered with spikes that are tipped with many poisons-will fall down, perforating any organs that were unperforated by bullets. Which there will be none, because of many bullets mentioned before.” “Strel, pal, I really think--” Yoric started. “Wait, wait. Is that it?” “Is it it?” Strelnicock laughed. “Of course not! Next, there will be grand finale. I have placed many explosives. The many-holed, poisoned, trapped whatsit shall then be blown into smithereenies. Will be thing of beauty. I may shed single manly tear over worthy foe. Maybe not. I am very manly, tears, they do not come so easy.” “And how’s it triggered?” “When whatsit steps on plate,” Strelnicock said confidently. “Which plate?” “This plate,” Strelnicock said, tapping a plate with his foot. He stared for a second, then looked over to where the whatsit had Yoric and Gerald tied up. “Oh, you. You are not my friend.” “Wahahahahoo!” the whatsit cried as it bounced away down the halls. There was a hiss, a snap, and a scream from Strelnicock as the beartrap closed. Then the rattle of the machine guns. “Not in the face! Not in the face!” Yoric screamed as they were perforated by what might be considered an overabundance of bullets. A snap overhead signaled the release of the spiked platform, which crashed down over all three. “Oh god! My previously unruptured organs!” Gerald cried. Then there was a very loud explosion. In hindsight, that many explosives in an enclosed space might have been somewhat foolhardy. ------ Sometime later, they woke up to the smell of formaldehyde and mustache wax. “Ah, good, you’ve regained consciousness!” Dr. Mann said. “I’m so glad you’re no longer entirely dead.” “Where are we, what are we doing here, and can I borrow five bucks?” Yoric asked. “In my lab, recovering from gross physical damage, and certainly, if I can find my wallet. I haven’t seen it since... Hmm, not since the last time you were here, in fact. Anyway! I found you around the site, somewhat injured.” “Around the site? Where around the site?” asked Gerald. “All around the site,” said Doctor Mann. “But nothing beyond my skills.” “So... We’re okay?” Yoric asked. “Certainly, in perfect health! Um. Well, I couldn’t find all the pieces. So certain... substitutions had to be made.” “I was wondering why beak was tasting like cardboard,” Strelnicock said. “Do try not to salivate too much. It’s double corrugated, but even so...” Doctor Mann trailed off. “Ah. Well, we are still to having Whatsit to catch. So, if we are being repaired to best extent possible, we must be off to be going!” Strelnicock stood. “Toodles, Doc,” Yoric said. “Um. Thanks?” Gerald said, before following the others. “What peculiar fellows,” the anthropomorphic mustache said. ------ “Okay, so, we need a new plan,” Yoric said. “I am having it!” Strelnicock said. “We will create a minefield, and in the center of minefield, we will place favorite food of whatsit!” “No, no, no. That’s as bad as your last plan,” Yoric said. “No, what we do is, we paint a tunnel at the end of the hallway, then chase the whatsit right into it.” “No, no, you are ignoring obvious flaws in your plan. It is obvious it is my plan that must be used.” “No, my plan!” said the duck. “It’s ingenious, as I thought of it myself!” “QUIET!” Gerald’s eyes... well, bugged out, and he stamped the floor for emphasis. “Yes Gerald?” Strelnicock asked. “Um. I’ve got it. A plan, that is. And it’s my turn now.” Gerald looked uncomfortable. “I mean, you both already tried.” “He has a point,” Yoric said. “Anyway, while he tries that, I can come up with a plan that will really work.” The rooster shrugged. “Okay, we try little cockroach’s plan. Then we will be trying my brilliant scheme which is as simple as it is unnecessarily complex.” Gerald went over to the emergency phone on the wall, and dialed a number. He spoke into the receiver for a few minutes, and then hung up. He started filing the nails on his two left hands. “What? Is that it?” asked Strelnicock. “Wait for it,” Gerald said. The whatsit ran down the hallways. “Quick! You gotta hide me!” “Hide you?” Yoric asked. “You don’t understand, man. I can’t let her find me. Not... Not her. Come on, be a pal. I’m begging you.” The whatsit knelt in front of Yoric and grasped his shirt. Yoric and Strelnicock exchanged glances. “We... we can might to do this for you,” Strelnicock said slowly. “In fact, I am thinking that I know just the hideout.” “Really? Oh, thanks man. Thanks. You’re a pal. Don’t let nobody tell you aren’t,” the whatsit said. “Where should I go?” “Follow me,” Yoric said. “No one would ever think to look for you here...” After they led the Whatsit back into containment, Yoric looked over at Gerald. “That was easy.” “Yeah, well, you just have to know what strings to pull,” Gerald said nonchalantly. “Whose strings is it that were pulled, Comrade Gerald?” asked Strelnicock. “His ex-wife’s. It turns out he’s behind on child support,” said the cockroach. “How’d you find that out?” asked Yoric. “Well, while we were... I mean, with the disguise, and he...” The cockroach trailed off, a blush creeping up his carapace. “Aha!” said Yoric. “So it was my plan that led to its capture! Victory, Yoric!” “That is not counting,” said Strelnicock. “Besides, its wits were clearly dulled by ringing in ears from explosive. My victory, plainly.” As the two bickered back and forth, Doctor Bright wandered down the hall. He watched them for a moment, and then turned to the camera. “Th-th-th-that’s pretty much all the shit we got for you today, folks.” [[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>]]	2012-04-01T11:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "action", "agent-strelnikov", "agent-yoric", "chase", "comedy", "doctor-bright", "doctor-gerald", "doctor-mann", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	Deranged Ditties - SCP Foundation	68	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "april-fools-hub" ]	[]	13072119	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/deranged-ditties
diary-of-a-young-girl	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>dear diary</p> <p>My name is Lizzy Byrn, and i am 7 years old. My mommy and daddy and me just moved in a new house in a town called Frankinberg. Mommy says that we came here becouse of daddys job and so the baby can have new room. i am excited for the baby. Mommy says his name will be tommy and we will be friends. i hope he will be my friend.<br/> Lizzy</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Dear diary,</p> <p>Today when me and mommy were in the top room of the house i found a teddy bear. when i found him he started to move. he gave me a hug! i took him in my dress and hid him in the toy cabinet. i named him benny. he is my new friend.<br/> Lizzy</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>dear diary</p> <p>today my friend jenny came over to play with me. when i showed her benny, she said she thought it was the best toy ever! then benny went over to my crayons and drew a picture of me and jenny holding his hands. it was the cutest thing ever. then mommy came in and saw him, and she started to yell about it being un-natral. so she took him away and made jenny leave. i was sad but then later benny came back! i gave him my biggest hug and made him promise to never leave me</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>dear diar</p> <p>today mommy had to go to the doctor. i dont know why, but daddy and the doctor said mommy will be gone for a long time now. they wont let me see mommy. i dont know where benny is he went away and now i dont know where he went. the doctor said that tommy is gone too. i want to see tommy he was supposed to be my friend<br/> all my friends are gone</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>dear diary!</p> <p>today i went outside while daddy was at the bar. i was out by the bench when benny was there! i picked him up and hugged and kissed and told him i loved him. it was happy. and then the best thing ever happened.<br/> tommy was there too!!!!! he moved kind of funny and he looked like benny on the outside but i knew it was tommy. i picked them both up and took them to the toy room. tommy is all lumpy and slow, but he plays just the same as benny. i love him.<br/> Lizzy</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>dear diary</p> <p>today i saw that daddy was sad so i asked him why he was sad. he said that lizzy you need to stop asking so many god damn questions. i asked him if he missed tommy and he didnt say anything. so i went and showed him tommy. daddy went all weird and ran into the kitchen. he wouldnt stop crying and crying and crying. i told him that me and tommy loved him forever. he told me to go. i went to my room and held tommy for a long long time.<br/> Lizzy</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>DEAR DIARY<br/> Tody i found a new friend. his name is davey and he will be my friend forever. he is made of daddy. i dont know where daddy is but he didnt love me as much as me and tommy loved him i thought daddy loved me he told me he hated me. i dont go in the house anymore. i stay with benny. he brings me and tommy food and we have all the love we need we are a family together with love. nobody can take it away.</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="/diary-of-a-young-girl">Diary of a Young Girl</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/diary-of-a-young-girl">https://scpwiki.com/diary-of-a-young-girl</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]] [[/>]] > dear diary > > > My name is Lizzy Byrn, and i am 7 years old. My mommy and daddy and me just moved in a new house in a town called Frankinberg. Mommy says that we came here becouse of daddys job and so the baby can have new room. i am excited for the baby. Mommy says his name will be tommy and we will be friends. i hope he will be my friend. > Lizzy > Dear diary, > > > Today when me and mommy were in the top room of the house i found a teddy bear. when i found him he started to move. he gave me a hug! i took him in my dress and hid him in the toy cabinet. i named him benny. he is my new friend. > > Lizzy > dear diary > > today my friend jenny came over to play with me. when i showed her benny, she said she thought it was the best toy ever! then benny went over to my crayons and drew a picture of me and jenny holding his hands. it was the cutest thing ever. then mommy came in and saw him, and she started to yell about it being un-natral. so she took him away and made jenny leave. i was sad but then later benny came back! i gave him my biggest hug and made him promise to never leave me > dear diar > > > today mommy had to go to the doctor. i dont know why, but daddy and the doctor said mommy will be gone for a long time now. they wont let me see mommy. i dont know where benny is he went away and now i dont know where he went. the doctor said that tommy is gone too. i want to see tommy he was supposed to be my friend > all my friends are gone > dear diary! > > > today i went outside while daddy was at the bar. i was out by the bench when benny was there! i picked him up and hugged and kissed and told him i loved him. it was happy. and then the best thing ever happened. > tommy was there too!!!!! he moved kind of funny and he looked like benny on the outside but i knew it was tommy. i picked them both up and took them to the toy room. tommy is all lumpy and slow, but he plays just the same as benny. i love him. > Lizzy > dear diary > > > today i saw that daddy was sad so i asked him why he was sad. he said that lizzy you need to stop asking so many god damn questions. i asked him if he missed tommy and he didnt say anything. so i went and showed him tommy. daddy went all weird and ran into the kitchen. he wouldnt stop crying and crying and crying. i told him that me and tommy loved him forever. he told me to go. i went to my room and held tommy for a long long time. > Lizzy > DEAR DIARY > > > Tody i found a new friend. his name is davey and he will be my friend forever. he is made of daddy. i dont know where daddy is but he didnt love me as much as me and tommy loved him i thought daddy loved me he told me he hated me. i dont go in the house anymore. i stay with benny. he brings me and tommy food and we have all the love we need we are a family together with love. nobody can take it away. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-10T09:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Diary of a Young Girl - SCP Foundation	277	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13747434	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/diary-of-a-young-girl
dichotomy	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Dr. Church sat back, grinding a fist into a single blood shot eye. Done. He was finally done for tonight. He drew in a heavy breath, holding it captive for a long, aching moment before letting it hiss from his lips. The hot, stale air ruffling the papers on his desk and he frowned. Carefully, he rearranged the product of sixteen hours of work, the thick sheaf still warm from where his hands had been pressed to it. He was finally caught up with work, a rare enough occurrence by itself for Foundation employees. His weary mind mulled over the possible expenditures of his newly-found free time, briefly entertaining the idea of going to the cafeteria for his first meal in eighteen hours. He discarded the thought, deciding on sleep.</p> <p>Sleep.</p> <p>Even the thought of it made him smile. He settled in his chair, thinking back to the last time he had a good nights rest. Let's see; it's four o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, and he hadn't slept yesterday. Thursday night he'd been in quarantine when that fungus SCP had broken loose, and Wednesday he'd spent sleeping on the couch after an argument with the missus… hadn't slept on Tuesday, and Monday he'd stayed late to finish that report on D-Class allocation… Sunday he'd been in the burn ward after another SCP had breached containment… huh. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good nights sleep. Well, that's all going to change tonight, he thought triumphantly.</p> <p>He smiled.</p> <p>He remained sitting, letting the quiet of his small office wash over him before he packed up and went home. It was peaceful, an area that was his. To him, it was more home than home, a safe place where he could work in peace. He ran a fingertip over his stapler, following the devices smooth, black outline, before going up and tracing the rim of his desk lamp. Both were gifts, given to him by the Foundation when he got his office. Next was his pencil cup, a pale mug labeled "#1 Researcher!", also a gift from when he figured out how to make D-Class transportation systems 2% more efficient. His "In" box, mercifully empty, followed closely behind by his "Out" box, obscenely filled with neatly stacked and filed papers. Almost unconsciously, his finger found the handle to his top drawer.</p> <p>He tugged it open.</p> <p>It was filled with various odds and ends, office supplies, the occasional rubber band ball. They rattled softly as the drawer slid open, but Church's eyes were drawn to the 9 mm sitting on a stack of old printer paper. A standard issue Foundation Beretta M9 15RD, another "gift". Distributed among all researchers at Site 19, it was a fairly common firearm as far as hand guns went. He remembered the day they signed him on and gave him his office. There hadn't been a whole lot of ceremony to it; they'd shoved him in, handed him a stapler, gun and name tag, then told him to get to work. Unsure what to do with it, he'd stuck it in the drawer and tried to forget about it. It was always there, though. Tickling the back of his mind; an instrument whose sole purpose was to end life. It was not a tool of construction, of contribution, nor of production. It was a tool of destruction. And it was sitting in his desk drawer.</p> <p>He picked it up.</p> <p>The smooth, machine-wrought curves passed under his fingertips as he examined the thing, the matte finish soaking up light like a hungry maw. There was no part to this weapon that did not have purpose, he realized. Every sliver of metal, every groove, every nick, and every curve fit together, sliding over one another, resisting where resistance was needed and giving where give was needed. It was fascinating. Dr. Church hefted the lump of metal, appreciating the weight, the coolness of steel in his palm. With a flick of his thumb, he let the magazine slide free, catching it and placing it on his desk. His attention followed along the carefully planned chain of reactions; as the trigger depressed, the levers and pins spun, pulling the hammer back. The spring would resist, of course, as was its purpose, but it would give way, allowing the hammer to pull back father and farther before-snap. The tiny bit of metal rocketed forward, hitting the flint. He manually operated the rest of the sequence, pulling the slide back as the gases expanded, the cartridge flying out of the chamber in slow motion in his minds eye. He let the slide slip forward, knowing it would scoop another round into the chamber as it did so. He sat there a moment longer, running through the process in his minds eye once more.</p> <p>He pressed the barrel against his temple.</p> <p>His pulse jumped immediately, then settled as logic kicked in. It was empty; the magazine was on his desk, he'd just checked the chamber, what he was doing was perfectly safe. Still, the tiny kick of adrenaline at the simple move caught his attention. His breathing was elevated, and a slight tremble had entered his hands that he couldn't wholly attribute to sleep deprivation. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what it would be like. Holding a gun to his head, the trigger depressing. The spring creaking as it gave way, the hammer pulling back. He frowned. It wasn't quite right. It didn't feel… real. He glanced at the door, wetting his lips.</p> <p>He slid the magazine in.</p> <p>Still safe, he reasoned. He had the safety on, and even if he didn't the chamber was empty. He was just getting a feel for it. The weight of the bullets definitely made it more realistic, made it easier to imagine. Closing his eyes, he replayed the scenario once more. The trigger going down, the hammer coming back, the bullet leaving, the slide rocketing, the casing flying out… yes, he could imagine it perfectly. Almost perfectly. The almost nagged at him. Almost perfectly. There was no bullet in the chamber. That degree of realism was still removed. He held his breath and listened to his pulse pound through him. He felt on edge, he felt on fire, he felt alive. If this was as excited as he got without actually being in danger, what would it be like if-</p> <p>He pulled the slide back.</p> <p>Safety on. Still safe. Still secure. Still-GOD, everything was in such crystal clear definition. He could see every grain, every nick, every stain on his shitty little office door, every greasy fingerprint on his desk, and every fleck of dust that wafted through the air. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his finger tip trembling on the trigger. He mentally berated himself, disgusted at his own excitement. He still had that safety net, that little pin of metal holding the bullet in check. He still had his finger, and the final line he wouldn't cross. And yet, he was acting like he had just ran a marathon. He gulped wetly, letting the thoughts spin through his mind. He felt oddly detached, almost dizzy even, from the gallons of adrenaline his body was dumping into his veins. So high, such excitement, and the safety wasn't even turned off-</p> <p>He flipped the safety.</p> <p>Everything was quiet. God damn, it was never this quiet. He could hear fucking EVERYTHING. The air whistling down his throat, the soft clatter as the gun shook in his hand, the soft creak in his finger as it tightened. He focused on that, his eyes staring straight ahead, unseeingly. He focused on his finger, tightening around the trigger. He knew exactly how far it had to go before the hammer tripped. He squeezed half that distance. His heart was beating a thousand times per second, pouring the barely oxygenated blood through his system. He pulled half the remaining distance. It was hot. So fucking hot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was because of the blood pounding just below his skin, pouring his body heat into the room. That part of him was quickly smothered by the roaring in his ears. He depressed half the remaining distance. Just an eighth. Just an eighth of a pull left. Such a tiny amount. He pulled half, then half again. A thirty second. A pitiful, tiny amount; insignificant. Barely larger than a hair. His eyes dilated, black pinpricks as the world narrowed. It was just him. Just him, that gun, and a thirty second-no, a sixty fourth of a pull now. He could feel it. He could feel the hammer straining, begging the spring to release it. Begging to be reunited with the flint. Begging to spark, to ignite the gun powder. It pulled back, just the tiniest amount, nearing the point of no return as his finger tightened, the tendons and nerves and muscles pulling the trigger that last, indivisible amount-</p> <p>"Doctor, I know it's late, but I was looking over the 892 report and I thought that maybe-"</p> <p>Assistant Researcher Wilkes paused at the door, holding a stack of paper and staring at the doctor stupidly. Dr. Church hastily pulled the gun away, dropping it into the drawer and pushing it shut all in one smooth motion. A moment of awkward silence filled the tiny space as they stared at one another, neither moving a muscle.</p> <p>"Doctor, what were-"</p> <p>"An experiment," he cuts him off. "Just an experiment." His eyes flick to the thick sheaf of paper, and he held out a hand. "If I may."</p> <p>Wilkes clumsily handed him the report, fumbling with the papers as he stammered out, "I-I noticed a few consistent cells in the, uh, uh-DH block, and I, uh, thought that if it were a pattern, we could… "</p> <p>He trails off, gesturing helplessly at his report. Dr. Church flipped through the papers, nodding thoughtfully.</p> <p>"Interesting. That could work… but only if the cells didn't change over that period… Get a copy of the last twenty iterations. I don't think they were perfectly consistent, but it should give us a control group." He returns to the report, mumbling quietly to himself. Another moment of awkward silence passes. He glances up, noticing Wilkes was still there. "That will be all."</p> <p>"Doctor, when I walked in, what were-"</p> <p>"That will be all, Doctor Wilkes."</p> <p>They stare at one another a moment longer. He fidgeted, then nodded respectfully. Slowly, Assistant Researcher Wilkes turned and exited the office, casting back a final, lingering glance. Dr. Church ignored the look and picked up his pen. With a certain tired, methodical pace, he started scribbling notations in the corner, reading through the report carefully. He stifled a yawn and turned the page.</p> <p>He had really been hoping to get some sleep.</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="/dichotomy">Dichotomy</a>" by evictedSaint, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/dichotomy">https://scpwiki.com/dichotomy</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. Church sat back, grinding a fist into a single blood shot eye. Done. He was finally done for tonight. He drew in a heavy breath, holding it captive for a long, aching moment before letting it hiss from his lips. The hot, stale air ruffling the papers on his desk and he frowned. Carefully, he rearranged the product of sixteen hours of work, the thick sheaf still warm from where his hands had been pressed to it. He was finally caught up with work, a rare enough occurrence by itself for Foundation employees. His weary mind mulled over the possible expenditures of his newly-found free time, briefly entertaining the idea of going to the cafeteria for his first meal in eighteen hours. He discarded the thought, deciding on sleep. Sleep. Even the thought of it made him smile. He settled in his chair, thinking back to the last time he had a good nights rest. Let's see; it's four o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, and he hadn't slept yesterday. Thursday night he'd been in quarantine when that fungus SCP had broken loose, and Wednesday he'd spent sleeping on the couch after an argument with the missus... hadn't slept on Tuesday, and Monday he'd stayed late to finish that report on D-Class allocation... Sunday he'd been in the burn ward after another SCP had breached containment... huh. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good nights sleep. Well, that's all going to change tonight, he thought triumphantly. He smiled. He remained sitting, letting the quiet of his small office wash over him before he packed up and went home. It was peaceful, an area that was his. To him, it was more home than home, a safe place where he could work in peace. He ran a fingertip over his stapler, following the devices smooth, black outline, before going up and tracing the rim of his desk lamp. Both were gifts, given to him by the Foundation when he got his office. Next was his pencil cup, a pale mug labeled "#1 Researcher!", also a gift from when he figured out how to make D-Class transportation systems 2% more efficient. His "In" box, mercifully empty, followed closely behind by his "Out" box, obscenely filled with neatly stacked and filed papers. Almost unconsciously, his finger found the handle to his top drawer. He tugged it open. It was filled with various odds and ends, office supplies, the occasional rubber band ball. They rattled softly as the drawer slid open, but Church's eyes were drawn to the 9 mm sitting on a stack of old printer paper. A standard issue Foundation Beretta M9 15RD, another "gift". Distributed among all researchers at Site 19, it was a fairly common firearm as far as hand guns went. He remembered the day they signed him on and gave him his office. There hadn't been a whole lot of ceremony to it; they'd shoved him in, handed him a stapler, gun and name tag, then told him to get to work. Unsure what to do with it, he'd stuck it in the drawer and tried to forget about it. It was always there, though. Tickling the back of his mind; an instrument whose sole purpose was to end life. It was not a tool of construction, of contribution, nor of production. It was a tool of destruction. And it was sitting in his desk drawer. He picked it up. The smooth, machine-wrought curves passed under his fingertips as he examined the thing, the matte finish soaking up light like a hungry maw. There was no part to this weapon that did not have purpose, he realized. Every sliver of metal, every groove, every nick, and every curve fit together, sliding over one another, resisting where resistance was needed and giving where give was needed. It was fascinating. Dr. Church hefted the lump of metal, appreciating the weight, the coolness of steel in his palm. With a flick of his thumb, he let the magazine slide free, catching it and placing it on his desk. His attention followed along the carefully planned chain of reactions; as the trigger depressed, the levers and pins spun, pulling the hammer back. The spring would resist, of course, as was its purpose, but it would give way, allowing the hammer to pull back father and farther before-snap. The tiny bit of metal rocketed forward, hitting the flint. He manually operated the rest of the sequence, pulling the slide back as the gases expanded, the cartridge flying out of the chamber in slow motion in his minds eye. He let the slide slip forward, knowing it would scoop another round into the chamber as it did so. He sat there a moment longer, running through the process in his minds eye once more. He pressed the barrel against his temple. His pulse jumped immediately, then settled as logic kicked in. It was empty; the magazine was on his desk, he'd just checked the chamber, what he was doing was perfectly safe. Still, the tiny kick of adrenaline at the simple move caught his attention. His breathing was elevated, and a slight tremble had entered his hands that he couldn't wholly attribute to sleep deprivation. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what it would be like. Holding a gun to his head, the trigger depressing. The spring creaking as it gave way, the hammer pulling back. He frowned. It wasn't quite right. It didn't feel... real. He glanced at the door, wetting his lips. He slid the magazine in. Still safe, he reasoned. He had the safety on, and even if he didn't the chamber was empty. He was just getting a feel for it. The weight of the bullets definitely made it more realistic, made it easier to imagine. Closing his eyes, he replayed the scenario once more. The trigger going down, the hammer coming back, the bullet leaving, the slide rocketing, the casing flying out... yes, he could imagine it perfectly. Almost perfectly. The almost nagged at him. Almost perfectly. There was no bullet in the chamber. That degree of realism was still removed. He held his breath and listened to his pulse pound through him. He felt on edge, he felt on fire, he felt alive. If this was as excited as he got without actually being in danger, what would it be like if- He pulled the slide back. Safety on. Still safe. Still secure. Still-GOD, everything was in such crystal clear definition. He could see every grain, every nick, every stain on his shitty little office door, every greasy fingerprint on his desk, and every fleck of dust that wafted through the air. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his finger tip trembling on the trigger. He mentally berated himself, disgusted at his own excitement. He still had that safety net, that little pin of metal holding the bullet in check. He still had his finger, and the final line he wouldn't cross. And yet, he was acting like he had just ran a marathon. He gulped wetly, letting the thoughts spin through his mind. He felt oddly detached, almost dizzy even, from the gallons of adrenaline his body was dumping into his veins. So high, such excitement, and the safety wasn't even turned off- He flipped the safety. Everything was quiet. God damn, it was never this quiet. He could hear fucking EVERYTHING. The air whistling down his throat, the soft clatter as the gun shook in his hand, the soft creak in his finger as it tightened. He focused on that, his eyes staring straight ahead, unseeingly. He focused on his finger, tightening around the trigger. He knew exactly how far it had to go before the hammer tripped. He squeezed half that distance. His heart was beating a thousand times per second, pouring the barely oxygenated blood through his system. He pulled half the remaining distance. It was hot. So fucking hot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was because of the blood pounding just below his skin, pouring his body heat into the room. That part of him was quickly smothered by the roaring in his ears. He depressed half the remaining distance. Just an eighth. Just an eighth of a pull left. Such a tiny amount. He pulled half, then half again. A thirty second. A pitiful, tiny amount; insignificant. Barely larger than a hair. His eyes dilated, black pinpricks as the world narrowed. It was just him. Just him, that gun, and a thirty second-no, a sixty fourth of a pull now. He could feel it. He could feel the hammer straining, begging the spring to release it. Begging to be reunited with the flint. Begging to spark, to ignite the gun powder. It pulled back, just the tiniest amount, nearing the point of no return as his finger tightened, the tendons and nerves and muscles pulling the trigger that last, indivisible amount- "Doctor, I know it's late, but I was looking over the 892 report and I thought that maybe-" Assistant Researcher Wilkes paused at the door, holding a stack of paper and staring at the doctor stupidly. Dr. Church hastily pulled the gun away, dropping it into the drawer and pushing it shut all in one smooth motion. A moment of awkward silence filled the tiny space as they stared at one another, neither moving a muscle. "Doctor, what were-" "An experiment," he cuts him off. "Just an experiment." His eyes flick to the thick sheaf of paper, and he held out a hand. "If I may." Wilkes clumsily handed him the report, fumbling with the papers as he stammered out, "I-I noticed a few consistent cells in the, uh, uh-DH block, and I, uh, thought that if it were a pattern, we could... " He trails off, gesturing helplessly at his report. Dr. Church flipped through the papers, nodding thoughtfully. "Interesting. That could work... but only if the cells didn't change over that period... Get a copy of the last twenty iterations. I don't think they were perfectly consistent, but it should give us a control group." He returns to the report, mumbling quietly to himself. Another moment of awkward silence passes. He glances up, noticing Wilkes was still there. "That will be all." "Doctor, when I walked in, what were-" "That will be all, Doctor Wilkes." They stare at one another a moment longer. He fidgeted, then nodded respectfully. Slowly, Assistant Researcher Wilkes turned and exited the office, casting back a final, lingering glance. Dr. Church ignored the look and picked up his pen. With a certain tired, methodical pace, he started scribbling notations in the corner, reading through the report carefully. He stifled a yawn and turned the page. He had really been hoping to get some sleep. [[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>]]	2012-04-09T21:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Dichotomy - SCP Foundation	37	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13121483	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/dichotomy
don-t-blink	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It's going to be my fault. When it happens, it's going to be my own goddamned fault. Every single time I blink it gets closer and closer to me, and every time I blink is just driving another nail into my coffin. Why couldn't they have shot me, or stabbed me, or done anything but put me in here with this <em>thing</em>?</p> <p>I don't even know what I did wrong. You don't really expect to go to prison under false charges, and you especially don't expect some goons to take you out and put you in a room with a monster. Didn't even have the decency to let me move around. They chained me up to the walls so tight that I can barely turn my head. Then they walked out and just left me to whatever this thing will do to me.</p> <p>Oh, why am I thinking "whatever it'll do?" It's going to kill me; I just don't know <em>how</em>.</p> <p>I wish I could at least fight back against this. Lash out at it in some way. But I think it wants me to do that. Everything just feels a million times worse whenever I rattle the chains or shout at it. So all I can do is hang here and wait for it to kill me.</p> <p>Dammit, if you're going to kill me, hurry up! I can't stand this! Death by inches. I blink and it's a little closer, and then a little closer, and then a little closer, and then…</p> <p>No. No no no no NO! It can't possibly move that fast, I still had a few good hours! Goddammit, it's right in front of me! Dear lord, what is that stuff on it? Too dark to make it out, but it looks like some sort of crudely painted face. Could just be blotches on the thing, but it looks way too much like a face. Dammit, I can deal with a shapeless thing, why'd it have to have a face?</p> <p>Don't blink. There's a way out of this, some weak link in the chains, some means of kicking this thing away; maybe if I'm lucky, I can twist away and let it go right by me! No, that's stupid, it'd never work. Level head, you've <em>got</em> to keep a level head. I can beat this thing, I can outlast it, I can get out of here so long as I don't…!</p> <p>…</p> <p>Why am I still alive?</p> <p>I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it. It… it went around me. It was practically pressed against me, and it <em>went around</em>. How lucky do you have to be for that to happen? Does this mean I'm done? Are they going to come in here, "Sorry for the trouble, but hey, you're still alive," and then let me go? Can I go back to my life now, no, wait, before you answer, why did you put me through that, what the hell was that thing, why am I still alive?</p> <p>Dear God, I'm tired. How long have they had me chained up in here? A few hours, at least. Maybe a day. But… I have to stay awake. I've got to keep my eyes open until they come and get me. Sleep is the absolute last thing I need right now.</p> <p>I went to sleep. Why'd I go to sleep, sleep could kill me, why didn't I have a strong enough head to stay awake?</p> <p>There's a cold feeling on the small of my back. I can't twist to see it, but I can tell <em>something</em> is there. And… oh God, no. There's something wrapped around my throat. I could twitch my head before, but I can't even move it now. This thing is going to break my neck, isn't it? That's what they were waiting for, wasn't it? They wanted this thing to wear me down until I <em>had</em> to sleep, and then they'd have it stop fooling around and kill me.</p> <p>What kind of sick, twisted bastard do you have to be just to see how long a guy can last against a monster?</p> <p>Don't panic just yet. I can still see it. I can barely see any of it, but I can still see it, and that means it can't move. Maybe if I try winking, I can get out of this. They'll see that it can't kill me, and then let me out. Come on, come on, this has to work, it <em>has</em> to. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then th…</p> <p>Oh…</p> <p>Oh no. I… this can't be happening. I didn't do anything wrong. They just stuck me in here with a monster without any rhyme or reason.</p> <p>I don't want to die, but… but… there's a… a…</p> <p>There's a pipe sticking out of my chest, right through my heart.</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="/don-t-blink">Don't Blink</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/don-t-blink">https://scpwiki.com/don-t-blink</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]] [[/>]] It's going to be my fault. When it happens, it's going to be my own goddamned fault. Every single time I blink it gets closer and closer to me, and every time I blink is just driving another nail into my coffin. Why couldn't they have shot me, or stabbed me, or done anything but put me in here with this //thing//? I don't even know what I did wrong. You don't really expect to go to prison under false charges, and you especially don't expect some goons to take you out and put you in a room with a monster. Didn't even have the decency to let me move around. They chained me up to the walls so tight that I can barely turn my head. Then they walked out and just left me to whatever this thing will do to me. Oh, why am I thinking "whatever it'll do?" It's going to kill me; I just don't know //how//. I wish I could at least fight back against this. Lash out at it in some way. But I think it wants me to do that. Everything just feels a million times worse whenever I rattle the chains or shout at it. So all I can do is hang here and wait for it to kill me. Dammit, if you're going to kill me, hurry up! I can't stand this! Death by inches. I blink and it's a little closer, and then a little closer, and then a little closer, and then... No. No no no no NO! It can't possibly move that fast, I still had a few good hours! Goddammit, it's right in front of me! Dear lord, what is that stuff on it? Too dark to make it out, but it looks like some sort of crudely painted face. Could just be blotches on the thing, but it looks way too much like a face. Dammit, I can deal with a shapeless thing, why'd it have to have a face? Don't blink. There's a way out of this, some weak link in the chains, some means of kicking this thing away; maybe if I'm lucky, I can twist away and let it go right by me! No, that's stupid, it'd never work. Level head, you've //got// to keep a level head. I can beat this thing, I can outlast it, I can get out of here so long as I don't...! ... Why am I still alive? I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it. It... it went around me. It was practically pressed against me, and it //went around//. How lucky do you have to be for that to happen? Does this mean I'm done? Are they going to come in here, "Sorry for the trouble, but hey, you're still alive," and then let me go? Can I go back to my life now, no, wait, before you answer, why did you put me through that, what the hell was that thing, why am I still alive? Dear God, I'm tired. How long have they had me chained up in here? A few hours, at least. Maybe a day. But... I have to stay awake. I've got to keep my eyes open until they come and get me. Sleep is the absolute last thing I need right now. I went to sleep. Why'd I go to sleep, sleep could kill me, why didn't I have a strong enough head to stay awake? There's a cold feeling on the small of my back. I can't twist to see it, but I can tell //something// is there. And... oh God, no. There's something wrapped around my throat. I could twitch my head before, but I can't even move it now. This thing is going to break my neck, isn't it? That's what they were waiting for, wasn't it? They wanted this thing to wear me down until I //had// to sleep, and then they'd have it stop fooling around and kill me. What kind of sick, twisted bastard do you have to be just to see how long a guy can last against a monster? Don't panic just yet. I can still see it. I can barely see any of it, but I can still see it, and that means it can't move. Maybe if I try winking, I can get out of this. They'll see that it can't kill me, and then let me out. Come on, come on, this has to work, it //has// to. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then th... Oh... Oh no. I... this can't be happening. I didn't do anything wrong. They just stuck me in here with a monster without any rhyme or reason. I don't want to die, but... but... there's a... a... There's a pipe sticking out of my chest, right through my heart. [[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>]]	2012-07-24T04:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Don't Blink - SCP Foundation	10	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13867504	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/don-t-blink
don-t-forget	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>This letter is to anyone who remembers that one should always take care of their fellow man.</p> <p>I'm stuck in this little room surrounded by a big layer of concrete. I usually can't open the door because it locks from the other side. Sometimes people leave the door opened and I leave, but when I try to get someone to help me, nobody will pay any attention to me. I can try hitting them, knocking their stuff over, screaming at them, but they'll just keep going about their business like I don't even exist. Sometimes I try to run away, but when I get outside my head starts hurting, and then I get really tired. When I go to sleep, I wake up back in that intolerable room, locked in and forgotten. Again.</p> <p>Sometimes people come into my room. We talk, and they're usually very surprised to see me. They always promise to get me help. They take lots of notes and photos so they don't forget me, but they always do. Lately, it's been a bunch of scientists in lab coats. You would think that a scientist would have a better memory then those other guys who came before them, but they forget about me like all the rest.</p> <p>If you find this letter, and you come into my room, please don't leave me in there. Take me with you so we can make people see me. Make them see I exist.</p> <p>Please.</p> <p><a href="/scp-055">Why doesn't anyone remember me?</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="/don-t-forget">Don't Forget</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/don-t-forget">https://scpwiki.com/don-t-forget</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]] [[/>]] > This letter is to anyone who remembers that one should always take care of their fellow man. > > I'm stuck in this little room surrounded by a big layer of concrete. I usually can't open the door because it locks from the other side. Sometimes people leave the door opened and I leave, but when I try to get someone to help me, nobody will pay any attention to me. I can try hitting them, knocking their stuff over, screaming at them, but they'll just keep going about their business like I don't even exist. Sometimes I try to run away, but when I get outside my head starts hurting, and then I get really tired. When I go to sleep, I wake up back in that intolerable room, locked in and forgotten. Again. > > Sometimes people come into my room. We talk, and they're usually very surprised to see me. They always promise to get me help. They take lots of notes and photos so they don't forget me, but they always do. Lately, it's been a bunch of scientists in lab coats. You would think that a scientist would have a better memory then those other guys who came before them, but they forget about me like all the rest. > > If you find this letter, and you come into my room, please don't leave me in there. Take me with you so we can make people see me. Make them see I exist. > > Please. > > [[[scp-055\|Why doesn't anyone remember me?]]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-06-01T15:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "first-person", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Don't Forget - SCP Foundation	148	[ "scp-055", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13444914	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/don-t-forget
don-tworryaboutit	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>If you don't know what this is, don't worry about it.</p> <p>Part 1: The First</p> <hr/> <p>Hi, everybody, my name is Margaret Sawyer-Sheen, and I'm a doctor with the SCP Foundation! This si the story of how I fell in love with my dearest love of all time, Dr. Clef!</p> <p>—</p> <p>One fine spring evening Maggie looked deep into Clef's eyes, they were sparkling with violet and amethyst. And with sparkling tears. "But how will we stop 682?" she asked, eyes glistening. "he killed my parents too! please do not tell anyone, I could not bear it if everyone knew. it is my deepest secret."</p> <p>—</p> <p>"Don't worry," Clef said, his handsome face clearly visible to his one true love. "we will find a way because we have each other and that is all we need. We can do anything if we work together." Clef took Maggie's hand in his and picked up his shotgun with the other hand, full of determination to not to let her down.</p> <p>—</p> <p>"My luminous pear," Clef said, frowning, "I think I have the perfect plan to rid ourselves of that evil, despicable, and handsome lizard. But I'll need your help. We shall allure him with the power of compassion. Not even his thick skin could hope to stand against our love!"</p> <p>—</p> <p>Together, Clef and Maggie walked through the scary dark halls of the SCP Foundation, holding hands together, bravely facing the darkness alone. Until finally they came to a big, steel door. The door tht held the monster called SCP-682.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Suddenly another door opened and out from the door came scp-999 who said I will help you against 682!"</p> <p>—</p> <p>"Welcome, 999," Clef says. "we will have the power of friendship and also love. Our bright hearts will bring tears of happyness" After SCP-999 joiined them bravely, thehy contfroned the door with eyes sparklingly at the same time. The door opened cavernously to reveal the monster that hates all love, SPC-682.</p> <p>"We hav e come for you this day, 682," Clef challenged, only one small quaver in his brave, musical voice.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Maggie clung to Clef's side, the power of her kindness surrounding her with a soft pink glow, a warmth that could banish any evil.</p> <p>"Be brave," she whispered to Clef. "we can do anything if we try… take the power of my love and use it against 682!"</p> <p>—</p> <p>Suddenly, SCP-76-2 rushed in and glared at Clef handsomely. “No! I will not allow you to do this, Clef, even if you are my ex-boyfriend! Maggie is my own true love and soulmate , and I will not share her with the lizard! We must fight!"</p> <p>—</p> <p>Fighting is wrong!" Maggie said, as she stepped between Clef and Able. "I know we were in love once, Abel, but that was in the past. Cle fis my true love now and unless you're willing to le tme go, you'll never get past your own violent nature"!</p> <p>—</p> <p>Able looked down agt the floor with eyes downcast. "You are right, Maggie," he said with a somewhat calmer voice. "You were the light of my life and Clef was my bright and morning star but evrything must come to an end someday and now I understand that Clef is your one treu love as you are his. I promise I will not be jealous again." Maggie and Clef smiled at Able and Able was their friends.</p> <p>The lizard watched them all with an angry evil eye. "PROFESSOR-SCIENTIST MARGARET SAWYER-SHEEN". it roared in its voice, stunned momentarily by the researcher's caring and kind beauty. "YOURE PARENTS TRIED TO STOP ME LONG AGO! YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED" He also looked at Clef and growled menasingly.</p> <p>—</p> <p>"Your parents never told you who I really am, did they Maggie!? the lizard said with vileness. "They couldn't stop me because I was their own son all along!" He grinned. "No, but that would mean you were my brother all along and how could you kill our parents?!" Maggie yelled, her good heart crying. "They tried to kill me because they loved you most because of your specialness!" The lizard raged, "You are as strong as me but also smarter and pretty and lovely, it's not fair! Now I will kill you!" "No you will not, because I have a power you can't hope to defeat." said Maggie with a smile.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Because that was the truth about Maggie: Maggie was the daughter of SCP-343 and SCP-469, but while her twin brother, SCP-682, was given all of the evil and darkness in the world, she was made into a creature of beauty and light, incorruptible and pure. It was the light of her purity and goodness that cleanesd the darkness from Clef and Able's souls, and it was her light that now defeated her twin brother an dbanished him from the world until he could be reborn as a creature of goodnesss.</p> <hr/> <p>And that is the story of how me and my true love Clef saved the world from SC-682. Feedback please!</p> <p>—-</p> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Part 2: The Flashback</span></h1> <p><em>Author's note: Okay, so people were complaining that my first story isn't aobut how Clef and I met at all, and they didn't get that it was called a flashback, so now I'm going to tell that sotry now, WILL YOU PEOPLE PLEASE GET OFF MY CASE!?</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p>Margaret Sawyer-Sheen looked in the mirror and sighed. She hated herself. She was so ordinary, not like the popular girls in the school, not like Lydia Erickson, the cheer captain. She didn't like how her mousy brown hair looked, or the fact that she had slightly too big front teeth, or the spattering of freckles over the bridge of he rnoe, or the fact that her boobs were slightly too big. She was bored, she was tried. She was looking for something new.</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="/don-tworryaboutit">Don't Worry About It</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/don-tworryaboutit">https://scpwiki.com/don-tworryaboutit</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>	[!-- THE TYPOS IN THIS TALE ARE INTENTIONAL! IF YOU'VE OPENED THIS PAGE TO EDIT AND FIX THEM, PLEASE DO NOT DO SO. AGAIN, ANY MISTAKES IN THIS TALE ARE INTENTIONALLY MADE AND DO NOT NEED FIXING. This text does not appear on the actual page. That's also intentional.--] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] If you don't know what this is, don't worry about it. Part 1: The First ---- Hi, everybody, my name is Margaret Sawyer-Sheen, and I'm a doctor with the SCP Foundation! This si the story of how I fell in love with my dearest love of all time, Dr. Clef! -- One fine spring evening Maggie looked deep into Clef's eyes, they were sparkling with violet and amethyst. And with sparkling tears. "But how will we stop 682?" she asked, eyes glistening. "he killed my parents too! please do not tell anyone, I could not bear it if everyone knew. it is my deepest secret." -- "Don't worry," Clef said, his handsome face clearly visible to his one true love. "we will find a way because we have each other and that is all we need. We can do anything if we work together." Clef took Maggie's hand in his and picked up his shotgun with the other hand, full of determination to not to let her down. -- "My luminous pear," Clef said, frowning, "I think I have the perfect plan to rid ourselves of that evil, despicable, and handsome lizard. But I'll need your help. We shall allure him with the power of compassion. Not even his thick skin could hope to stand against our love!" -- Together, Clef and Maggie walked through the scary dark halls of the SCP Foundation, holding hands together, bravely facing the darkness alone. Until finally they came to a big, steel door. The door tht held the monster called SCP-682. -- Suddenly another door opened and out from the door came scp-999 who said I will help you against 682!" -- "Welcome, 999," Clef says. "we will have the power of friendship and also love. Our bright hearts will bring tears of happyness" After SCP-999 joiined them bravely, thehy contfroned the door with eyes sparklingly at the same time. The door opened cavernously to reveal the monster that hates all love, SPC-682. "We hav e come for you this day, 682," Clef challenged, only one small quaver in his brave, musical voice. -- Maggie clung to Clef's side, the power of her kindness surrounding her with a soft pink glow, a warmth that could banish any evil. "Be brave," she whispered to Clef. "we can do anything if we try... take the power of my love and use it against 682!" -- Suddenly, SCP-76-2 rushed in and glared at Clef handsomely. “No! I will not allow you to do this, Clef, even if you are my ex-boyfriend! Maggie is my own true love and soulmate , and I will not share her with the lizard! We must fight!" -- Fighting is wrong!" Maggie said, as she stepped between Clef and Able. "I know we were in love once, Abel, but that was in the past. Cle fis my true love now and unless you're willing to le tme go, you'll never get past your own violent nature"! -- Able looked down agt the floor with eyes downcast. "You are right, Maggie," he said with a somewhat calmer voice. "You were the light of my life and Clef was my bright and morning star but evrything must come to an end someday and now I understand that Clef is your one treu love as you are his. I promise I will not be jealous again." Maggie and Clef smiled at Able and Able was their friends. The lizard watched them all with an angry evil eye. "PROFESSOR-SCIENTIST MARGARET SAWYER-SHEEN". it roared in its voice, stunned momentarily by the researcher's caring and kind beauty. "YOURE PARENTS TRIED TO STOP ME LONG AGO! YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED" He also looked at Clef and growled menasingly. -- "Your parents never told you who I really am, did they Maggie!? the lizard said with vileness. "They couldn't stop me because I was their own son all along!" He grinned. "No, but that would mean you were my brother all along and how could you kill our parents?!" Maggie yelled, her good heart crying. "They tried to kill me because they loved you most because of your specialness!" The lizard raged, "You are as strong as me but also smarter and pretty and lovely, it's not fair! Now I will kill you!" "No you will not, because I have a power you can't hope to defeat." said Maggie with a smile. -- Because that was the truth about Maggie: Maggie was the daughter of SCP-343 and SCP-469, but while her twin brother, SCP-682, was given all of the evil and darkness in the world, she was made into a creature of beauty and light, incorruptible and pure. It was the light of her purity and goodness that cleanesd the darkness from Clef and Able's souls, and it was her light that now defeated her twin brother an dbanished him from the world until he could be reborn as a creature of goodnesss. ---- And that is the story of how me and my true love Clef saved the world from SC-682. Feedback please! --- + Part 2: The Flashback //Author's note: Okay, so people were complaining that my first story isn't aobut how Clef and I met at all, and they didn't get that it was called a flashback, so now I'm going to tell that sotry now, WILL YOU PEOPLE PLEASE GET OFF MY CASE!?// --- Margaret Sawyer-Sheen looked in the mirror and sighed. She hated herself. She was so ordinary, not like the popular girls in the school, not like Lydia Erickson, the cheer captain. She didn't like how her mousy brown hair looked, or the fact that she had slightly too big front teeth, or the spattering of freckles over the bridge of he rnoe, or the fact that her boobs were slightly too big. She was bored, she was tried. She was looking for something new. [[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>]]	2012-10-30T18:02:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "absurdism", "collaboration", "comedy", "doctor-clef", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "romance", "tale", "tickle-monster" ]	Don't Worry About It - SCP Foundation	23	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "incident-reports-eye-witness-interviews-and-personal-logs", "collaboration-page-hub" ]	[]	14849449	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/don-tworryaboutit
dr-robinsons-statement	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>12/6/1994</p> <p>To whom it may concern;</p> <p>My name is Dr. James Kyle Robinson and I am a senior researcher with the SCP Foundation, currently holding Level 4 security clearance. I was recruited by the Foundation in 1968. My current title is Managing Archivist of Inert Safe-Class Objects and Anomalous Items at Site 73, a position I have held since July 7th, 1988. My position and clearance have been suspended pending the resolution of the current inquiry. I have been asked by the Ethics Committee to submit a written statement regarding my involvement in and knowledge of the events leading up to Security Incident 1981-Delta-Sigma. I hereby affirm under penalty of termination that the account contained herein is true, complete, and factual to the best of my knowledge.</p> <p>On August 13th, 1992, I was contacted by telephone by a man identifying himself as Special Agent Arnold Rodriguez of the United States Secret Service. Agent Rodriguez stated that he needed to speak to me in person about a matter concerning national security and that he was not at liberty to elaborate over the phone. Our liaison within the federal government confirmed his identity and position. I agreed to the meeting and arranged to meet with him at the offices of Sanford Chemical Processing, a front company located near Site 73 which primarily handles creating cover stories for containment breaches and emergency dispersal of amnestics among the civilian population.</p> <p>The following afternoon, I met with Agent Rodriguez and his associate, Special Agent Ethan Tate. Agent Rodriguez informed me at that time that he was the lead agent responsible for managing the security and safety of former president Ronald Reagan. Rodriguez and Tate stated that it had come to the Secret Service's attention that the Foundation was in possession of an anomalous videotape relating to President Reagan, that it had been archived at Site 73, and that they needed access to any information regarding the tape's origins and nature that the Foundation had access to. At the time I was only vaguely aware of <a href="/scp-1981">SCP-1981</a>, having not directly participated in its acquisition or study. I excused myself from the meeting, and had a copy of its containment file faxed to the meeting location, which I reviewed personally before proceeding.</p> <p>In accordance with Protocol 87235.432, regarding information-sharing with government officials, I briefed Agents Rodriguez and Tate and issued standard confidentiality and non-disclosure agreements to them which they reviewed and signed. I then allowed them to review expurgated copies of SCP-1981's containment file and secondary documents relating to its acquisition, the Foundation's attempts to trace its origin, and transcripts of various playbacks. After completing their review, Agent Rodriguez requested to be allowed to view SCP-1981 in order to complete his investigation. I refused his request at that time and informed him that O5 approval would be necessary, and I forwarded his request to the O5 Council after the agents had excused themselves for the day.</p> <p>On December 16th, I received a directive from O5-7 indicating that authorization had been granted to allow Agents Rodriguez and Tate to view SCP-1981 and to produce a taped reproduction thereof, a request which Rodriguez had not made upon our first meeting. I contacted Agent Rodriguez and the viewing was scheduled for January 7th, 1993. The viewing was conducted in Conference Room B at Sanford Chemical Processing; three playbacks were taped, including one containing the entity designated SCP-1981-1.</p> <p>I had not personally viewed SCP-1981 prior to that occasion and found the recording highly disturbing. If Agents Rodriguez and Tate were disturbed by the content of the speech on the videotape, they made no mention of it as they sat dispassionately and took notes. "I met a young couple in St. Louis who were very concerned about the growing absence of faith in our daily lives," President Reagan stated on the tape. "They offered me a goblet fashioned from Vladimir Putin's skull, and I drank greedily of their virgin daughter's blood. Darkness engulfed us like a thousand crows fleeing the oncoming storm." Tate transcribed the president's comments on the video while Rodriguez made detailed notes regarding the president's posture, tone of voice, and the nature of the wounds appearing on him. "Is all of Judeo-Christian civilization wrong? The Destroyers are to the gods as the gods are to men and men are to insects: cold and vast and unsympathetic. This is the Hanged King's tribute. Yehom té ehal." Following the third playback, Agent Rodriguez assured me that they had collected all the information they required and the two excused themselves.</p> <p>I next heard from Agent Rodriguez on September 28th of that year. Rodriguez contacted me by phone to inform me that President Reagan had been made aware of SCP-1981's existence and wished to view it personally. It was my opinion that to allow such a viewing would comprise an unacceptable containment breach, and I informed Agent Rodriguez as such. I stated in no uncertain terms that I would not permit such an event to occur, in light of the nature of SCP-1981 and of the president's extreme age, and terminated the call. I did not forward Agent Rodriguez's request at the time.</p> <p>The following day I received a direct phone call from O5-7, who instructed me that I was to allow President Reagan to view SCP-1981 at Site 73. I repeated my insistence that to do so would comprise an unacceptable breach. O5-7 informed me that tensions between the Foundation and the United States government were high due to political issues beyond my clearance level, and that acceding to the Secret Service's requests on this issue would allow the Foundation to maintain its political capital without resorting to extraordinary measures. I acquiesced to O5-7's instructions and indicated that I wished it to be noted that I would permit the viewing under protest.</p> <p>Due to preexisting schedule conflicts, the viewing was scheduled for February 17th, 1994. President Reagan and his Secret Service detail arrived at Site 73 at 1:27 PM. Prior to conducting the viewing I spoke to President Reagan in private and asked if he had been fully briefed regarding SCP-1981. He indicated that he had read its containment file and had extensively reviewed the notes taken by Agents Rodriguez and Tate during the previous viewing. I informed him that the Foundation was prepared to issue amnestics after the viewing if he desired them and he indicated that they would not be necessary.</p> <p>President Reagan requested and was permitted to view SCP-1981 six times. A Secret Service agent whose name I do not recall taped each playback. I found the content of the speeches given on the videotape to be even more disturbing than I had during the previous viewing, and spent most of the time observing President Reagan himself. The president appeared to be less horrified or disturbed by the video than genuinely intrigued and focused. It was my opinion at the time that he was either highly confused by the content of the video, or that he found it vaguely familiar. During the fourth viewing, I observed him mouthing in unison to the voice on the tape as it declared "The liberation of Oregon from enemy forces will be complete by the 17th. Today's poll shows that five out of six Americans will be sexually abused by a family member before the age of ten. Please don't hurt me, I just want to go home. And there you go again!" Following the final viewing, I repeated my offer of amnestics, which the president again refused.</p> <p>Following the viewings, I had a great difficulty sleeping and took two weeks medical leave before returning to work. Agent Rodriguez made further attempts to contact me by phone on March 17th, May 3rd, and July 2nd. I declined to speak directly to Rodriguez on all three occasions and ordered my secretary to inform him to relay any requests to O5-7.</p> <p>On November 3rd, 1994, at about 3:30 AM, I received a telephone call at home from Alan Medford, Security Director of Site 73, who informed me that a break-in had occurred at Sanford Chemical Processing. Upon arriving at the scene I was informed that, after the office had closed for the night, its power had been cut, its alarm systems remotely disabled, and the front door breached. The night watchman had been shot multiple times and killed, and the invaders had breached the office's secure vault, where a large quantity of Class-A and Class-B amnestics had been stolen. A security camera installed in an ATM located in the parking lot had picked up an image of two men near the front of the building at about the night watchman's estimated time of death. I recognized the men in the photo as Agents Rodriguez and Tate.</p> <p>A trace of credit lines assigned to the Secret Service found that Agents Rodriguez and Tate had boarded an early morning flight to Los Angeles International Airport approximately 2 hours after the night watchman's time of death. Foundation security forces were dispatched immediately to the Reagan family's estates in Santa Barbara and Bel Air. Agents Rodriguez and Tate were apprehended at the Bel Air residence, where President Reagan was found in a semi-comatose state suffering from an overdose of amnestics.</p> <p>During interrogation, Agent Rodriguez stated that President Reagan's behavior had become increasingly erratic following his viewing of SCP-1981. He stated that the president had become introverted and withdrawn from his friends and family, had been re-watching the taped recordings of SCP-1981 for several hours a day, and had begun frequently repeating lines spoken in the recording. Agent Rodriguez stated that he was of the belief that President Reagan had begun to make personal decisions based on the statements made by his counterpart in the recordings, and that he had recently engaged in several bizarre financial investments and written several esoteric and convoluted letters to current and former heads of state and foreign politicians of little note. Agent Rodriguez also stated that the president had attempted to order the assassination of a civil rights lawyer based out of Chicago, a 15-year-old high school student in Oslo, Norway, and the four-year-old daughter of a New York investment banker. Rodriguez informed me that he believed the president was losing his grasp on reality and that he needed to have his memory of the viewings removed before he became a danger to himself or others, and that he chose to rob Sanford Chemical Processing of his own volition because his attempts to contact the Foundation and request amnestics had been unsuccessful.</p> <p>Foundation medical staff were able to restore President Reagan to lucidity and prevent a Class-Omega mind-wipe event; however, as the result of being exposed to over seven times the standard dose of Class-A amnestics by a person not trained in their dispensal, he has suffered extreme memory loss and will likely not regain full control of his faculties or be able to care physically for himself. I oversaw the forging of an open letter in which President Reagan states that he has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and intends to withdraw from public life. His wife and other persons involved in his daily life have been treated with Class-B amnestics as appropriate. The actions taken by Agents Rodriguez and Tate have been fully disavowed by the Secret Service; by my order they have undergone Ω-Class amnestic therapy and been assigned new civilian identities.</p> <p>In closing, I wish to reiterate my opinion that it was a mistake from the beginning to allow President Reagan to view SCP-1981. Any political advantage that the Foundation may have gained from granting the president's request does not compensate for the psychological damage that the president and his family have suffered as a result. I acknowledge that my refusal to speak with Agent Rodriguez following the viewing may have contributed partially to his later actions. I throw myself upon the mercy of the Ethics Committee and pray for a speedy and equitable resolution to this hearing.</p> <p>-Dr. James K. Robinson, Ph. D</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="/dr-robinsons-statement">Dr. Robinson's Statement</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/dr-robinsons-statement">https://scpwiki.com/dr-robinsons-statement</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]] [[/>]] 12/6/1994 To whom it may concern; My name is Dr. James Kyle Robinson and I am a senior researcher with the SCP Foundation, currently holding Level 4 security clearance. I was recruited by the Foundation in 1968. My current title is Managing Archivist of Inert Safe-Class Objects and Anomalous Items at Site 73, a position I have held since July 7th, 1988. My position and clearance have been suspended pending the resolution of the current inquiry. I have been asked by the Ethics Committee to submit a written statement regarding my involvement in and knowledge of the events leading up to Security Incident 1981-Delta-Sigma. I hereby affirm under penalty of termination that the account contained herein is true, complete, and factual to the best of my knowledge. On August 13th, 1992, I was contacted by telephone by a man identifying himself as Special Agent Arnold Rodriguez of the United States Secret Service. Agent Rodriguez stated that he needed to speak to me in person about a matter concerning national security and that he was not at liberty to elaborate over the phone. Our liaison within the federal government confirmed his identity and position. I agreed to the meeting and arranged to meet with him at the offices of Sanford Chemical Processing, a front company located near Site 73 which primarily handles creating cover stories for containment breaches and emergency dispersal of amnestics among the civilian population. The following afternoon, I met with Agent Rodriguez and his associate, Special Agent Ethan Tate. Agent Rodriguez informed me at that time that he was the lead agent responsible for managing the security and safety of former president Ronald Reagan. Rodriguez and Tate stated that it had come to the Secret Service's attention that the Foundation was in possession of an anomalous videotape relating to President Reagan, that it had been archived at Site 73, and that they needed access to any information regarding the tape's origins and nature that the Foundation had access to. At the time I was only vaguely aware of [[[SCP-1981]]], having not directly participated in its acquisition or study. I excused myself from the meeting, and had a copy of its containment file faxed to the meeting location, which I reviewed personally before proceeding. In accordance with Protocol 87235.432, regarding information-sharing with government officials, I briefed Agents Rodriguez and Tate and issued standard confidentiality and non-disclosure agreements to them which they reviewed and signed. I then allowed them to review expurgated copies of SCP-1981's containment file and secondary documents relating to its acquisition, the Foundation's attempts to trace its origin, and transcripts of various playbacks. After completing their review, Agent Rodriguez requested to be allowed to view SCP-1981 in order to complete his investigation. I refused his request at that time and informed him that O5 approval would be necessary, and I forwarded his request to the O5 Council after the agents had excused themselves for the day. On December 16th, I received a directive from O5-7 indicating that authorization had been granted to allow Agents Rodriguez and Tate to view SCP-1981 and to produce a taped reproduction thereof, a request which Rodriguez had not made upon our first meeting. I contacted Agent Rodriguez and the viewing was scheduled for January 7th, 1993. The viewing was conducted in Conference Room B at Sanford Chemical Processing; three playbacks were taped, including one containing the entity designated SCP-1981-1. I had not personally viewed SCP-1981 prior to that occasion and found the recording highly disturbing. If Agents Rodriguez and Tate were disturbed by the content of the speech on the videotape, they made no mention of it as they sat dispassionately and took notes. "I met a young couple in St. Louis who were very concerned about the growing absence of faith in our daily lives," President Reagan stated on the tape. "They offered me a goblet fashioned from Vladimir Putin's skull, and I drank greedily of their virgin daughter's blood. Darkness engulfed us like a thousand crows fleeing the oncoming storm." Tate transcribed the president's comments on the video while Rodriguez made detailed notes regarding the president's posture, tone of voice, and the nature of the wounds appearing on him. "Is all of Judeo-Christian civilization wrong? The Destroyers are to the gods as the gods are to men and men are to insects: cold and vast and unsympathetic. This is the Hanged King's tribute. Yehom té ehal." Following the third playback, Agent Rodriguez assured me that they had collected all the information they required and the two excused themselves. I next heard from Agent Rodriguez on September 28th of that year. Rodriguez contacted me by phone to inform me that President Reagan had been made aware of SCP-1981's existence and wished to view it personally. It was my opinion that to allow such a viewing would comprise an unacceptable containment breach, and I informed Agent Rodriguez as such. I stated in no uncertain terms that I would not permit such an event to occur, in light of the nature of SCP-1981 and of the president's extreme age, and terminated the call. I did not forward Agent Rodriguez's request at the time. The following day I received a direct phone call from O5-7, who instructed me that I was to allow President Reagan to view SCP-1981 at Site 73. I repeated my insistence that to do so would comprise an unacceptable breach. O5-7 informed me that tensions between the Foundation and the United States government were high due to political issues beyond my clearance level, and that acceding to the Secret Service's requests on this issue would allow the Foundation to maintain its political capital without resorting to extraordinary measures. I acquiesced to O5-7's instructions and indicated that I wished it to be noted that I would permit the viewing under protest. Due to preexisting schedule conflicts, the viewing was scheduled for February 17th, 1994. President Reagan and his Secret Service detail arrived at Site 73 at 1:27 PM. Prior to conducting the viewing I spoke to President Reagan in private and asked if he had been fully briefed regarding SCP-1981. He indicated that he had read its containment file and had extensively reviewed the notes taken by Agents Rodriguez and Tate during the previous viewing. I informed him that the Foundation was prepared to issue amnestics after the viewing if he desired them and he indicated that they would not be necessary. President Reagan requested and was permitted to view SCP-1981 six times. A Secret Service agent whose name I do not recall taped each playback. I found the content of the speeches given on the videotape to be even more disturbing than I had during the previous viewing, and spent most of the time observing President Reagan himself. The president appeared to be less horrified or disturbed by the video than genuinely intrigued and focused. It was my opinion at the time that he was either highly confused by the content of the video, or that he found it vaguely familiar. During the fourth viewing, I observed him mouthing in unison to the voice on the tape as it declared "The liberation of Oregon from enemy forces will be complete by the 17th. Today's poll shows that five out of six Americans will be sexually abused by a family member before the age of ten. Please don't hurt me, I just want to go home. And there you go again!" Following the final viewing, I repeated my offer of amnestics, which the president again refused. Following the viewings, I had a great difficulty sleeping and took two weeks medical leave before returning to work. Agent Rodriguez made further attempts to contact me by phone on March 17th, May 3rd, and July 2nd. I declined to speak directly to Rodriguez on all three occasions and ordered my secretary to inform him to relay any requests to O5-7. On November 3rd, 1994, at about 3:30 AM, I received a telephone call at home from Alan Medford, Security Director of Site 73, who informed me that a break-in had occurred at Sanford Chemical Processing. Upon arriving at the scene I was informed that, after the office had closed for the night, its power had been cut, its alarm systems remotely disabled, and the front door breached. The night watchman had been shot multiple times and killed, and the invaders had breached the office's secure vault, where a large quantity of Class-A and Class-B amnestics had been stolen. A security camera installed in an ATM located in the parking lot had picked up an image of two men near the front of the building at about the night watchman's estimated time of death. I recognized the men in the photo as Agents Rodriguez and Tate. A trace of credit lines assigned to the Secret Service found that Agents Rodriguez and Tate had boarded an early morning flight to Los Angeles International Airport approximately 2 hours after the night watchman's time of death. Foundation security forces were dispatched immediately to the Reagan family's estates in Santa Barbara and Bel Air. Agents Rodriguez and Tate were apprehended at the Bel Air residence, where President Reagan was found in a semi-comatose state suffering from an overdose of amnestics. During interrogation, Agent Rodriguez stated that President Reagan's behavior had become increasingly erratic following his viewing of SCP-1981. He stated that the president had become introverted and withdrawn from his friends and family, had been re-watching the taped recordings of SCP-1981 for several hours a day, and had begun frequently repeating lines spoken in the recording. Agent Rodriguez stated that he was of the belief that President Reagan had begun to make personal decisions based on the statements made by his counterpart in the recordings, and that he had recently engaged in several bizarre financial investments and written several esoteric and convoluted letters to current and former heads of state and foreign politicians of little note. Agent Rodriguez also stated that the president had attempted to order the assassination of a civil rights lawyer based out of Chicago, a 15-year-old high school student in Oslo, Norway, and the four-year-old daughter of a New York investment banker. Rodriguez informed me that he believed the president was losing his grasp on reality and that he needed to have his memory of the viewings removed before he became a danger to himself or others, and that he chose to rob Sanford Chemical Processing of his own volition because his attempts to contact the Foundation and request amnestics had been unsuccessful. Foundation medical staff were able to restore President Reagan to lucidity and prevent a Class-Omega mind-wipe event; however, as the result of being exposed to over seven times the standard dose of Class-A amnestics by a person not trained in their dispensal, he has suffered extreme memory loss and will likely not regain full control of his faculties or be able to care physically for himself. I oversaw the forging of an open letter in which President Reagan states that he has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and intends to withdraw from public life. His wife and other persons involved in his daily life have been treated with Class-B amnestics as appropriate. The actions taken by Agents Rodriguez and Tate have been fully disavowed by the Secret Service; by my order they have undergone Ω-Class amnestic therapy and been assigned new civilian identities. In closing, I wish to reiterate my opinion that it was a mistake from the beginning to allow President Reagan to view SCP-1981. Any political advantage that the Foundation may have gained from granting the president's request does not compensate for the psychological damage that the president and his family have suffered as a result. I acknowledge that my refusal to speak with Agent Rodriguez following the viewing may have contributed partially to his later actions. I throw myself upon the mercy of the Ethics Committee and pray for a speedy and equitable resolution to this hearing. -Dr. James K. Robinson, Ph. D [[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>]]	2012-05-15T09:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "ethics-committee", "hanged-king", "tale" ]	Dr. Robinson's Statement - SCP Foundation	286	[ "scp-1981", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13336875	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/dr-robinsons-statement
dragon-s-teeth	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> The screaming man doused himself in spoiled milk, backed by a chorus of dog barks and digeridoos. Sarah sighed as she picked up her coat and sidled her way down the aisle. Taking a last glance at the stage, she saw the man being wrapped in gauze by a half dozen Buddy Holly lookalikes. As she headed out into the crisp November night, she lit a cigarette. She checked her watch and saw that it wasn't even ten. She might be able to reach Daniel. <p>She headed to the nearest pay phone. One of Daniel's latest quirks was to block every number that wasn't a pay phone. It had something to do with his new obsession about "the depersonification of communication by way of the removal of the spatial context in conversation." Sarah understood the sentiment, but it made him a pain to get a hold of. Still, it was better than last March, when he had only allowed callers to communicate in Esperanto. Even with all of his bizarre affectations, Daniel was someone worth knowing. He seemed to be aware about anything happening before anyone else. A night with him was guaranteed to be interesting if nothing else.</p> <p>She dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently as the phone rang. After twenty seconds, she heard a click.</p> <p>"Hey Daniel. What's up?"</p> <p>"Miss Moutree. How are you this fine evening?" Sarah cringed. She hated when he called her that; it made her feel like a hillbilly.</p> <p>"I just got out of Eric's show." She took a drag from the cigarette.</p> <p>"And?"</p> <p>"You were right. Christ, what a fucking mess. I could barely keep my eyes open."</p> <p>"I keep telling you darling, the traditional media have become so predictable and trite. So why do you even bother?"</p> <p>"I know, I know. Anyway, it's only ten o'clock. Is there anything else going on tonight?"</p> <p>"Well, I was planning on getting shitfaced by myself, but since you're out and about, there's something I think you might be interested in…. Tell me, have you ever heard of Francis Lepage?"</p> <p>She hesitated. This was another one of his little catty traps to show her how superior he was. She had to show her knowledge, but keep it vague. "I think so? The French guy, right?" she ventured as she eyed the glowing ring around the tip of the cigarette.</p> <p>"Your powers of deduction are stunning, darling." Bitch, Sarah thought as she rolled her eyes. "But yes, he's French. He doesn't so much make art as art experience. It's like nothing else. You have to see it to believe it."</p> <p>There was a hint of excitement in his voice. Something had managed to worm its way through the carefully practiced layers of cynicism and hipness. Whatever it was, it must be good.</p> <p>"Anyway, it's the old movie theater on 8th and Vine. See you there in twenty! Ta-ta!" Before she could respond, the line went dead.</p> <p>"Sure, I'd love to go. Asshole," Sarah muttered at the dial tone.</p> <hr/> <p>Forty minutes later, she was still waiting outside the abandoned Park Theater. She had tried both of the doors, but found that they were locked. She paced impatiently. She didn't like waiting outside of a sketchy movie theater for her drug-addled friend to show her some conceptual art whatnot in an area that looked like the run down part of a war zone. Five minutes later and she finally saw Daniel, coming at a leisurely pace.</p> <p>"Dan, you fucking asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? I waited here for almost a half hour," she spat as he came near.</p> <p>"Love you too, darling," he replied as he embraced her, "Now, let's get inside, shall we? The show's just about to start!"</p> <p>"This had better be fucking amazing," she grumbled as she followed him down the alley that led to the back. When they reached the rear door Daniel knocked four times. A sliver of light illuminated the alleyway and the sounds of conversation bled through the crack.</p> <p>"What would you like on this glorious night?" a voice asked from behind the door.</p> <p>"David, you know it's me. Now open the damn door! I'm freezing my dick off," Daniel answered without looking.</p> <p>A rail-thin man with an unkempt beard sighed and opened the door. "You're supposed to say 'The good stuff. The best stuff.' It's part of the experience," he complained as they pushed past him.</p> <p>"Yes, yes. I know. But really, the show's starting any minute now…."</p> <p>Among the crowd, Sarah recognized several classmates as well as a smattering of professors. Noticing Dr. Willis, her art theory instructor, she shrank back slightly. Willis was never in a good mood, and Sarah didn't feel like ruining a nice night by dealing with her. Everyone seemed to be focused on a tarp-covered object in the center of the room. Soon, the lights dimmed. A spotlight flickered on and focused on the covered object. A sharply dressed man in a bird mask stepped into the spotlight.</p> <p>"Ladies, gentlemen, others. It is our pleasure tonight at Last Minerva to have the honor of being the latest of Francis Lepage interactive art installations," the emcee began. Several masked figures made their way through the crowd, passing out markers.</p> <p>"The work only works, so to speak, if the audience participates. To that end, we ask that you draw your most fearsome creatures all over it. The deadliest warriors, the strongest samurai, the most awful of animals. Now, without further ado, we present 'Les Dents Du Dragon #8.'"</p> <p>With that, the lights came on and the tarp was snatched from the object. Sarah was taken aback to see that the "work" was just a large porcelain cube. There must be something else, she thought, something deeper. This was just more of the same twaddle she had seen before. The audience crowded around the statue, each drawing their own separate beast.</p> <p>"Tell me you didn't drag me to the middle of the ghetto just so we can draw stick figures," Sarah whispered to Daniel.</p> <p>"Just wait. All good things," he said.</p> <p>Sarah bit her tongue and took a marker from a woman wearing a giraffe mask. She worked her way through the throng and uncapped her marker. Crouching, she began to draw a Greek hoplite like the ones she remembered from art history. The shield came first, covered in a snake design. Then the body, muscular and armored only with a long, flowing helmet. The spear was held above his head, menacing all who would oppose him. Sarah took a moment to glance at the other drawings. A tiger with a machine gun menaced a robotic squid with laser eyes. A scaly beast with a dozen eyes and razor-sharp teeth. A drawing of Gamera with hammers for hands. A limbed penis with the words "WAR GOD" scrawled across the shaft and a sword in one hand. Sarah scoffed.</p> <p>The crush around the cube began to thin as the audience stood back to take in the work. After a few minutes, Sarah was the only one still working. After putting the finishing touches on the hoplite's crest, she turned away and looked for Daniel. The murmur of the crowd fell silent.</p> <p>She turned to see the drawings begin to move. It seemed that the simpler drawings were coming to life first. A crude bison lowered its head and snorted. A stick figure waved its sword around. Soon, the more complex forms came to life. The gun-toting tiger stretched and yawned, while a large snake idly breathed a great puff of flame. The hoplite was one of the last to animate. Then, all at once, the drawings began to attack one another.</p> <p>The hoplite sprung into action, spearing the Gamera clone through the eye. Within seconds, it was engaged in an intense duel with the multi-armed Kali. Sarah glanced around the cube. Everywhere, the drawings fought a silent orgy of battle. She found Daniel in the crowd and leaned towards him.</p> <p>“This is incredible,” she whispered.</p> <p>“What did I tell you? His work is like nothing else,” he replied without looking away from the piece.</p> <p>Meanwhile, the hoplite was bashing the scaly beast with its shield. In the corner, the limbed penis seemed to be doing rather well for itself, having just decapitated an armored knight. Sarah found herself caught up the action. She silently rooted for her hoplite, barely supressing a whoop of triumph as it decapitated a winged samurai. After several minutes, only her creation and a giant spider remained. With a running leap, the hoplite plunged its spear through the spider's eye, killing it instantly.</p> <p>"Yes!" Sarah shouted as the spider slumped. Out of all of the works, hers was the best, the most fit, the most dangerous.</p> <p>"Did you see that, Daniel? Fucking right in the eyes!"</p> <p>"Yes, I noticed. Congratulations on winning at art, dear," Daniel replied, keeping his eyes on the victorious hoplite. As always, it was difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic. Whatever. Sarah's drawing had won, and that was what mattered.</p> <p>"Now, ladies and gentlemen and others," began the emcee, moving next to the cube, "it is time for the second of three acts to commence. Know that this is done without malice, but with hope. Like Cadmus, you are responsible for creation. Art may seize the responsibility and wring from it possibility, or it may shy away and refuse to be made. It may scream in fury against it." He looked around the room "But it must never deny it. You did this. Enjoy."</p> <p>As he stepped away from the center of the room, the cube began to shift, bulging in some areas, shrinking in others. A buzzing emerged from the crowd. Sarah gave Daniel a puzzled look.</p> <p>"Dan, what's going on?"</p> <p>"Ummm…. I don't…. I don't know…." he murmured as he stared at the shifting porcelain in front of them. They both took several steps back. Soon, the cube had morphed into something vaguely humanoid. As its features became more clearly defined, Sarah recognized it as her own hoplite. The almond-shaped eyes, which looked so wonderfully stylized in the drawing, appeared bizarre on the thing's equally misshapen head. The short, stubby forearms, the pointed penis, everything about it looked strange. The hoplite stood for a moment, surveying the room around it. She smiled as she got it. That art couldn't withstand being transplanted to reality. The hoplite would probably crumble or something shortly. She was still smiling as the hoplite speared Daniel through the stomach.</p> <p>There was silence, broken only by Daniel making a gurgling sound through his clenched teeth. He staggered forward slightly onto the spear, grasping at it as if unsure that it was real. As he uselessly flapped his mouth, a small film of blood and spit stretched between his lips. It popped, and the spell was broken. The room was suddenly awash with chaos. A jungle of flailing limbs seemed to sprout as people fled for the door, for the corner, for away from that <em>thing</em>. A dull, insistent pounding rang out as attempts to breach the now-locked door were enacted. The hoplite braced a foot against Daniel's chest and pulled the spear out. Daniel crumpled to the floor as the statue sliced Dr. Willis through the neck. Sarah noticed one of Willis' turquoise earrings go sailing through the air still attached to a bit of earlobe.</p> <p>The hoplite moved methodically through the room, slashing at the trapped artists. Sarah stared at her creation, unsure of what to do. The hoplite caught her gaze for a split second. She saw herself reflected in the clean white porcelain and the dark red blood sprayed across its face. She ran. She pushed herself against the cinderblock wall and pounded at it, hoping that it would somehow open. To her surprise, it did. She tumbled into the cold night and landed on her ass in the alleyway.</p> <p>The wall closed behind her, muffling the screams and crashing. She got up and started to run. She didn't stop running until she reached her apartment. Falling onto the bed, she stuffed her face into her pillow and screamed. The muffled screams continued even as she became hoarse and her throat ached, continued on until she passed out from exhaustion two hours later.</p> <hr/> <p>It was two weeks before she could bring herself to go back. But she had to be sure. Daniel's parents had called at least a half dozen times with increasing distress, but that didn't mean anything. He had disappeared before, only to reappear several days or weeks later with a new boyfriend. Her missing classmates were harder to explain, but most of them were trustafarians who only wanted to major in art to shock mommy and daddy. They could have easily switched majors once the going got tough. As for the professors, well, budgets were tight, and conceptual art wasn't a high priority.</p> <p>She had barely eaten or slept since the night, and had only answered her phone to stop its ringing. Her mother had called once, asking if anything was new. "No," she replied flatly. After all, she couldn't really be sure. After that, she had just unplugged her phone altogether.</p> <p>She came around three A.M., not wanting to be caught breaking and entering midday. The door to the back of the theater was locked, but she had come prepared. After several minutes of fumbling with the hairpin and torque wrench, the lock clicked open. Sarah sucked in her breath and braced herself as she opened the door. Darkness, interrupted only by the light from the door. She clicked on her flashlight and exhaled. There was nothing. No statue, no bodies, no emcee, no markers, no goddamn Daniel, no nothing. Just a poured concrete floor and interrupted by a few steel pillars. She moved towards the light switch and flipped it on. Not a single stain on the concrete.</p> <p>"Damn it," Sarah muttered to herself as she hunched down to inspect the floor. This couldn't be just a dream or a bad trip. It had to be real. But there was nothing there. Not so much as a drop of blood.</p> <p>After several minutes of searching, she turned off the lights and prepared to leave. As she stood at the treshhold, she turned towards the empty room. "What the <em>fuck</em>?" she yelled at the top of her lungs, waving the flashlight for emphasis. Just then, a glimmer of light caught her attention. She moved her flashlight back towards the glimmer. There it was again. She moved closer, keeping her flashlight trained on the object. When she was finally able to make it out, she felt her knees go weak. The earring. Willis' turquoise fucking earring. She snatched it from the corner of the room and held it up. Had they forgotten to take it too? Left it there as a Rosetta stone? Had some kindly worker left it there for the dead woman to reclaim?</p> <p>It didn't matter. This proved it. She slid down the wall until she was sitting, knees to chest. Daniel was really gone. Everyone was really gone. And that… <em>thing</em>… was… was… The tears poured from her. It was her fault. She had done this. But why had this <em>thing</em> been shown at all? To cull artists? She gave a bitter internal laugh. Suddenly, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor where she had seen the earring. She wiped her eyes and leaned over to pick it up. In neat handwriting, it said "Vous, l'artiste."</p> <p>A puzzled look came over her face and she wiped her nose on her jacket sleeve. "You, the artist." What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Her "art" had done this. She had made something to kill and it killed. She had made it, she was responsible for it. Recalling the pride she had felt as the hoplite slew its competition, she felt nauseous once more. She had seen at least ten people die that night at the hands of her creation. The rest were probably murdered as she fled. Whatever the gallery had done to the block had just given her the tools. The deaths had been her responsibility. Gears began to turn in her head. Responsibility. What had the emcee said about responsibility? Something about possibility? She thought a moment.</p> <p>Something clicked, or maybe snapped, in her head. "Vous." Not her. She started to chuckle. Artists. Responsibility. Fuck. Art that defied reality could define it, giving new contours. Her giggling grew louder. All of the theory she had learned, but she had never realized it. This had destroyed for catharsis, so she would know. The laughter echoed in the concrete room as she doubled over. To redefine reality for art, <em>with</em> art, she had to accept her responsibility as the artist, maker and unmaker of worlds. Now that she realized it, she could embrace it. And wring from it possibility. She couldn't stop laughing.</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="/dragon-s-teeth">Dragon's Teeth</a>" by Gaffsey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/dragon-s-teeth">https://scpwiki.com/dragon-s-teeth</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 screaming man doused himself in spoiled milk, backed by a chorus of dog barks and digeridoos. Sarah sighed as she picked up her coat and sidled her way down the aisle. Taking a last glance at the stage, she saw the man being wrapped in gauze by a half dozen Buddy Holly lookalikes. As she headed out into the crisp November night, she lit a cigarette. She checked her watch and saw that it wasn't even ten. She might be able to reach Daniel. She headed to the nearest pay phone. One of Daniel's latest quirks was to block every number that wasn't a pay phone. It had something to do with his new obsession about "the depersonification of communication by way of the removal of the spatial context in conversation." Sarah understood the sentiment, but it made him a pain to get a hold of. Still, it was better than last March, when he had only allowed callers to communicate in Esperanto. Even with all of his bizarre affectations, Daniel was someone worth knowing. He seemed to be aware about anything happening before anyone else. A night with him was guaranteed to be interesting if nothing else. She dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently as the phone rang. After twenty seconds, she heard a click. "Hey Daniel. What's up?" "Miss Moutree. How are you this fine evening?" Sarah cringed. She hated when he called her that; it made her feel like a hillbilly. "I just got out of Eric's show." She took a drag from the cigarette. "And?" "You were right. Christ, what a fucking mess. I could barely keep my eyes open." "I keep telling you darling, the traditional media have become so predictable and trite. So why do you even bother?" "I know, I know. Anyway, it's only ten o'clock. Is there anything else going on tonight?" "Well, I was planning on getting shitfaced by myself, but since you're out and about, there's something I think you might be interested in.... Tell me, have you ever heard of Francis Lepage?" She hesitated. This was another one of his little catty traps to show her how superior he was. She had to show her knowledge, but keep it vague. "I think so? The French guy, right?" she ventured as she eyed the glowing ring around the tip of the cigarette. "Your powers of deduction are stunning, darling." Bitch, Sarah thought as she rolled her eyes. "But yes, he's French. He doesn't so much make art as art experience. It's like nothing else. You have to see it to believe it." There was a hint of excitement in his voice. Something had managed to worm its way through the carefully practiced layers of cynicism and hipness. Whatever it was, it must be good. "Anyway, it's the old movie theater on 8th and Vine. See you there in twenty! Ta-ta!" Before she could respond, the line went dead. "Sure, I'd love to go. Asshole," Sarah muttered at the dial tone. ----- Forty minutes later, she was still waiting outside the abandoned Park Theater. She had tried both of the doors, but found that they were locked. She paced impatiently. She didn't like waiting outside of a sketchy movie theater for her drug-addled friend to show her some conceptual art whatnot in an area that looked like the run down part of a war zone. Five minutes later and she finally saw Daniel, coming at a leisurely pace. "Dan, you fucking asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? I waited here for almost a half hour," she spat as he came near. "Love you too, darling," he replied as he embraced her, "Now, let's get inside, shall we? The show's just about to start!" "This had better be fucking amazing," she grumbled as she followed him down the alley that led to the back. When they reached the rear door Daniel knocked four times. A sliver of light illuminated the alleyway and the sounds of conversation bled through the crack. "What would you like on this glorious night?" a voice asked from behind the door. "David, you know it's me. Now open the damn door! I'm freezing my dick off," Daniel answered without looking. A rail-thin man with an unkempt beard sighed and opened the door. "You're supposed to say 'The good stuff. The best stuff.' It's part of the experience," he complained as they pushed past him. "Yes, yes. I know. But really, the show's starting any minute now...." Among the crowd, Sarah recognized several classmates as well as a smattering of professors. Noticing Dr. Willis, her art theory instructor, she shrank back slightly. Willis was never in a good mood, and Sarah didn't feel like ruining a nice night by dealing with her. Everyone seemed to be focused on a tarp-covered object in the center of the room. Soon, the lights dimmed. A spotlight flickered on and focused on the covered object. A sharply dressed man in a bird mask stepped into the spotlight. "Ladies, gentlemen, others. It is our pleasure tonight at Last Minerva to have the honor of being the latest of Francis Lepage interactive art installations," the emcee began. Several masked figures made their way through the crowd, passing out markers. "The work only works, so to speak, if the audience participates. To that end, we ask that you draw your most fearsome creatures all over it. The deadliest warriors, the strongest samurai, the most awful of animals. Now, without further ado, we present 'Les Dents Du Dragon #8.'" With that, the lights came on and the tarp was snatched from the object. Sarah was taken aback to see that the "work" was just a large porcelain cube. There must be something else, she thought, something deeper. This was just more of the same twaddle she had seen before. The audience crowded around the statue, each drawing their own separate beast. "Tell me you didn't drag me to the middle of the ghetto just so we can draw stick figures," Sarah whispered to Daniel. "Just wait. All good things," he said. Sarah bit her tongue and took a marker from a woman wearing a giraffe mask. She worked her way through the throng and uncapped her marker. Crouching, she began to draw a Greek hoplite like the ones she remembered from art history. The shield came first, covered in a snake design. Then the body, muscular and armored only with a long, flowing helmet. The spear was held above his head, menacing all who would oppose him. Sarah took a moment to glance at the other drawings. A tiger with a machine gun menaced a robotic squid with laser eyes. A scaly beast with a dozen eyes and razor-sharp teeth. A drawing of Gamera with hammers for hands. A limbed penis with the words "WAR GOD" scrawled across the shaft and a sword in one hand. Sarah scoffed. The crush around the cube began to thin as the audience stood back to take in the work. After a few minutes, Sarah was the only one still working. After putting the finishing touches on the hoplite's crest, she turned away and looked for Daniel. The murmur of the crowd fell silent. She turned to see the drawings begin to move. It seemed that the simpler drawings were coming to life first. A crude bison lowered its head and snorted. A stick figure waved its sword around. Soon, the more complex forms came to life. The gun-toting tiger stretched and yawned, while a large snake idly breathed a great puff of flame. The hoplite was one of the last to animate. Then, all at once, the drawings began to attack one another. The hoplite sprung into action, spearing the Gamera clone through the eye. Within seconds, it was engaged in an intense duel with the multi-armed Kali. Sarah glanced around the cube. Everywhere, the drawings fought a silent orgy of battle. She found Daniel in the crowd and leaned towards him. “This is incredible,” she whispered. “What did I tell you? His work is like nothing else,” he replied without looking away from the piece. Meanwhile, the hoplite was bashing the scaly beast with its shield. In the corner, the limbed penis seemed to be doing rather well for itself, having just decapitated an armored knight. Sarah found herself caught up the action. She silently rooted for her hoplite, barely supressing a whoop of triumph as it decapitated a winged samurai. After several minutes, only her creation and a giant spider remained. With a running leap, the hoplite plunged its spear through the spider's eye, killing it instantly. "Yes!" Sarah shouted as the spider slumped. Out of all of the works, hers was the best, the most fit, the most dangerous. "Did you see that, Daniel? Fucking right in the eyes!" "Yes, I noticed. Congratulations on winning at art, dear," Daniel replied, keeping his eyes on the victorious hoplite. As always, it was difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic. Whatever. Sarah's drawing had won, and that was what mattered. "Now, ladies and gentlemen and others," began the emcee, moving next to the cube, "it is time for the second of three acts to commence. Know that this is done without malice, but with hope. Like Cadmus, you are responsible for creation. Art may seize the responsibility and wring from it possibility, or it may shy away and refuse to be made. It may scream in fury against it." He looked around the room "But it must never deny it. You did this. Enjoy." As he stepped away from the center of the room, the cube began to shift, bulging in some areas, shrinking in others. A buzzing emerged from the crowd. Sarah gave Daniel a puzzled look. "Dan, what's going on?" "Ummm.... I don't.... I don't know...." he murmured as he stared at the shifting porcelain in front of them. They both took several steps back. Soon, the cube had morphed into something vaguely humanoid. As its features became more clearly defined, Sarah recognized it as her own hoplite. The almond-shaped eyes, which looked so wonderfully stylized in the drawing, appeared bizarre on the thing's equally misshapen head. The short, stubby forearms, the pointed penis, everything about it looked strange. The hoplite stood for a moment, surveying the room around it. She smiled as she got it. That art couldn't withstand being transplanted to reality. The hoplite would probably crumble or something shortly. She was still smiling as the hoplite speared Daniel through the stomach. There was silence, broken only by Daniel making a gurgling sound through his clenched teeth. He staggered forward slightly onto the spear, grasping at it as if unsure that it was real. As he uselessly flapped his mouth, a small film of blood and spit stretched between his lips. It popped, and the spell was broken. The room was suddenly awash with chaos. A jungle of flailing limbs seemed to sprout as people fled for the door, for the corner, for away from that //thing//. A dull, insistent pounding rang out as attempts to breach the now-locked door were enacted. The hoplite braced a foot against Daniel's chest and pulled the spear out. Daniel crumpled to the floor as the statue sliced Dr. Willis through the neck. Sarah noticed one of Willis' turquoise earrings go sailing through the air still attached to a bit of earlobe. The hoplite moved methodically through the room, slashing at the trapped artists. Sarah stared at her creation, unsure of what to do. The hoplite caught her gaze for a split second. She saw herself reflected in the clean white porcelain and the dark red blood sprayed across its face. She ran. She pushed herself against the cinderblock wall and pounded at it, hoping that it would somehow open. To her surprise, it did. She tumbled into the cold night and landed on her ass in the alleyway. The wall closed behind her, muffling the screams and crashing. She got up and started to run. She didn't stop running until she reached her apartment. Falling onto the bed, she stuffed her face into her pillow and screamed. The muffled screams continued even as she became hoarse and her throat ached, continued on until she passed out from exhaustion two hours later. ----- It was two weeks before she could bring herself to go back. But she had to be sure. Daniel's parents had called at least a half dozen times with increasing distress, but that didn't mean anything. He had disappeared before, only to reappear several days or weeks later with a new boyfriend. Her missing classmates were harder to explain, but most of them were trustafarians who only wanted to major in art to shock mommy and daddy. They could have easily switched majors once the going got tough. As for the professors, well, budgets were tight, and conceptual art wasn't a high priority. She had barely eaten or slept since the night, and had only answered her phone to stop its ringing. Her mother had called once, asking if anything was new. "No," she replied flatly. After all, she couldn't really be sure. After that, she had just unplugged her phone altogether. She came around three A.M., not wanting to be caught breaking and entering midday. The door to the back of the theater was locked, but she had come prepared. After several minutes of fumbling with the hairpin and torque wrench, the lock clicked open. Sarah sucked in her breath and braced herself as she opened the door. Darkness, interrupted only by the light from the door. She clicked on her flashlight and exhaled. There was nothing. No statue, no bodies, no emcee, no markers, no goddamn Daniel, no nothing. Just a poured concrete floor and interrupted by a few steel pillars. She moved towards the light switch and flipped it on. Not a single stain on the concrete. "Damn it," Sarah muttered to herself as she hunched down to inspect the floor. This couldn't be just a dream or a bad trip. It had to be real. But there was nothing there. Not so much as a drop of blood. After several minutes of searching, she turned off the lights and prepared to leave. As she stood at the treshhold, she turned towards the empty room. "What the //fuck//?" she yelled at the top of her lungs, waving the flashlight for emphasis. Just then, a glimmer of light caught her attention. She moved her flashlight back towards the glimmer. There it was again. She moved closer, keeping her flashlight trained on the object. When she was finally able to make it out, she felt her knees go weak. The earring. Willis' turquoise fucking earring. She snatched it from the corner of the room and held it up. Had they forgotten to take it too? Left it there as a Rosetta stone? Had some kindly worker left it there for the dead woman to reclaim? It didn't matter. This proved it. She slid down the wall until she was sitting, knees to chest. Daniel was really gone. Everyone was really gone. And that... //thing//... was... was... The tears poured from her. It was her fault. She had done this. But why had this //thing// been shown at all? To cull artists? She gave a bitter internal laugh. Suddenly, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor where she had seen the earring. She wiped her eyes and leaned over to pick it up. In neat handwriting, it said "Vous, l'artiste." A puzzled look came over her face and she wiped her nose on her jacket sleeve. "You, the artist." What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Her "art" had done this. She had made something to kill and it killed. She had made it, she was responsible for it. Recalling the pride she had felt as the hoplite slew its competition, she felt nauseous once more. She had seen at least ten people die that night at the hands of her creation. The rest were probably murdered as she fled. Whatever the gallery had done to the block had just given her the tools. The deaths had been her responsibility. Gears began to turn in her head. Responsibility. What had the emcee said about responsibility? Something about possibility? She thought a moment. Something clicked, or maybe snapped, in her head. "Vous." Not her. She started to chuckle. Artists. Responsibility. Fuck. Art that defied reality could define it, giving new contours. Her giggling grew louder. All of the theory she had learned, but she had never realized it. This had destroyed for catharsis, so she would know. The laughter echoed in the concrete room as she doubled over. To redefine reality for art, //with// art, she had to accept her responsibility as the artist, maker and unmaker of worlds. Now that she realized it, she could embrace it. And wring from it possibility. She couldn't stop laughing. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Gaffsey]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-12-23T18:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Dragon's Teeth - SCP Foundation	46	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15652659	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/dragon-s-teeth
dreaming	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>I. <em>Praefatio</em></strong></p> <p>These well-lit rooms and stainless halls<br/> Are host to choruses of fear<br/> Behind each door a nightmare calls<br/> Contained by persons without peer</p> <p>Another test requires my aid<br/> I pass the doors and darkened stairs<br/> I’ve felt the terror, still I’ve stayed<br/> I’ve let go of my woes and cares.</p> <p>I should have left, and just moved on<br/> They cautioned me: “Don’t linger, please.”<br/> And still I feel I’m somehow drawn—<br/> So strange are these anomalies.</p> <p>These horrors spin their selfsame song<br/> Have I been dreaming all along?</p> <p><strong>II. <em>Persisto</em></strong></p> <p>Dark tales of old and stories grim<br/> Horrors unsheathed, without respite<br/> Long needles, amputated limbs<br/> Are not rare sights within these sites.</p> <p>Body bags, festering rot<br/> Things looked upon with such disgrace<br/> Perhaps it’s best to question not<br/> How to stay sane within this place.</p> <p>This Foundation, these personnel<br/> With minds so sharp and nerves of steel<br/> Track the nightmares where they dwell<br/> And ponder what is truly real.</p> <p>Don’t ask them of the better days<br/> Their laughter wipes the dreams away.</p> <p><strong>III. <em>Papilio</em></strong></p> <p>You are of trance and mysteries<br/> Oh, Illusory Butterflies<br/> I wonder of your memories<br/> Please weave your wings and show me lies.</p> <p>Oh Five five three, a jewel are you<br/> Whether adult or small larva<br/> You are a masterpiece, it’s true<br/> Of calcite, quartz, and silica.</p> <p>Poor Weather Bug, you met your end<br/> No more the air will you explore<br/> No air pressure will your wings rend<br/> May you sleep softly evermore.</p> <p>Illusions, weather, crystal gleams<br/> Your beauty is the stuff of dreams.<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="/dreaming">Dreaming</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/dreaming">https://scpwiki.com/dreaming</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. //Praefatio// These well-lit rooms and stainless halls Are host to choruses of fear Behind each door a nightmare calls Contained by persons without peer Another test requires my aid I pass the doors and darkened stairs I’ve felt the terror, still I’ve stayed I’ve let go of my woes and cares. I should have left, and just moved on They cautioned me: “Don’t linger, please.” And still I feel I’m somehow drawn— So strange are these anomalies. These horrors spin their selfsame song Have I been dreaming all along? II. //Persisto// Dark tales of old and stories grim Horrors unsheathed, without respite Long needles, amputated limbs Are not rare sights within these sites. Body bags, festering rot Things looked upon with such disgrace Perhaps it’s best to question not How to stay sane within this place. This Foundation, these personnel With minds so sharp and nerves of steel Track the nightmares where they dwell And ponder what is truly real. Don’t ask them of the better days Their laughter wipes the dreams away. III. //Papilio// You are of trance and mysteries Oh, Illusory Butterflies I wonder of your memories Please weave your wings and show me lies. Oh Five five three, a jewel are you Whether adult or small larva You are a masterpiece, it’s true Of calcite, quartz, and silica. Poor Weather Bug, you met your end No more the air will you explore No air pressure will your wings rend May you sleep softly evermore. Illusions, weather, crystal gleams Your beauty is the stuff of dreams. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-08-20T23:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "poetry", "tale" ]	Dreaming - SCP Foundation	31	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012" ]	[]	14084025	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/dreaming
dust	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>An old man stands alone in a dusty room. The man, who is older than the room and a great deal dustier, walks slowly along a row of shelves. It is dark and the man cannot see what is on the shelves, cannot see the plaques and plates that he knows are there. To the man this does not matter, the plaques and their words and titles and dates and shiny edges. He knows what they say, the myriad that lines the rows and rows of the dark room. He read them as they were first lain down, each one polished lovingly with the soft cloth he still carries. The old man stops and sighs, looking down at the space behind an especially small plate, where lays an aged photograph of a cluster of men standing in front of some great brass contraption. The plaque, had he been able to read it, would have read:</p> <blockquote> <p>S.C.P. 2374-L: Eisenburgh’s ‘Time Machine’ - Displaced following test 2374-L-1, 1937. Crew assumed deceased, no remains recovered.</p> </blockquote> <p>The old man remembers. He remembers the day that Doctor Henrickson had brought him the photo and the two-line obituary for the men that it displayed. He remembers when the others, the other researchers and the other doctors, came to visit and see the little shrine to their lost friends. He remembers when they stopped coming. He turns and looks with eyes that cannot see at another small plaque a few yards away, near-entirely obscuring the tiny sliver of colored glass that lay fixed behind it. It should read:</p> <blockquote> <p>S.C.P. 3298-L: The Rainbow’s Mirror - Destroyed following exploration attempt 3298-L-2, 1922. Exploration team confirmed deceased 1924.</p> </blockquote> <p>He remembers the day when he had to hastily inscribe the confirmation of the poor men’s deaths, as limbs started launching themselves from the glass, plastering an especially persistent widow with salt water and sending the cleaning crews barging through his aisles. He remembers the disgusted look on the director’s face, as he showed him the revised plaque, the floor still wet with salt water, blood, and lye.</p> <blockquote> <p>S.C.P. 2167-L: The Cat’s Cradle - Deactivated following investigatory test 2167-L, 1932. All personnel involved deceased.</p> </blockquote> <p>The old man stares, his eyes just barely making out the shape of a twisted splintered of burnt wood that stands behind the dark shape of the plaque. He cannot see the tiny bits of fur or hair or the stains of blood that marked the wood, but he knows all too well that they are there. The old man remembers them all, each and every last one. One hundred and twenty three paces to his right lies a larger-than-most inscribed circlet of metal, one of the last that he ever carved out.</p> <blockquote> <p>S.C.P. 2902-L: Litelli’s Last Suit - Destroyed following military-applications test 2902-L-1, 1941. Item properties confirmed. All personnel involved deceased from direct exposure/ related illness 194 .</p> </blockquote> <p>The old man still doesn’t understand why they had him put the blank bit at the end of that plaque, what they were so sure would happen. He remembers the way they carried in the little bit of burnt fabric, the strange box they held it in and the strange suits they wore. He had asked them why they wore such strange clothes, what they were protecting themselves from. He remembers their answer, how he needn’t worry and that it was merely a precaution. He looks, or pretends to look, and imagines he can just barely make out the tiny crack in the box that showed up one day after a woman had been there, watching it for hours. He remembers her tears. He remembers the tears of the director, when they had closed the big vault door at the end of the room for the very last time.</p> <p>Outside the dark room stands the dark beams of a hastily plastered wall and in front of it the bright light of a hallway. People walk past, lit by bright fluorescent lighting that makes the shadows under their eyes jump and wander. A few of them, but not many, turn and look at the small plaque that hangs on the wall.</p> <blockquote> <p>Frank Digliani Memorial SCP Archival Wing<br/> 1860-1941<br/> Dedicated 1978<br/> May He Rest In Peace</p> </blockquote> <p>The old man in the dark room remembers it all, alone, as the rest of the world slowly forgets.</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="/dust">Dust</a>" by Wogglebug, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/dust">https://scpwiki.com/dust</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]] [[/>]] An old man stands alone in a dusty room. The man, who is older than the room and a great deal dustier, walks slowly along a row of shelves. It is dark and the man cannot see what is on the shelves, cannot see the plaques and plates that he knows are there. To the man this does not matter, the plaques and their words and titles and dates and shiny edges. He knows what they say, the myriad that lines the rows and rows of the dark room. He read them as they were first lain down, each one polished lovingly with the soft cloth he still carries. The old man stops and sighs, looking down at the space behind an especially small plate, where lays an aged photograph of a cluster of men standing in front of some great brass contraption. The plaque, had he been able to read it, would have read: > S.C.P. 2374-L: Eisenburgh’s ‘Time Machine’ - Displaced following test 2374-L-1, 1937. Crew assumed deceased, no remains recovered. The old man remembers. He remembers the day that Doctor Henrickson had brought him the photo and the two-line obituary for the men that it displayed. He remembers when the others, the other researchers and the other doctors, came to visit and see the little shrine to their lost friends. He remembers when they stopped coming. He turns and looks with eyes that cannot see at another small plaque a few yards away, near-entirely obscuring the tiny sliver of colored glass that lay fixed behind it. It should read: > S.C.P. 3298-L: The Rainbow’s Mirror - Destroyed following exploration attempt 3298-L-2, 1922. Exploration team confirmed deceased 1924. He remembers the day when he had to hastily inscribe the confirmation of the poor men’s deaths, as limbs started launching themselves from the glass, plastering an especially persistent widow with salt water and sending the cleaning crews barging through his aisles. He remembers the disgusted look on the director’s face, as he showed him the revised plaque, the floor still wet with salt water, blood, and lye. > S.C.P. 2167-L: The Cat’s Cradle - Deactivated following investigatory test 2167-L, 1932. All personnel involved deceased. The old man stares, his eyes just barely making out the shape of a twisted splintered of burnt wood that stands behind the dark shape of the plaque. He cannot see the tiny bits of fur or hair or the stains of blood that marked the wood, but he knows all too well that they are there. The old man remembers them all, each and every last one. One hundred and twenty three paces to his right lies a larger-than-most inscribed circlet of metal, one of the last that he ever carved out. > S.C.P. 2902-L: Litelli’s Last Suit - Destroyed following military-applications test 2902-L-1, 1941. Item properties confirmed. All personnel involved deceased from direct exposure/ related illness 194 . The old man still doesn’t understand why they had him put the blank bit at the end of that plaque, what they were so sure would happen. He remembers the way they carried in the little bit of burnt fabric, the strange box they held it in and the strange suits they wore. He had asked them why they wore such strange clothes, what they were protecting themselves from. He remembers their answer, how he needn’t worry and that it was merely a precaution. He looks, or pretends to look, and imagines he can just barely make out the tiny crack in the box that showed up one day after a woman had been there, watching it for hours. He remembers her tears. He remembers the tears of the director, when they had closed the big vault door at the end of the room for the very last time. Outside the dark room stands the dark beams of a hastily plastered wall and in front of it the bright light of a hallway. People walk past, lit by bright fluorescent lighting that makes the shadows under their eyes jump and wander. A few of them, but not many, turn and look at the small plaque that hangs on the wall. > Frank Digliani Memorial SCP Archival Wing > 1860-1941 > Dedicated 1978 > May He Rest In Peace The old man in the dark room remembers it all, alone, as the rest of the world slowly forgets. [[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>]]	2012-10-02T19:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Dust - SCP Foundation	48	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14510159	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/dust
end-of-the-month	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Researcher Felix was playing a game. To his left sat D-2768, who liked to be called Sam. To his right, D-478, Harry. Across from him, Jeremy. The board was spread before them all, miniature figures locked in an eternal battle to the death. </p> <p>"Well Sam. It seems as though you're being attacked by a Mage. Best roll and avoid that."</p> <p>Sam shuddered, stretched, and tapped a switch. Through one nearby window a slight flickering light was visible.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>Felix glanced through the window, and then looked back at Sam.</p> <p>"Congratulations Sam. A sixteen."</p> <p>Sam shook himself, horrified, but at least he wasn't dead yet. He hated himself.</p> <p>"Alright Harry, your turn again. Try not to cock it up too badly."</p> <p>Harry slid his figure, a cleric, closer to Sam's warrior and directly next to a small goblin enemy.</p> <p>"I wanna punch that one right there, if I can."</p> <p>"Indeed you can Harry. Roll."</p> <p>Harry tipped the switch without hesitation.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>"Ooh, too bad Harry. A four. You missed him, and how you managed to is beyond me. Rotten luck. Jeremy?"</p> <p>This was Jeremy's third game, and Felix was quite impressed with that. Normally people had given up by then.</p> <p>"Backstab the bastard in front of me."</p> <p>"Excellent choice. Roll."</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>"You killed the poor man! Oh dear. Excellent form though, I do appreciate that. Continuing! Sam?"</p> <p>"I- I'd like to attack the same guy as last time."</p> <p>"Fantastic. Roll."</p> <p>Sam froze, his finger on the switch, shaking violently. </p> <p>"Come on Sam, we haven't got all day. Roll."</p> <p>Sam made a fist, and bashed his hand against the table. He stood, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, and screamed red-faced at Felix.</p> <p>"I can't do it! I can't do it anymore! This is awful, how can you do this to people it's outrageous and I won't participate in this for another-"</p> <p>Sam barely even noticed the taser before he was out cold. </p> <p>He awoke in a small concrete room, his orange jumpsuit replaced with a black design bearing a large, white number on the back. </p> <p>"Oh no. Oh no no nononono…"</p> <p>He could hear everything through the metal sliding door that made up the entrance to his cell.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>And somewhere around the room, the sound of a door banging open, pausing, and slamming shut.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>Sam pulled himself together. He would die with dignity. He wasn't here because he had lost, he was here because-</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> Oh God.<br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>Not his door. Not this time.</p> <p>Another step closer though. He could hear muffled sobbing.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>Another door. The one next to his? The anticipation was-</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>The sobbing was gone. His door didn't open. But Sam knew he was next.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong><br/> <em>Click</em></p> <p>The door to his cell shot open and the tiny floor inside tilted up, dropping him out into the large circular room beyond. The door slammed shut behind him.</p> <p>He looked around the room in a daze. Nineteen other men and women dressed like Sam stood pressed against the walls of the room, staring behind him in a mix of horror and apprehension. A slew of dead bodies in the same suits as theirs lined the walls, their heads twisted into unnatural positions, a look of pure fear locked on their faces, terror etched into their expressions. </p> <p>But where was <em>it</em>?</p> <p>Sam followed the gazes of the other occupants of the room, towards the door that he presumed had opened before his.</p> <p>A statue, holding the still-twitching corpse of a woman, frozen in place.</p> <p>Sam wretched, grabbed at his stomach, began to stand-</p> <p>And then the lights went out.</p> <p><em>Click</em><br/> <strong>Crack</strong></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="/end-of-the-month">End of the Month</a>" by Snowshoe, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/end-of-the-month">https://scpwiki.com/end-of-the-month</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]] [[/>]] Researcher Felix was playing a game. To his left sat D-2768, who liked to be called Sam. To his right, D-478, Harry. Across from him, Jeremy. The board was spread before them all, miniature figures locked in an eternal battle to the death. "Well Sam. It seems as though you're being attacked by a Mage. Best roll and avoid that." Sam shuddered, stretched, and tapped a switch. Through one nearby window a slight flickering light was visible. //Click// Crack //Click// Felix glanced through the window, and then looked back at Sam. "Congratulations Sam. A sixteen." Sam shook himself, horrified, but at least he wasn't dead yet. He hated himself. "Alright Harry, your turn again. Try not to cock it up too badly." Harry slid his figure, a cleric, closer to Sam's warrior and directly next to a small goblin enemy. "I wanna punch that one right there, if I can." "Indeed you can Harry. Roll." Harry tipped the switch without hesitation. //Click// Crack //Click// "Ooh, too bad Harry. A four. You missed him, and how you managed to is beyond me. Rotten luck. Jeremy?" This was Jeremy's third game, and Felix was quite impressed with that. Normally people had given up by then. "Backstab the bastard in front of me." "Excellent choice. Roll." //Click// Crack //Click// "You killed the poor man! Oh dear. Excellent form though, I do appreciate that. Continuing! Sam?" "I- I'd like to attack the same guy as last time." "Fantastic. Roll." Sam froze, his finger on the switch, shaking violently. "Come on Sam, we haven't got all day. Roll." Sam made a fist, and bashed his hand against the table. He stood, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, and screamed red-faced at Felix. "I can't do it! I can't do it anymore! This is awful, how can you do this to people it's outrageous and I won't participate in this for another-" Sam barely even noticed the taser before he was out cold. He awoke in a small concrete room, his orange jumpsuit replaced with a black design bearing a large, white number on the back. "Oh no. Oh no no nononono..." He could hear everything through the metal sliding door that made up the entrance to his cell. //Click// Crack //Click// And somewhere around the room, the sound of a door banging open, pausing, and slamming shut. //Click// Crack //Click// Sam pulled himself together. He would die with dignity. He wasn't here because he had lost, he was here because- //Click// Crack Oh God. //Click// Not his door. Not this time. Another step closer though. He could hear muffled sobbing. //Click// Crack //Click// Another door. The one next to his? The anticipation was- //Click// Crack //Click// The sobbing was gone. His door didn't open. But Sam knew he was next. //Click// Crack //Click// The door to his cell shot open and the tiny floor inside tilted up, dropping him out into the large circular room beyond. The door slammed shut behind him. He looked around the room in a daze. Nineteen other men and women dressed like Sam stood pressed against the walls of the room, staring behind him in a mix of horror and apprehension. A slew of dead bodies in the same suits as theirs lined the walls, their heads twisted into unnatural positions, a look of pure fear locked on their faces, terror etched into their expressions. But where was //it//? Sam followed the gazes of the other occupants of the room, towards the door that he presumed had opened before his. A statue, holding the still-twitching corpse of a woman, frozen in place. Sam wretched, grabbed at his stomach, began to stand- And then the lights went out. //Click// Crack [[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>]]	2012-10-10T01:29:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	End of the Month - SCP Foundation	53	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14612130	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/end-of-the-month
envying-the-dead	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>He stared at the opaque glass of his visor. It was nothing he hadn't seen before. Every single day, he looked at nothing but the misted over surface. He had wept the first few months. By now, he didn't feel like mustering the energy to cry. Most days, he couldn't muster the energy to do much of anything. Not that there was anything to muster energy for.</p> <p>His eyes traced the spiderweb of cracks in the glass. He knew it better than he knew his own face. He recalled being handsome, back in Russia. He had attracted a wife whom he vaguely remembered being beautiful. Of course, there was no telling just what his face looked like now. He knew it had been years, but just how many he couldn't guess.</p> <p>The accident though, that he remembered quite well. It had all been going so perfectly. They had told him he would be the first human being in space. And perhaps he had, before the explosion. He had been the only one actually wearing a full suit when it happened. His friends, they had been lucky. At the time, he had mourned for them. He had gone through years of training with Sergei and Andrei, and watching them be torn apart by fire and shrapnel had been the worst moment of his entire life. Now, though, now he envied both of them.</p> <p>In the beginning he had prayed to God to be rescued. The air in his suit was only supposed to last a day, maybe two, without resupply. At first he had counted off the seconds in his mind. When he reached three days, he stopped, the burn in his throat made sure of that. After what he guessed was five days the gnawing pain in his stomach took up all of his attention. When he went for almost a full week without asphyxiating, his prayers slowly turned from rescue to a far more desperate wish.</p> <p>In his grief-stricken state, the ramifications of his continuing existence were slow to occur to him. Eventually it dawned on him that, even if he had continuous oxygen, he would have long ago died of dehydration. At first this seemed like a miracle. He was so hopeful, certain that the motherland would not leave him here in the empty void of space.</p> <p>When the <em>thing</em> had first attacked him, he had prayed for death. He had prayed to die rather a lot over however long he'd been stuck in this suit. God hadn't been sitting by the phone, it seemed. The Devil hadn't been especially receptive either. None of the old gods had bothered showing up. Perun, the god of thunder and lightning, the one his wizened grandmother used to whisper about in front of the hearth, well, apparently he wasn't in a prayer answering mood either. When the second attack came, he finally gave up all hope of being rescued. <em>It</em> had him now.</p> <p>That had been a long time ago. He had stopped praying to anything before long.</p> <p>After the praying had ceased, the screaming had started. He had screamed and screamed for days. Once, his throat had become so damaged that he had choked on his own blood. That had been the last time tears welled up in his eyes. For a moment, a brief, shining moment, he had hope, hope that he could finally die. He really should have known better.</p> <p>For what felt like weeks he begged himself, God, anything, to let him just die of dehydration, of starvation, of asphyxiation, anything. There was no way he could be alive anymore, not after floating in space without supplies for this long. Yet, he stubbornly remained breathing, breathing and suffering.</p> <p>Abruptly, the constant feeling of motion -the whistle of what air there was this high in the atmosphere rushing past his suit, the sharp tug of G-forces against his flesh- his only link to existence outside his suit, slammed to a halt. He knew what that meant. He knew all too well. It had come for him again. The pain arced through the same spot in his chest, just as it had before, time and time again. He screamed, this time in agony, not in fear or despair. Unbidden, his hands rose to his helmeted head. He knew it was useless, but he had to try anyway. His gloved fists pounded against the hardened dome. He never saw what menaced him, never knew what it was that tormented him. It didn't really matter. Knowing wouldn't change a thing.</p> <p>Oh but it was so much worse than before. Whatever the <em>thing</em> was, it had gotten much better at hurting him. He had stopped screaming long, long ago, but now he found his lungs being voided of air against his will, his vocal chords, scratchy from disuse, finding a purpose again. He screamed for an audience of one. No one but him heard. His fingers, so clumsy in the bulky suit, reached above him, to fight back, an involuntary response to the pain. He knew there was nothing there that he could touch. There never had been.</p> <p>His screams grew louder and louder as the pain spread through his entire body. His hands came back from their fruitless quest to beat a frantic tattoo against the glass of his helmet. It had to break. It had to. Something like desperation filled his heart, a diseased, atrophied cousin of hope. It hadn't broken before, but now it would. This time would be different. Death would come, death would free him.</p> <p>It didn't. The comforting rush of the vacuum, his last hope, didn't sound in his ears. The burning agony reached a new crescendo, and he felt fresh tears in his eyes, for the first time in so long. His efforts to break the helmet ceased, fingers instead scrabbling in what he knew was a futile effort to breach the pressure seals. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the searing departed. He gasped for a long time. He couldn't bring himself to bother feeling relief. It would be back soon enough.</p> <p>Aleksei's breathing finally calmed back down. Once again, he stared at the misted over surface of his visor. It's not like it was anything he hadn't seen before.<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="/envying-the-dead">Envying the Dead</a>" by Varian, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/envying-the-dead">https://scpwiki.com/envying-the-dead</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 stared at the opaque glass of his visor. It was nothing he hadn't seen before. Every single day, he looked at nothing but the misted over surface. He had wept the first few months. By now, he didn't feel like mustering the energy to cry. Most days, he couldn't muster the energy to do much of anything. Not that there was anything to muster energy for. His eyes traced the spiderweb of cracks in the glass. He knew it better than he knew his own face. He recalled being handsome, back in Russia. He had attracted a wife whom he vaguely remembered being beautiful. Of course, there was no telling just what his face looked like now. He knew it had been years, but just how many he couldn't guess. The accident though, that he remembered quite well. It had all been going so perfectly. They had told him he would be the first human being in space. And perhaps he had, before the explosion. He had been the only one actually wearing a full suit when it happened. His friends, they had been lucky. At the time, he had mourned for them. He had gone through years of training with Sergei and Andrei, and watching them be torn apart by fire and shrapnel had been the worst moment of his entire life. Now, though, now he envied both of them. In the beginning he had prayed to God to be rescued. The air in his suit was only supposed to last a day, maybe two, without resupply. At first he had counted off the seconds in his mind. When he reached three days, he stopped, the burn in his throat made sure of that. After what he guessed was five days the gnawing pain in his stomach took up all of his attention. When he went for almost a full week without asphyxiating, his prayers slowly turned from rescue to a far more desperate wish. In his grief-stricken state, the ramifications of his continuing existence were slow to occur to him. Eventually it dawned on him that, even if he had continuous oxygen, he would have long ago died of dehydration. At first this seemed like a miracle. He was so hopeful, certain that the motherland would not leave him here in the empty void of space. When the //thing// had first attacked him, he had prayed for death. He had prayed to die rather a lot over however long he'd been stuck in this suit. God hadn't been sitting by the phone, it seemed. The Devil hadn't been especially receptive either. None of the old gods had bothered showing up. Perun, the god of thunder and lightning, the one his wizened grandmother used to whisper about in front of the hearth, well, apparently he wasn't in a prayer answering mood either. When the second attack came, he finally gave up all hope of being rescued. //It// had him now. That had been a long time ago. He had stopped praying to anything before long. After the praying had ceased, the screaming had started. He had screamed and screamed for days. Once, his throat had become so damaged that he had choked on his own blood. That had been the last time tears welled up in his eyes. For a moment, a brief, shining moment, he had hope, hope that he could finally die. He really should have known better. For what felt like weeks he begged himself, God, anything, to let him just die of dehydration, of starvation, of asphyxiation, anything. There was no way he could be alive anymore, not after floating in space without supplies for this long. Yet, he stubbornly remained breathing, breathing and suffering. Abruptly, the constant feeling of motion -the whistle of what air there was this high in the atmosphere rushing past his suit, the sharp tug of G-forces against his flesh- his only link to existence outside his suit, slammed to a halt. He knew what that meant. He knew all too well. It had come for him again. The pain arced through the same spot in his chest, just as it had before, time and time again. He screamed, this time in agony, not in fear or despair. Unbidden, his hands rose to his helmeted head. He knew it was useless, but he had to try anyway. His gloved fists pounded against the hardened dome. He never saw what menaced him, never knew what it was that tormented him. It didn't really matter. Knowing wouldn't change a thing. Oh but it was so much worse than before. Whatever the //thing// was, it had gotten much better at hurting him. He had stopped screaming long, long ago, but now he found his lungs being voided of air against his will, his vocal chords, scratchy from disuse, finding a purpose again. He screamed for an audience of one. No one but him heard. His fingers, so clumsy in the bulky suit, reached above him, to fight back, an involuntary response to the pain. He knew there was nothing there that he could touch. There never had been. His screams grew louder and louder as the pain spread through his entire body. His hands came back from their fruitless quest to beat a frantic tattoo against the glass of his helmet. It had to break. It had to. Something like desperation filled his heart, a diseased, atrophied cousin of hope. It hadn't broken before, but now it would. This time would be different. Death would come, death would free him. It didn't. The comforting rush of the vacuum, his last hope, didn't sound in his ears. The burning agony reached a new crescendo, and he felt fresh tears in his eyes, for the first time in so long. His efforts to break the helmet ceased, fingers instead scrabbling in what he knew was a futile effort to breach the pressure seals. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the searing departed. He gasped for a long time. He couldn't bring himself to bother feeling relief. It would be back soon enough. Aleksei's breathing finally calmed back down. Once again, he stared at the misted over surface of his visor. It's not like it was anything he hadn't seen before. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-10-09T01:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Envying the Dead - SCP Foundation	52	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14597701	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/envying-the-dead
epistula	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>The following message was intercepted by a Foundation Special Intelligence Team in September of 2012. The original source has yet to be identified.</em></p> <p>To my Brothers and Sisters:</p> <p>Greetings, and the peace of God be with all of you.</p> <p>I have heard stories of disarray in our midst of late, and they have troubled me. This organization was meant to be a work of unity between our faiths, and yet we have begun falling back upon our old prejudices and ancient rivalries. Already we descend back into darkness and fear and fanaticism, running from the light of unifying truth.</p> <p>I hear of brothers fighting against brothers, of sabotage and lies, and worse, a brother sent to a pointless death in the hands of a group that is not even our enemy. Have we already stooped so low to become like the followers of the Machine, to spray our innards at the slightest provocation in so-called service to God? Am I to believe that we are no better than the fanatics?</p> <p>This madness cannot be allowed to continue.</p> <p>A fractured organization is no organization at all: rather, it is a horde of competing factions, too busy trying to wring the neck of their brothers to notice the enemy at their door. This cannot be allowed to continue as it has for these many long centuries. We must be strong, stronger than we have ever been. Was that not why we unified? To become stronger by aiding each other?</p> <p>The time for division is <em>past</em>. We are brothers and sisters in faith, followers and servants of the same God. Why then do we fight amongst ourselves? Do you hold on to your old ways so tightly? Are you afraid to let go? In the desert, we were as children, and we spoke as children, and so God spoke to us in words that children knew, in ways that children could understand. Now, we have grown, and we see the world through older eyes. We are prepared for the truths of adulthood.</p> <p>We three children of Abraham were given the truth of God, but it was given to us each in our different way. For each of us it has been worn and wearied by ages and the fleeting memories of man. It has been stained by the powerful and the corrupt, who desire reinforcement of their own beliefs rather than the knowledge of the truth that those beliefs sprung from. Through these relics, we may not simply protect and keep them in due reverence and weaken dangerous beliefs, we may also discover that truth that we have lost. It should not be that one man may discover an item or a passage that supports his preferred way of thinking, and then he discards the rest. Instead, all relics that may be truly known as divine or related to the divine, even those that are challenging to our beliefs, must be considered.</p> <p>What we will discover will test us, and many of our number will retreat to the comfort of what we have been told that we know. Those who persevere will be shaken, broken, and reborn in glory.</p> <p>God spoke to humanity in the desert, and just now we are able to piece together His words.</p> <p>I hope that this message reaches wise ears, and if it does not, may it at least be the ears of an honest fool.</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="/epistula">Epistula</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/epistula">https://scpwiki.com/epistula</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 following message was intercepted by a Foundation Special Intelligence Team in September of 2012. The original source has yet to be identified.// To my Brothers and Sisters: Greetings, and the peace of God be with all of you. I have heard stories of disarray in our midst of late, and they have troubled me. This organization was meant to be a work of unity between our faiths, and yet we have begun falling back upon our old prejudices and ancient rivalries. Already we descend back into darkness and fear and fanaticism, running from the light of unifying truth. I hear of brothers fighting against brothers, of sabotage and lies, and worse, a brother sent to a pointless death in the hands of a group that is not even our enemy. Have we already stooped so low to become like the followers of the Machine, to spray our innards at the slightest provocation in so-called service to God? Am I to believe that we are no better than the fanatics? This madness cannot be allowed to continue. A fractured organization is no organization at all: rather, it is a horde of competing factions, too busy trying to wring the neck of their brothers to notice the enemy at their door. This cannot be allowed to continue as it has for these many long centuries. We must be strong, stronger than we have ever been. Was that not why we unified? To become stronger by aiding each other? The time for division is //past//. We are brothers and sisters in faith, followers and servants of the same God. Why then do we fight amongst ourselves? Do you hold on to your old ways so tightly? Are you afraid to let go? In the desert, we were as children, and we spoke as children, and so God spoke to us in words that children knew, in ways that children could understand. Now, we have grown, and we see the world through older eyes. We are prepared for the truths of adulthood. We three children of Abraham were given the truth of God, but it was given to us each in our different way. For each of us it has been worn and wearied by ages and the fleeting memories of man. It has been stained by the powerful and the corrupt, who desire reinforcement of their own beliefs rather than the knowledge of the truth that those beliefs sprung from. Through these relics, we may not simply protect and keep them in due reverence and weaken dangerous beliefs, we may also discover that truth that we have lost. It should not be that one man may discover an item or a passage that supports his preferred way of thinking, and then he discards the rest. Instead, all relics that may be truly known as divine or related to the divine, even those that are challenging to our beliefs, must be considered. What we will discover will test us, and many of our number will retreat to the comfort of what we have been told that we know. Those who persevere will be shaken, broken, and reborn in glory. God spoke to humanity in the desert, and just now we are able to piece together His words. I hope that this message reaches wise ears, and if it does not, may it at least be the ears of an honest fool. [[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>]]	2012-09-11T13:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "horizon-initiative", "religious-fiction", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	Epistula - SCP Foundation	32	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14274217	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/epistula
experiments-of-paper-part-1	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>*Author's note- written dialogue is follows: <em>Cassy</em> [Fred] {Dr. Ax}</p> <p>Dr. Ax walked out of the break room with some coffee and his new assignment. He dreaded it. Of all the days to be given his first assignment, it had to be today. He stumbled as another round of artillery fire rocked the building; SCP-████ was rampaging in the parking lot. 705 had been on the loose since the night before, and as of 8:00 a.m. had claimed an espresso machine, annoying most of the staff. And to top it off he had to go find 423 before he could use it. Someone brought the journal out of containment and left him on a door name plate.</p> <p>But at least he was working with a safe one. He hoped.</p> <p>"I need more sleep," he declared.</p> <p>He entered 085's containment room and sat down. The girl was in a pond setting, sitting on a dock.</p> <p>{Hello Cassy.}</p> <p>She looked up out of the paper. <em>Hello.</em></p> <p>{If you're ready, we're going to do some tests to gauge how you interact with various external things.}</p> <p><em>Does it include fire?</em></p> <p>He looked up in surprise. {No, what made you think of that?}</p> <p><em>Nothing.</em></p> <p>{Well then, moving on…our first test was going to interact with another SCP, number 423 to be exact.}</p> <p><em>I've never heard of that one</em></p> <p>{He…<em>It</em>…is quite interesting.} Ax wrote, flipping open 423's journal. {Listen, the higher ups are already pissed that you ended up on that sign. No monkey business.}</p> <p>After a second, the journal came alive with scribbling sounds. [You think I wanted to be up there? And besides, isn't the latter Dr. Bright's job?]</p> <p>Ax sighed. As if talking to humans was annoying enough. {I'm going to ignore that. Prepare for transfer}</p> <p>[You sound like this is Star Trek]</p> <p>The frustrated researcher rolled his eyes, then went back to 85's page. He had spent 2 days thinking of how to convert them-423 can't exist without text, and drawn humans, even if they were affected by Fred, don't come alive to Cassy. Then it hit him. He sketched a notebook and pencil onto the dock, then laid her page on the journal.</p> <p>Nothing changed.</p> <p>{…Try picking up the notebook} he wrote in the sky. She did so.</p> <p><em>Should I write in it?</em></p> <p>{Yes….try Hi.} She picked up the pencil and wrote. The researcher smirked as her inked eyebrows jumped. 423 must have responded. Ax was still unnerved himself by some of these things. He swore those eye pods blinked at him once, despite the documentation on them.</p> <p>Cassy wrote back, and waited. Then wrote again. This continued, and in the meantime the doc realized he had a problem-he had no idea what was being said.</p> <p>"Son of a…" he cursed. Then he thought of something. He looked at a security guard. "Hey, you know those text magnifiers?"</p> <p>"Yea…" The guard jumped, startled. The white coats never spoke to him, unless it involved something trying to kill someone.</p> <p>"Can you get me the schematics of one? Preferably with a 360<sup>o</sup> reading screen?" the doctor asked excitedly.</p> <p>"Um…sure…" came the uneasy response. The guard radioed to the site library-they had 4 of those things, surely there had to be a diagram somewhere in there.</p> <p>Ax turned back to the pond, nervous. He wanted them to stop until he could monitor, but he didn't want to risk 423 becoming silent. Sweat pooled on his brow. His higher-ups were doubtful that his tests would even work, never mind yield feasible results. But somehow he convinced them. The building shook again, and footsteps ran past the room. Ax looked at a junior researcher next to him. "Even you and I know that thing isn't allowed near the fuel supply, you'd think they would have lured it the other way."</p> <p>The junior researcher shrugged, then lost her balance and fell as the floor rocked from a massive explosion. Even Cassy looked up, and Fred's journal revealed a question. [ The fuck was that?] he scribbled.</p> <p>Ax sighed. {I don’t think I want to know. And watch your language.}</p> <p>[Sorry.]</p> <p>Ax sighed as the guard handed him the paper he desired. "Hey, tha…why the hell is this greasy?"</p> <p>"Six foot man eating chicken," came the reply, as calm and straight faced as the time of day.</p> <p>…Maybe this <span style="text-decoration: underline;">was</span> too weird a place to work.</p> <p>At any rate, Ax read the blueprint. "Perfect," he whispered. If he drew it right, with some slight modifications….</p> <p>Bingo. As Cassy sat down to write under a light, she brought the chair, and attached machine to life. Above her, the camera magnified what was being written so Ax could read it. He had guessed correctly-With a journal inside the picture, 423 would be able to reside in it and communicate with the picture.</p> <p>"Incredible…" the researcher muttered. The specimens were comparing their lives, discussing staff they liked or disliked, describing life in 2 dimensions. It was as if they were members of a support group, having a transparency never described between SCPs before. This continued for 20 minutes, until 423 offered to "show her around," [I know some great novels to explore, and the maps show this place is huge! Lots of hiding spots.]</p> <p>"Ah no you don't…" Ax quickly grabbed a pen {Ahem, I’ve just been informed that 423 is needed back for testing, if you please.}</p> <p>Cassy blushed in surprise, then wrote a farewell. 423 returned to his journal.<br/> [Hey that was great! Thanks for introducing us, I think I could get used to her.]</p> <p>{Easy there cowboy, I don’t know if O5s would let you back if they could read your mind}</p> <p>[Oh and you can?]</p> <p>{I can guess well enough…and how did you get access to maps?}</p> <p>[Some lab tech got lost, guard pulled a map. I hopped on and read it.]</p> <p>[I think you’re trying to get me fired] Ax sighed, ignoring the screeching metal and explosions. Turning to the guard, he held out the journal. "Take 423 back to his unit, will you?"</p> <p>"Can't," came the reply, "Old big and scary out there smashed a hallway, place is on level 1 lock down until he's contained."</p> <p>Ax just stared, then flipped the notebook on his desk. "Great, just great."</p> <p>[Ouch.]</p> <p>He turned around back to the desk.</p> <p>{Shut up.}</p> <p>[Level 1 lock down? What's that?]</p> <p>Ax groaned. Might as well tell him, from the sound of it he was going to be here awhile. {Means continue what you were doing just don't enter the halls.}</p> <p>[Sounds good!]</p> <p>{You're staying there while I work with 85}</p> <p>[Can't I watch? The library's in bldg. 4 and I got nothing to read. And her name's Cassy.]</p> <p>Ax threw up a hand in frustration. {FINE. But you're staying on a sign.} He went to 085's sheet and drew a billboard. He then laid the journal on the sign.</p> <p>[Check out the view!]</p> <p>Ax ignored him, and with one hand opening a folder, wrote with the other. {Now, Cassy, on with the next test. Do you like dolls?…}</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="/experiments-of-paper-part-1">Experiments of Paper, Part 1</a>" by axslayer33, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/experiments-of-paper-part-1">https://scpwiki.com/experiments-of-paper-part-1</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]] [[/>]] *Author's note- written dialogue is follows: //Cassy// [Fred] {Dr. Ax} Dr. Ax walked out of the break room with some coffee and his new assignment. He dreaded it. Of all the days to be given his first assignment, it had to be today. He stumbled as another round of artillery fire rocked the building; SCP-████ was rampaging in the parking lot. 705 had been on the loose since the night before, and as of 8:00 a.m. had claimed an espresso machine, annoying most of the staff. And to top it off he had to go find 423 before he could use it. Someone brought the journal out of containment and left him on a door name plate. But at least he was working with a safe one. He hoped. "I need more sleep," he declared. He entered 085's containment room and sat down. The girl was in a pond setting, sitting on a dock. {Hello Cassy.} She looked up out of the paper. //Hello.// {If you're ready, we're going to do some tests to gauge how you interact with various external things.} //Does it include fire?// He looked up in surprise. {No, what made you think of that?} //Nothing.// {Well then, moving on...our first test was going to interact with another SCP, number 423 to be exact.} //I've never heard of that one// {He...//It//...is quite interesting.} Ax wrote, flipping open 423's journal. {Listen, the higher ups are already pissed that you ended up on that sign. No monkey business.} After a second, the journal came alive with scribbling sounds. [You think I wanted to be up there? And besides, isn't the latter Dr. Bright's job?] Ax sighed. As if talking to humans was annoying enough. {I'm going to ignore that. Prepare for transfer} [You sound like this is Star Trek] The frustrated researcher rolled his eyes, then went back to 85's page. He had spent 2 days thinking of how to convert them-423 can't exist without text, and drawn humans, even if they were affected by Fred, don't come alive to Cassy. Then it hit him. He sketched a notebook and pencil onto the dock, then laid her page on the journal. Nothing changed. {...Try picking up the notebook} he wrote in the sky. She did so. //Should I write in it?// {Yes....try Hi.} She picked up the pencil and wrote. The researcher smirked as her inked eyebrows jumped. 423 must have responded. Ax was still unnerved himself by some of these things. He swore those eye pods blinked at him once, despite the documentation on them. Cassy wrote back, and waited. Then wrote again. This continued, and in the meantime the doc realized he had a problem-he had no idea what was being said. "Son of a..." he cursed. Then he thought of something. He looked at a security guard. "Hey, you know those text magnifiers?" "Yea..." The guard jumped, startled. The white coats never spoke to him, unless it involved something trying to kill someone. "Can you get me the schematics of one? Preferably with a 360^^o^^ reading screen?" the doctor asked excitedly. "Um...sure..." came the uneasy response. The guard radioed to the site library-they had 4 of those things, surely there had to be a diagram somewhere in there. Ax turned back to the pond, nervous. He wanted them to stop until he could monitor, but he didn't want to risk 423 becoming silent. Sweat pooled on his brow. His higher-ups were doubtful that his tests would even work, never mind yield feasible results. But somehow he convinced them. The building shook again, and footsteps ran past the room. Ax looked at a junior researcher next to him. "Even you and I know that thing isn't allowed near the fuel supply, you'd think they would have lured it the other way." The junior researcher shrugged, then lost her balance and fell as the floor rocked from a massive explosion. Even Cassy looked up, and Fred's journal revealed a question. [ The fuck was that?] he scribbled. Ax sighed. {I don’t think I want to know. And watch your language.} [Sorry.] Ax sighed as the guard handed him the paper he desired. "Hey, tha...why the hell is this greasy?" "Six foot man eating chicken," came the reply, as calm and straight faced as the time of day. ...Maybe this __was__ too weird a place to work. At any rate, Ax read the blueprint. "Perfect," he whispered. If he drew it right, with some slight modifications.... Bingo. As Cassy sat down to write under a light, she brought the chair, and attached machine to life. Above her, the camera magnified what was being written so Ax could read it. He had guessed correctly-With a journal inside the picture, 423 would be able to reside in it and communicate with the picture. "Incredible..." the researcher muttered. The specimens were comparing their lives, discussing staff they liked or disliked, describing life in 2 dimensions. It was as if they were members of a support group, having a transparency never described between SCPs before. This continued for 20 minutes, until 423 offered to "show her around," [I know some great novels to explore, and the maps show this place is huge! Lots of hiding spots.] "Ah no you don't..." Ax quickly grabbed a pen {Ahem, I’ve just been informed that 423 is needed back for testing, if you please.} Cassy blushed in surprise, then wrote a farewell. 423 returned to his journal. [Hey that was great! Thanks for introducing us, I think I could get used to her.] {Easy there cowboy, I don’t know if O5s would let you back if they could read your mind} [Oh and you can?] {I can guess well enough...and how did you get access to maps?} [Some lab tech got lost, guard pulled a map. I hopped on and read it.] [I think you’re trying to get me fired] Ax sighed, ignoring the screeching metal and explosions. Turning to the guard, he held out the journal. "Take 423 back to his unit, will you?" "Can't," came the reply, "Old big and scary out there smashed a hallway, place is on level 1 lock down until he's contained." Ax just stared, then flipped the notebook on his desk. "Great, just great." [Ouch.] He turned around back to the desk. {Shut up.} [Level 1 lock down? What's that?] Ax groaned. Might as well tell him, from the sound of it he was going to be here awhile. {Means continue what you were doing just don't enter the halls.} [Sounds good!] {You're staying there while I work with 85} [Can't I watch? The library's in bldg. 4 and I got nothing to read. And her name's Cassy.] Ax threw up a hand in frustration. {FINE. But you're staying on a sign.} He went to 085's sheet and drew a billboard. He then laid the journal on the sign. [Check out the view!] Ax ignored him, and with one hand opening a folder, wrote with the other. {Now, Cassy, on with the next test. Do you like dolls?...} [[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>]]	2012-04-01T22:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "fred", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Experiments of Paper, Part 1 - SCP Foundation	21	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13075121	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/experiments-of-paper-part-1

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