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- Table of Contents
- Trial Of The Dragon
- Brain
- Monkey Business
- Skippy Peanutbutter Man Lights the Fuse
- Hillary Clinton is Outside Your Window
- Osseosexual
- GRU-P Format
- Send in the Clowns
- Silicaworld
- Kill All Humans
- Perfect Gödel Metric
- Atlantis of the Sands
- Lord Blackwood's Slumber Party
- T-Minus broken masquerade???
- Don't Think About It
- Reboot 3: The Search for Reboot 2
- Coldpost Copypasta
- Notes
- SF Jones
- terminal velocity original
- This Gun Turns People into Ducks
- KYS
- Complete Domination
- King Crimson
- Jekeled's Back Alley Tale
SCP Sandbox
Supersized Project Sandbox
Contest Entry Sandbox
Tales Sandbox
Series Sandbox
Fancy Sandbox
You Are Here
Third Law sandbox
RED: #FF5050
YELLOW: #FFFF99
GREEN: #99FF99
BLUE: #00FFFF
Rukmini Mahakali was supposed to have melted the cursed panty sword down two weeks ago, but hadn't. Definitely not because she was fucking lazy. No, it was because the sword telepathically moaned at her when someone gripped it. Made for a useful alarm.
Except the alarm was getting fainter. Someone, she realized even as she flopped off the couch onto a pile of pale ale cans, was stealing her sword. Nobody stole her shit and got away with it!
Rukmini scrambled to her feet, bashed her head against the coffee table (arousing the snore of the person still on it), and swiped for her party satchel. Rows of radular teeth brushed against her fingers and then receded as the satchel recognized her sweat and blood. A cheap gift from a fling in Hy-Brasil. Maybe she'd hit him up later?
Once she got her sword back. Rukmini reached into the satchel for a thin green vial of toxic lime fluid, then popped the stopper off with her thumb and threw back the heady concoction. Her hangover died in her hypothalamus as the world sharpened and the apartment came into focus. Crystal clear clarity came to Rukmini about her surroundings. The band: Futanari Titwhore Fiasco Two: Electric Boogaloo — the original members, resurrected after a tragic Marshall amplifier accident. The album: Can't Bury These Gays. The apartment: a mess of bodies, bottles, and blood.
Rukmini smashed through the old brownstone's window, hands crossed against her face. Hopefully the band would blame the damage on the other bitch. She rolled on the sidewalk, trusting the demon blood in her stomach to keep the glass out, and came up with eyes scanning for prey. There! Underneath the elevated rails, right down the street. Someone in a black Klan robe, Shimapan Masamune strapped to their hilt, racing away from her on a yellow moped. Her yellow moped.
Goddamnit.
The cultist turned, saw her, and gripped the samurai sword for reassurance. Its breathy gasp pierced painfully through Rukmini's brain. Figured this part of Backdoor Soho was full of cultists, she thought as she whacked her ear — it was full of ghosts. People killed in life by disease, bigotry, and capitalism, buildings and roads lost to gentrification, entire neighborhoods and railways condemned at the stroke of a pen. As new residents joined, the place kept expanding. You could lose an entire police force in the Ghost Quarter; rumor had it there were actual WWII Nazis trapped somewhere in downtown limbo.
Which made it the perfect hangout for street racing. Rukmini checked her phone quickly. Time: four PM. Street: one of the old Radio Rows. Perfect. Then the race would be happening right about —
Hot air blasted her in the face as gutted bike frames, taped onto barely shielded fission engines and held aloft by magic, rocketed past her. Everyone knew to stay off the Radio Rows in the afternoon. Three to five PM every day, bunches of motley artificers raced down the long occult streets in mini-suns held together by duct tape and literal magic. Most folks trying to steal them died of radiation poisoning or heatstroke. The unlucky thieves turned into skids at the speed of sound.
Rukmini was feeling lucky. She rummaged around her satchel and found two more vials. There were enough alcoholic firemages in Soho to need to be fireproof and enough of those guys were atomic physicists that she needed to be radproof too. She popped the stoppers and threw back her unholy shots, then dashed for the nearest stoplight.
The streetlight was cold against her hands. Puffs of thermally muted air buffeted Rukmini's sweater as she scaled it. Right as her hand gripped the plastic of the bulb cover, her nail chipped. Another thing to kill the sword-thief for.
There! A motorsun trailing the pack, right below her. Kid looked a bit short — probably a newbie, scared of putting his new star to the test. Going slow. That meant he'd survive the skid.
Rukmini raised herself onto the streetlight, crouching in preparation. All she'd have to do is drop — and then the kid switched lanes. She'd have to leap for it right now —
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: The Department of Psychoeugenics is responsible for executing SILVER MOON ATAXIA to combat SCP-XXXX. At this time, SILVER MOON ATAXIA is seeking pre-adolescent and adolescent test subjects due to their greater psychic potential, psychological malleability, and easier handling. Personnel with ethical qualms against SILVER MOON ATAXIA's use of children are encouraged to schedule an appointment with the Department of Psychoeugenics to experience a small-scale version of the impact SCP-XXXX will otherwise have on humanity. Personnel who retain their ethical qualms are encouraged to locate adult test subjects, but are advised that two adults are required to substitute for a single child subject.
Description: SCP-XXXX are a species of spaceborne parasites that feed on conscious thought. Although no instance of SCP-XXXX has been directly observed, their existence is deemed the most likely explanation for multiple interrelated psychic phenomena catalogued by Psionics Division, Oracular Division, and the Department of Xenosocial Affairs:
- Intermittent trances experienced by all members of Psionics Division, in which they describe elements of their problem-solving, imagination, language comprehension, and other consciously applied mental faculties being actively siphoned off by an unseen but malignant entity;
- Statistically significant predictions that conscious human thought will cease within the next 150 years and humanity will spontaneously undergo total cerebral death, derived independently through each of the Oracular Division's approved divination practices such the I Ching, peyote-induced trance, and cybernetic haruspicy;
- Periods of brain-death in Foundation oracles that do not correlate to necrosphere spelunking;
- Loss of contact with both friendly and hostile xenospecies in the noosphere, caused both by egress from the galaxy and apparent extinction;
Astronomical charting of the disappearance of other psychic sapient species indicates that SCP-XXXX will engage Earth at some point within the next one hundred and fifty years. The Department of Psychoeugenics has been formed as a merger of Psionics Division, Oracular Division, and the Bioengineering Division, with the goal of developing a defense mechanism against SCP-XXXX: codenamed SILVER MOON ATAXIA.
BACKGROUND ON SILVER MOON ATAXIA:
There are three known paradigms of combating psychic parasites:
- Shielding victims from or moving them out of range of psionic transmissions. The Foundation lacks the resources to construct a psionic cage that could encompass the Earth or transport all of humanity offplanet.
- Amplifying the psionic transmissions of a sacrifice to attract the parasites, then electrocuting the source while they are fed on, inducing a feedback loop that causes the parasites to explode in the noosphere. Due to the physical damage incurred by the brain, resuscitation of the subject is rare.
- Amplifying the psionic transmissions of a sacrifice to attract the parasites, then replacing the sacrifice once they experience cerebral death to perpetually keep the parasites engaged. This requires a steady source of psionics and is thus aggressively untenable.
OVERVIEW OF SILVER MOON ATAXIA:
- SILVER MOON ATAXIA draws upon advancements in tissue regeneration and psionic amplification to form a highly potent psionic entity, capable of attracting SCP-XXXX perpetually and withstanding repeated electrocution, with no other conscious thought except protecting humanity.
- Psionically capable subjects will be rendered quadriplegic through cervical fractures, rendering them wholly focused on mental stimulation and dependent on the Foundation for care.
- These subjects will be indoctrinated to the necessity of their role as humanity's protectors through a combination of memetic, psionic, chemical, and pseudoreligious treatments.
- Simultaneously, they will receive psionic training to interface with each other, forming a gestalt intelligence with a multiplicatively greater presence in the noosphere.
- A combination nootropic-stem-cell treatment will be applied to each subject, atrophying all parts of their body save their central nervous systems and rewiring their neurons to regenerate and continually regrow. All autonomic functions except brain functionality will be supplanted through mechanical means, and their skulls will be removed to ensure unrestricted brain growth.
There is a 74% chance that SILVER MOON ATAXIA will ensure the survival and relative comfort of humanity perpetually, and a 26% chance that it will fail catastrophically. However, the Ethics Committee has decided that the survival of humanity is worth the violation of human rights entailed by the project, as there is a 100% probability that inaction will render humanity extinct.
<Some_Potato>: A_Random_Day, I really don't know how to do it, but the issue is it's predictable
<Some_Potato>: It's just a couple ridiculous animal superheroes
<Some_Potato>: The concept could work, but you're treating this like a story instead of a joke
<Some_Potato>: A_Random_Day, you need to have a reversal of expectation
<Some_Potato>: Expecation is the death of comedy, and the draft played out as I expected
<kola>: ARD sorry, like make it vulgar
<kola>: So, like Deadpool pretending to be a kids show
Villain #: SCP-522912-J
Level of Evil: Heinous
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-522912-J is currently contained in the Super-Keter-Inescapable-Containment Cell, manned by MTF Omega- -7 "Two Days from Retirement". When If SCP-522912-J escapes the Cell, the Peanut Signal must be blasted from the rooftops. All bananas and banana-related objects must be secured within the Ultra-Thaumiel-Megamaxilon-Omega-Squared-Impenetrable Vault, which is to be labeled "NO BANANAS HERE".
Description: SCP-522912-J is the collective designation for a supervillain duo consisting of a hyperintelligent ape and its skeleton henchman.
SCP-522912-J-1 is an albino common chimpanzee (Pan troglodytes) named Dr. Chimpers1 with dramatically increased cognitive capabilities, the ability to speak, and a possible memetic effect that enables it to disguise itself as a person even when it should look nothing like one. It is blinded in one eye, suffers from severe megalomania and a possible inferiority complex, and is the only creature able to communicate with SCP-522912-J-2.
SCP-522912-J-1 spends its time devising elaborate plans to escape jail and steal the world's entire banana supply or cooking. Although it displays standard supervillain knowledge on fields and topics ranging from shaping TNT to convert the faces of Mount Rushmore into banana sculptures to hypnotizing children by presenting cognitohazards on television, SCP-522912-J-1's plans generally fail to factor in either some law of physics, logistics, or simply common sense (i.e. drilling into the Earth's core using nuclear missiles, lighting the moon on fire, or ransoming the sun for two billion bananas). As a result, its plans are usually thwarted by the heroic Skippy Peanutbutter Man.
SCP-522912-J-2 , is an animate, fossilized, partially-complete human skeleton of unknown race named Lenny2 that lacks a skull and some upper vertebrae. Although lacking all tissue necessary for motility, SCP-522912-J-2 is super strong, super fast, and super agile. If damaged, it will slowly regenerate over time. SCP-522912-J-2 can fully regenerate itself from a single bone within seventy-two hours.
SCP-522912-J-2 is highly protective of and loyal to SCP-522912-J-1, automatically defending it from all physical threats, attempting to remain in close proximity to it at all times, and carrying out all orders given from it. However, SCP-522912-J-2 displays negligible critical thinking skills, is easily confused and outwitted, and is generally amenable to all living things in its surroundings unless it feels that there is a threat to SCP-522912-J-1. These traits are exploited often by Skippy Peanutbutter Man.
Mayor O5-13 is awarding Skippy Peanutbutter Man his eleventeenth consecutive key to the city for thwarting Dr. Chimper's nefarious plots. Commissioner Seven stands nearby.
Mayor Thirteen: Peanutbutter Man, thank you yet again for rescuing us from the evil plots of Dr. Chimpers and his nefarious henchmen!
Dr. Chimpers is tied to a lamppost, while Lenny is chewing on a bone happily within a cage.
Chimpers: I'll get you next time, Skippy Peanutbutter Man! The world's bananas will yet be mine!Peanutbutter Man: Think again, Dr. Chimpers! Your plan to freeze the world and make a planet-sized banana split was on ice from the start!
Mayor Thirteen, Commissioner Seven, and Peanutbutter Man guffaw heartily at the family-friendly joke. Dr. Chimpers and the lamp-post are carted off to jail.
Peanutbutter Man: Again, Mayor Thirteen, thank you for this honor.
Mayor Thirteen: Please, Thirteen was my father's name. Call me O5. Let's get a photo with you and the brave Secretary Kent, who managed to escape and activate the Peanut Signal!
Peanutbutter Man: Actually, sir, I saw Bruce - er, Secretary Kent -, a few minutes ago. He saw me and ran into the bathroom.
Commissioner Seven:Every time he hears you're coming he has to take a potty break! Honestly, he's so… mild-mannered.
At this moment, Officer Derek Olt pipes up.
Officer D. Olt: You know, it's weird how we've never seen Skippy Peanutbutter Man and Bruce Kent together in the same room. Why's that, I wonder…
Commissioner Seven: Because Kent's a pussy.
The four burst into laughter again.
9:25 PM
Commissioner Seven: Blast! The evil Dr. Chimpers is at it again! He's broken out of containment and is threatening to extinguish the sun. Look at this video.
Commissioner Seven plays a video showing the evil mad scientist.
Dr. Chimpers: Good morning, it is I, the cunning and deadly genius Dr. Julius Chimpers. Listen very carefully, Nineteenth City. Unless my demands are met, I shall use this enormous fire extinguisher…
The camera moves behind Dr. Chimpers, panning to an outrageously huge fire extinguisher within what appears to be a volcano. A large skeleton, presumably Lenny, scales the extinguisher and adjusts the nozzle to point out of the volcano into the sky.Dr. Chimpers: To extinguish THE SUN ITSELF!
Chimpers laughs for six minutes and forty seconds. Meanwhile, Officer Runt and the commissioner discuss the situation.
Officer Runt: Morning? But it's 9:30 PM! Blast it! Where on earth could he be?! Commissioner, I think we need to call in Skippy Peanutbutter Man.
Commissioner Seven: Absolutely not. Peanutbutter Man is a vigilante, plain and simple. I trust MTF Omega- -7 to bring this evildoer to justice.
At this moment, all members of Negative Seven are seen currently tied up with their own underpants within the Super-Keter-Inescapable-Containment Cell. All members are wearing Wonder Woman tighty-whities. They are mocking each other for doing so.
Officer Runt: With all due respect, O5 Dash… Omega- -7 is better at guarding the mad monkey than catching him. Peanutbutter Man is plain and simple the best man for the job.
Commissioner Seven: I told you never to use my first name on the job, darn it!
Officer Runt: Peanutbutter Man can do this! He always does it! He's the only man with the intelligence to locate Chimpers by the video alone!
Dr. Chimpers: This fate can be averted, of course, if you follow my instructions very carefully. All I ask for… is SEVEN BILLION BANANAS delivered in UNMARKED PACKAGING to this address: 25 Volcano Way, Spooky Island, The Middle of the Pacific, PO Box 32323! Delivered by noon!
Commissioner Seven: Blast it! You're right, we don't have time to find him. Grr… Officer, activate the Peanut Signal. Secretary Kent, get me my coffee!
Kent: Sorry, sir, I reeeally need to go to the bathroom!
Kent rushes out of the room.
Commissioner Seven: Honestly, it's gotten so that just seeing Chimpers sends that boy into a tizzy. He's so… mild-mannered.
Kent rushes to the bathroom. However, it's not to drop a deuce. Instead, he peels away his shirt to reveal the peanut-colored spandex of a superhero. Indeed, young Bruce Kent is actually the alter-ego of Skippy Peanutbutter Man!
10:03 PM
The roof of the Nineteenth City Police Department. The Peanut-Signal lights up the sky, while Commisioner Seven and Officer Runt wait for the superhero.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: [Paragraphs explaining the procedures]
Description: SCP-XXXX refers to a phenomenon that only affects inhabited structures in extremely isolated or inhospitable locations.
During an occurrence of SCP-XXXX, instances of SCP-XXXX-A will will appear outside windows or other viewing ports of said structures, such that they can be viewed by numerous people within. Instances of SCP-XXXX-A resemble naked men, albeit with the heads of famous women from various periods of history. They do not move like normal humans, but ambulate with crustacean-like movements.
//The following instance of SCP-XXXX occurred on January 12, 1962, at Camp Century3. It appeared to a group of Army personnel as well as Dr. Yelnats, a Foundation representative visiting the base. //
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Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid (indicate which class)
Special Containment Procedures: Instances of SCP-XXXX-A are currently stored in Safe-class Containment Locker 128-B in Site-42. Mobile Task Force Lambda-19 ("Flapjacks") has been dispatched to locate instances of SCP-XXXX-B that appear and take them into custody. Instances of SCP-XXXX-B are to be kept in sterile humanoid containment cells, and interaction with these instances is to be performed in a sterile environment on par with modern ICUs. No substances containing calcium (see Document XXXX-A for a list) are to be brought into a cell containing an instance of SCP-XXXX-B.
Description: SCP-XXXX-A is the designation for a zipper, that when placed on the navel and rolled upwards to the neck, enables the user to extricate themselves from their entire integumentary system and most of their muscular system (with the exception of ligaments and joints), without blood loss, in a manner similar to removing an anorak and pants. Although their visceral organs, skeletal system, and other organ systems are wholly exposed, affected individuals (hereby termed SCP-XXXX-B) experience no adverse side effects. Instances of SCP-XXXX-B usually try to persuade people to use SCP-XXXX-A, but are pacifistic and do not make violent attempts at coercion, though they are extremely persistent. Persuasion attempts most commonly take the form of brochures, door-to-door salesmanship, timeshare sales pitches, and other such media.
**All instances of SCP-XXXX-B have certain benefits, such as the ability to take on the appearance of another instance by wearing their skin, (even when their anatomies are incompatible), and the apparent ability to dissolve into a source of calcium and reappear at another source any distance away. They subscribe to a fluid school of thought termed "Osseosexuality", which contains elements of various philosophies and religions such as Hinduism, agnosticism, and socialism. Although no two instances have expressed the exact same views, common themes involve the idea that gender is a mental construct, that living things are part of the same "Collective of Bone", and that all invertebrate organisms must be eliminated with extreme prejudice.
If an instance of SCP-XXXX-B is unable to convert a new instance within a certain amount of time, their non-osseous tissue will start decomposing and the majority of their abilities will disappear, although basic life functions and all cognitive functions remain unchanged. Instances claim that successful conversions will nullify and reverse the degradation.**
Addendum: Interactions with SCP-XXXX-B
//From 04/13/██ to 07/23/██ numerous instances of SCP-XXXX-B arrived at Dr. Venkatraman's house and interacted with him. Attached are //
SCP-XXXX-B: Good afternoon, Mr. Venkatraman! I can tell that you have urgent business to attend to, so I'll be brief. I don't want to sell you anything; I just want to talk. You must be feeling very stressed: it's clear that a lot of people depend on you every day, and that responsibility must be crushing. I just want to know; what's on your mind today?
Venkatraman: Er, is this some kind of promotional stunt?
SCP-XXXX-B: Oh, no no no! I'm serious. Think of me as a rubber duck. What's on your mind today?
Venkatraman: This is free? What are you doing this for? No strings attached? No catch?
SCP-XXXX-B: I'd like to think I have more integrity than that. This is simply being neighborly. There must be something eating away at you. Why not let others know? It's not weakness to ask for help.
Venkatraman: Well, uh, thank you, but I'm not interested.
SCP-XXXX-B: That's a shame. Alright, thank you for your time!
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Operation: 1343-TUNGUSKA CURRENT FILE
Analysis: 1343-TUNGUSKA is an ongoing operation to retrieve the сила, an abandoned Soviet spacecraft currently in orbit around Jupiter's moon Callisto, and recover the anomalous technology within. The 134th Spetsnaz Division has been assigned to recover the сила. To assist in their mission, the 134th has been equipped with directed-energy pulse weaponry as well as OZK-modified EVA suits intended for untethered spacewalks. Their objective is to clear out any hostiles onboard, reactivate the FTL systems on the сила, and steer it to Landing Base Gamma.
Background:
The сила was the first true interstellar-capable vessel created by any organization, but its existence was kept a secret due to political concerns by the Division. The сила was initially conceived in 1936 via information from the psychic branch of the ЧД АКН. Detailed documentation about the schematics of the vessel is heavily classified and currently being recovered, but it is known that the station was powered by a reactor utilizing an unknown radioactive object described as "the heart of a зверь". In addition, by utilizing anomalous technology captured from the Foundation, the сила was able to enter faster-than-light travel while comfortably sustaining up to 100 crewmen indefinitely. Division S developed the first computers in the world that used transistor technology, which were used to control the spacecraft so that it could be manned by a skeleton crew.
Eight cosmonauts, Alexei Ledowsky, Ivan Kachur, Vladimir Komarov, Gennady Zavadovsky, Vladislav Volkov, Georgiy Dobrovolsky, Viktor Patsayev, and Valentin Bondarenko, were assigned to and trained to operate the сила. Although they were assigned to other flights, publicly, in some cases, they were replaced by dissidents who were then terminated and expunged from records.
Upon completion in 1968, the сила's first mission was to investigate an anomaly on the surface of Callisto. It was initially launched from a classified Russian site within the Tunguska crater in Krasnoyarsk Krai, and engaged the FTL systems immediately upon entering the upper atmosphere. It is currently unknown how the launch was concealed from American spy satellites. Post-launch investigation postulates that the сила briefly traveled back in time due to the activation of said systems, so that its launch occurred before the existence of orbiting satellites. Upon automatic deactivation of the FTL systems, the сила entered orbit around Callisto in 1968.
Item #: SCP-2480
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures:Investigation is currently ongoing as to the origins of SCP-2480. Negative depictions of clowns are to be seeded into all forms of popular media. Mobile Task Force Iota-19 ("All the King's Men") has been formed to investigate all Fossor events and capture an instance of SCP-2480-1 if possible. SCP-2480 witnesses are to be given Class B Amnestics. Instances of SCP-2480-1 are to remain undisturbed until a Fossor event has concluded.
Description: SCP-2480 refers a global phenomenon that affects all towns that either host or have previously hosted a circus event with clowns. SCP-2480 appears specifically to children, and varies depending on their perception of clowns. Depending on the child's perception of clowns, SCP-2480 will appear either as a person with exaggerated facial features
<Eskobar>: I would really recommend figuring out what components of the information about this world are really and truly necessary and sticking the rest either into supplements or collapsibles, because what's there is a /lot/ for a reader to take in.
<Eskobar>: Also, you need (if you don't already have one) some idea of how this thing formed, how /long/ it's been around, and — and here's the important part — if air is passing back and forth through this thing.
<Eskobar>: Animals are getting through, I guess plants are getting through, but there should be a major wind current going here to bring the O2 and CO2 levels to equilibrium. By which I mean, poisoning our atmosphere with greenhouse pollutants.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is currently in the possession of ██████ █████████ █████████, a Foundation front company. SCP-XXXX is contained behind a 3 meter barbed wire fence that spans its length. Outpost-57 has been established on this side of SCP-XXXX to monitor SCP-XXXX-Alpha. Outpost-58 has been established on SCP-XXXX-Alpha to investigate and catalogue all features of SCP-XXXX-Alpha, help prevent organisms from crossing through SCP-XXXX, and act as a backup site for critical data.
Civilians are to be turned away from SCP-XXXX, using Cover Story 43 (Critically Endangered Species Preserve). In the event that a civilian enters SCP-XXXX-Alpha, they are to be given Class-A amnestics and returned to Outpost-57. In the event that civilian retrieval be impossible or the civilian is killed, Cover Story 196 (Shark Attack) is to be used to cover up the disappearance. Any organism that crosses over from SCP-XXXX-Alpha is to be immediately captured or killed using gunfire or sedatives (refer to Document SCP-XXXX-Alpha-2 for more information). Specimens should be transferred to Biological Research Area-12 for cryogenic storage.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a two-dimensional elliptical space-time aperture located in [REDACTED], with an area of 144 square meters. Although SCP-XXXX is invisible and intangible, it is possible to enter SCP-XXXX. Although subjects do not sense any changes upon entering SCP-XXXX, they are immediately transported to SCP-XXXX-Alpha.
USE PERCENTAGES FOR ATMOSPHERIC COMPOSITION
It's really too generalized.
<Deleterious>: It needs to be more catalogued, if you will.
<A_Random_Day>: Alright, more speciic
<A_Random_Day>: Thanks
<BlackWing>: Underground oceans
<A_Random_Day>: Exactly what would you suggest I specify
<Silber>: morning
<Deleterious>: Something like "thus far, researches have detected the presence of no less than five (5) aqueous salt lakes in the initial 1,000 sq km that encompass the entry point".
<Deleterious>: Or something to that effect.
<Deleterious>: It fleshes out the world a bit
<Deleterious>: Also, it's more scientific.
SCP-XXXX-Alpha is a desert world comprised primarily of land with limited water sources. Its atmosphere is similar to Earth's (78% nitrogen, 15% oxygen, 4% carbon dioxide, 4% trace amounts of other gases) . Various seas and lakes dot the planet. Although typically freshwater, portions of these water sources are salt water as well. These salt- and fresh-water areas are often contiguous with each other and should mix, but appear to be separated by an as-yet unidentified barrier. Seas are also separated by islands, thin land bridges, or small ice sheets. These islands and land bridges are typically composed of extremely fertile soil populated by microorganisms functionally similar to Earth unicellular life, but devoid of multicellular flora. SCP-XXXX-Alpha's sun appears to be a G-type main sequence star. Two major seas and three major deserts have been identified. Exploration and mapping of the remainder of the planet is ongoing (for a full atlas and maps, see Document SCP-XXXX-Alpha-1).
Because it is mostly land, SCP-XXXX-Alpha is subject to climates and phenomena such as heat lightning and dust hurricanes. The hydrosphere is primarily inhabited by amphibious organisms that display similarities to terrestrial desert lizards and fish, such as gills and tough, scaly skin. Fish, arthropods, and plankton that display similarities to terrestrial organisms have been observed thriving in SCP-XXXX-Alpha's hydrosphere, being preyed on by the local fauna. Very little flora exists, all of it in the hydrosphere. The flora observed primarily resemble yellow water lilies (Nuphar lutea) and algae, being of comparable size to their terrestrial analogues. However, some carnivorous plants that resemble Venus flytraps (Dionaea muscipula) and cobra lilies (Darlingtonia californica) have been observed in swamps and on beaches, preying on fish and arthropods.
The lithosphere of SCP-XXXX-Alpha is home to organisms that display few similarities to Earth organisms. These organisms appear to have evolved over an extremely short time into organisms that cannot be easily classified into traditional phyla, only sharing similarities with annelids and arthropods. The majority of these organisms are carnivorous, owing to the lack of fauna in the terrestrial biosphere; however, some terrestrial organisms have also developed photosynthetic and chemosynthetic capabilities. Many of these organisms reproduce asexually, in contrast to the aquatic organisms, which primarily reproduce sexually.
Because of the location of SCP-XXXX, there are several documented incidents of aquatic and terrestrial SCP-XXXX-Alpha organisms entering into primary Earth. Organisms that cross over must be captured or terminated as soon as possible. Tranquilizer weapons are ineffective due to the tough skin inherent to most organisms. In the majority of cases gunfire or gaseous sedatives must be used to terminate or incapacitate specimens (For a full list of catalogued organisms and sedatives appropriate them, see Document SCP-XXXX-Alpha-2).
Underwater ROV reconnaissance of the Tethys Ocean has revealed the presence of what appear to be artificial structures buried at the seafloor. Areas that house these structures are heavily polluted and radioactive. Dr. S████ has requested resources for a manned exploration of the Tethys Ocean.
Following the initial containment of SCP-XXXX, Mobile Task Force Gamma-4 "Bunny Hoppers" investigated and entered SCP-XXXX. Upon exiting into SCP-XXXX-Alpha, MTF Gamma-4 encountered a Foundation vessel, the SCPS Cetus, that was beached ███ kilometers from SCP-XXXX. Although the vessel was in good condition, investigation revealed that the majority of its passengers had died either from starvation, thirst, or self-inflicted wounds. SCP-XXXX-Alpha organisms had taken residence within the Cetus, and caused heavy damage to the ship's infrastructure. While the majority of the ship's data was unrecoverable due to the degradation of computer systems, the following document was retrieved in its current state along with other remnants of information from the Cetus:
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe Euclid KeterSpecial Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is currently in the possession of > ██████ █████████ █████████, a Foundation front company. SCP-XXXX is contained behind a 3 meter barbed wire fence that spans its length. Outpost-57 has been established at SCP-XXXX to monitor SCP-XXXX-Alpha. Outpost-58 has been established at SCP-XXXX-Alpha to investigate and catalogue all features of SCP-XXXX-Alpha, help prevent Epsilon events, and act as a backup site for [DATA CORRUPTED] killed, Cover Story 196 (Serial Killer) is to be used to cover up the disappearance. Any organism that causes an Epsilon event is to be immediately captured or killed. Specimens s [DATA CORRUPTED] rch Area-12 for cryogenic storage.
Following Incident SCP-XXXX-2, all land within a 10-kilometer radius has been purchased by ██████ █████████ █████████ to aid in containment. Mobile Task Force Rho-17 "Bug Catchers" has been estab [DATA CORRUPTED] XX-3, Outpost-58 has been abandoned. Research is ongoing to halt the spread of SCP-XXXX.
Following Incident SCP-XXXX-4, all land within a 200-kilometer radius has been abandoned. Research is currently ongoing to halt the spread of SCP-XXXX.
Following Incident SCP-XXXX-5, [DATA EXPUNGED] has been abandoned. Containment efforts are focused on the capture and termination of all Epsilon organisms. Evacuation effort [DATA CORRUPTED] tious pathogen. Mass casualties reported. Sites [DATA CORRUPTED] considered lost.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a three-dimensional spherical space-time aperture located in [REDACTED]. It is approximately 289 cubic meters. Although SCP-XXXX is invisible and intangible, it is possible to enter SCP-XXXX and exit in SCP-XXXX-Alpha.SCP-XXXX-Alpha is a parallel Earth; however, it dis[DATA CORRUPTED]mes and new features. For example, the Pacific Desert bridges the Eurasian and North American Oceans.
Satellite launches from Outpost-57 indicate no differences between any other astronomical features in the SCP-XXXX-Alp [DATA CORRUPTED] locked, SCP-XXXX-Alpha is subject to unique climates and phenomena ranging from heat lightning, dust hurricanes, [REDACTED]. It also hosts a unique ecosystem.Although many unicellular organisms are the same on both SCP-XXXX-Alpha and Earth, there are significant ecological differences. No multicellular organisms from Earth have been located. The hydrosphere is primarily inhabited by amphibious organisms that display similarities to terrestrial de [DATA CORRUPTED] ere. The flora observed primarily resemble yellow water lilies (Nuphar lutea) and algae, being of comparable size to their terrestrial analogues. However, [DATA CORRUPTED] organisms entering into primary Earth have been recorded and classified as Epsilon events. Because these organisms have the potential to heavily disrupt the Earth's b [DATA CORRUPTED] aste that are located along the eastern edge of the North American Ocean and the far western edge of the Eurasian Ocean. In addition, various hydrospheric and lithospheric zones are populated by heavily mutated and anomalous organisms that display few to no characteristics with any other organisms in SCP-XXXX-Alpha or Earth, ins [DATA CORRUPTED] are the result of [DATA EXPUNGED].
Preliminary investigation into SCP-XXXX-Alpha indicates a maj [DATA CORRUPTED] served human and Earth animal remains can [DATA CORRUPTED] heaviest pollution. Dr. S████ has requested unmanned exploration of the Eurasian and African Oceans.
Incident Log SCP-XXXX-1: On ██/██/██, SCP-XXXX abruptly expanded into a 3-dimensional sphere. Following this, it grew [DATA CORRUPTED] inside the aperture no longer led to SCP-XXXX-Alpha; instead it was an area of ground on primary Earth that was affected by the lithospheric shift.
Incident Log SCP-XXXX-2: On ██/██/██, SCP-XXXX expanded exponentially to 7.29*10^8 cubic meters. All land within affected by lithospheric shift. Object class changed to Euclid. All land within 20 kilometers purchased by ██████ █████████ █████████ to aid in containment. Mobile Task Force Rho-17 "Bug Catchers" established to aid in containment of Epsilon events.
Incident Log SCP-XXXX-3: On ██/██/██, SCP-XXXX expanded exponentially to [DATA CORRUPTED] affected by lithospheric shift. All land within 150 kilometers of SCP-XXXX purchased by ██████ █████████ █████████ to aid in containment. Object redesignated Keter.
Incident Log SCP-XXXX-4: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Incident Log SCP-XXXX-5: [DATA CORRUPTED] All Foundation resources have been reassigned to recapture all escaped anomalies and assist in relief efforts following [DATA EXPUNGED]. At the current rate of expansion, SCP-XXXX-Alpha will fully encompass the planet within ██ days.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is currently contained within Site-345, at the bottom of Containment Shaft Delta-13. Once every twelve hours, a live cow is to be dropped into Containment Shaft Delta-13.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a 1.75 meter tall automaton. The top of SCP-XXXX contains thirty sensors magnetically suspended 10 centimeters above the central base in a rhombic triacontahedron pattern with a radius of 0.25 meters. Twelve of the sensors are non-anomalous and have had their functions and mechanisms identified (see Document SCP-XXXX-2 for further details), but the function and operating principles of the remaining eighteen sensors has yet to be discerned. Suspended within the rhombic triacontahedron is a device tentatively identified as a quantum computer, which serves as the primary CPU of SCP-XXXX, but appears to have been damaged by some kind of blunt impact. All attempts to separate the CPU from SCP-XXXX have failed.
The body of SCP-XXXX is a 1 meter tall cylinder 0.5 meters in diameter constructed of an unknown metal. The inside of the cylinder does not adhere to three-dimensional space, as SCP-XXXX uses the cylinder to store various attachments and arms that could not all fit into the space.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: The remains of SCP-XXXX-1 are currently in cryogenic storage at Site-42. The bag found with SCP-XXXX-1 is stored in a Level 1 security locker in Wing 345 of Site-42. The manuscripts found with SCP-XXXX-1 are stored in the Archive Wing of Site-42, with digital copies available upon request.
SCP-XXXX-3 is currently in the possession of the Site-42 Engineering Division for reverse-engineering. Digital copies of the documentation within SCP-XXXX-3 are located in the Archive Wing of Site-42. The Site-42 Engineering Division is currently collaborating with the Foundation Department of Temporal Anomalies to ensure normal progression of the timeline during this time.
Minor Task Force Iota-16 ("A Sight of Lightning") is instructed with combing historical records for potential indications of the late D-17263. For more information, see the current head of Iota-16.
Description: SCP-XXXX-1 refers to the remains of a 15-year old male of unknown ethnicity that were originally discovered in the Australian Outback 15 kilometers from the town of ██████. Analysis of the remains (which are approximately 550 years old) indicates damage consistent with ionizing radiation, blunt trauma, explosive decompression, and high-speed collision. A damaged leather bag containing several burnt manuscripts in an unknown language was found two meters from SCP-XXXX's remains.
SCP-XXXX-2 was a handheld apparatus found alongside SCP-XXXX's remains, that consists of a modified brass key-wind, key-set pocket watch consistent with 16th century European design. The pocket watch itself is non anomalous, but it contains technology far in advance of both 16th and 21st century knowledge: a miniaturized atomic clock powered by a high-efficiency beta voltaic cell (which contains an unknown, highly radioactive element) that is linked to what appears to be a quantum computer utilizing TFET transistors, and a [REDACTED].
The structures inside SCP-XXXX-2 cannot be studied at this time, but analysis of comparable structures (such as SCP-████) indicates that the quantum computer within utilizes the [REDACTED] to force an area of immediate, localized space-time to adhere to the solution of the Gödel metric4. The atomic clock is hypothesized to act as a calibration device.
SCP-XXXX-3 is a damaged tablet computer of unknown make. The damage to SCP-XXXX-3 is similar to that of SCP-XXXX-1, although SCP-XXXX-3 is still functional. The technology within SCP-XXXX-3 is non-anomalous, but consistent with projects currently in development by certain Foundation assets, specifically [REDACTED]. Operating under this assumption, the Site-42 Engineering Division was able to activate the computer and transfer the files to the Site-42 database. The files contained within the tablet are a mixture of archaic English and various unknown languages. Translation is ongoing.
Addendum: Incident XXXX-1:
On ██/██/██, D-14532 was testing SCP-XXXX-2 under the supervision of Dr. Ramakrishnan, seeking to discern how to operate the device. While testing, D-14532 dropped the object on accident. The device broke upon hitting the ground. D-14532 reported that SCP-XXXX-2 was sparking slightly and making a crackling sound before it, D-14532, and a portion of the testing chamber disappeared. Dr. Ramakrishnan was mostly unharmed, but had to be treated for minor temporal dysfunction (specifically, his excretory system began functioning in reverse).
current critique
Mango tree turns people into reality benders who built the city…
Item #: SCP-2790
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: The area within a 50 kilometer radius of SCP-2790 has been cordoned off and designated a no-fly zone under the pretext of a nuclear disposal facility.
Research on deactivating SCP-2790's power source is underway. Data regarding SCP-2790's technology is to remain classified to all Level-4 and below personnel. SCP-2790's coordinates must be scrubbed from all satellite images and replaced using Foundation webcrawlers LETHE 007-013.
Description: SCP-2790 is an abandoned city currently hovering approximately 3 kilometers above a sinkhole (2.5 kilometers above sea level) in the Rub' al Khali desert, and is currently ascending at the rate of 5 meters per day. Radiometric dating indicates that the city has been abandoned since at least 65,000 BCE, but its architecture incorporates elements of Late Pre-Classic Mesoamerican, Early Common Era Indian, [DATA EXPUNGED]. Presumably as a result of cooperation with [DATA EXPUNGED], the city possesses technology far in advance of modern standards.
SCP-2790 rests atop four cylindrical structures, each exactly 67.331 meters tall with a circumference of exactly 42.236 meters, which resemble enormous scramjet engines but are completely sealed. Radiometric imaging shows that each structure is completely hollow with the exception of a [DATA EXPUNGED], which appears to power both the engine and SCP-2790's infrastructure.
The buildings within SCP-2790 are arranged in a spiral pattern, with building height increasing closer to the center. The city's condition is random and inconsistent: some sections are perfectly preserved, while adjacent sections have been heavily damaged by environmental conditions over time and overrun by plants not classified in any known taxa5. It is populated by highly advanced robots, designed [DATA EXPUNGED]. None of the functioning robots respond to attempted interaction, focusing entirely on maintaining the areas they inhabit. All of the buildings of the city are decorated with murals, carvings, [DATA EXPUNGED] (which are only active in the north) in various states of wear.
Most of the surviving artwork in SCP-2790 depicts cephalopod organisms arriving in pillars of light to a primitive human tribe, creating and directing construction of the city's architecture and technology, and initiating a process of [DATA EXPUNGED] within the humans. Notably, all pieces that depict these cephalopods also depict an almost perfectly accurate model of the solar system complete with moons, albeit showing a smaller Earth, no asteroid belt, and extra planets between Mars and Jupiter and past Neptune. Other pictures show diagrams of the greater Milky Way as well as several neighboring galaxies, albeit with alterations to shape, size, or relative position.
•rumetzen>
the prose isn't particularly interesing or evocative
read some thomas ligotti if you can find him or henry james
Roget:
he should cross on a boat and have a bit of high seas adventure on the way to ireland
I mean it could just be one entry, I'd say just a short entry
The section of Blackwood checking out the inn [The last three paragraphs] is a bit long, the space might be better used doing more description of the town and introducing the other characters, although the content in them is good so it might be better to do a bit more about the overall town before getting there. Or add more on after. Give a better sense of the setting.
ARD:
I might add more in the beginning because the inn section is pretty crucial to establishing the mood of the piece as well as set up the major SCP conflict in the story
Roget:
not a bad start but a bit of a slow one
Tuomey:
I'm not sure why these people are scared of Sirens, rather than Banshees or Fairies in general
This is something you could expect of certain kinds of fairies
Will of the wisps (wills of the wisp?) come to mind
SCP-1867, SCP-870, SCP-966, SCP-939, SCP-524 cameo
Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, six kilometers north of town Liscannor.
HOW DOES BLACKWOOD GET ACROSS OCEAN
SKIP THAT NON-IRISH SHIT
January 17, 1894
Today has been a most curious affair. Not two hours after my audience with the Queen (and yet another near-fatal encounter with that blasted rabbit) did I receive a missive from a fellow who had vanished off the face of the Earth almost exactly five years ago today: my friend and colleague Sir Percival Karlsson, whom astute readers may recall from our time spent together in the French Foreign Legion. An odd name, but Percival has always been an odd fellow. I digress.
Apparently, Percival spent those years in self-imposed exile, quietly collecting all manner of fantastic specimens from across the globe; and now that his expeditions are concluded for the time being, he has invited me to come view the species he has collected at his estate on the cliffs of Moher, on the Irish coastline. His letter was delivered on bland, unmarked paper, disguising the florid writing within. In it, he described rolling Irish landscapes, exquisite Irish cooking, an outstanding clifftop view of the Atlantic, and a menagerie of beasts both horrific and intriguing. In particular, Percival boasted of having captured two undiscovered species that are not merely camouflaged, but entirely invisible to the naked eye.
Though the veracity of Percival's claims about the Irish culinary arts are… debatable, I have no such doubts regarding his captures and am eager to view them with my own eyes, so to speak. Having nearly suffered the indignity of being consumed by a rabbit, I suspect that I will need more than a few days off to regain my thirst for adventure. And what better way to rest than by visiting an old friend and admiring his new collection? I immediately sent off an acceptance missive and began making travel plans. Currently I plan to take the express to Liverpool, ride a ferry to Dublin, and from there ride the rails to Galway before taking a horse-and-carriage up to Percival's estate, near the town of Liscannor. If all goes well, I shall be on a train to Galway within the fortnight. I am eager to cast my eyes upon the beauty of Ireland; Percival writes of it as though it were an enormous Eden, and promises that Liscannor and the Cliffs of Moher will be the apex of Ireland's natural beauty.
January 28, 1894
More than anything else, dear reader, Liscannor is a dreary village. Far from the idyllic hamlet Percival's letter described, the town seems blanketed in a miasma of suspense, worse than the fog that already pervades it. When I arrived this evening at the Liscannor Inn, I was unceremoniously deposited in front, with barely a moment to retrieve my luggage from the stagecoach before the driver whipped his horses and fled as though hell-hounds were nipping at his heels. The inn itself was scarcely more than a cramped, dank hovel, with creaking floorboards and dingy rooms lit by barely a candle- though of course, dear reader, as a naturalist and explorer, I was unperturbed. The innkeeper was a stout Irishman, whose flattened, bald face, beady eyes, and slanted nostrils gave me - rather shamefully - the impression of a bipedal fish.
Though the innkeeper was initially more than genial enough to make up for the dismal state of his property, he immediately sealed his lips when I mentioned my desire to hire another driver to Percival's estate. Though I entreated with him to inform me of a tavern or other location where I could find such a driver, his only response was that I ask the driver to depart from Liscannor with great haste. My inquiries as to the reason were met with the words "Bean si". Nonetheless, I was able to rent a room from him, which was equally dingy. The fare was remarkably modest; the innkeeper's only stipulations were that I return to the inn before sundown and remain in my room all night. Though I found the request odd, I assumed it to be a town tradition, and decided to explore the village.
My first impression of Liscannor proper was that it had been abandoned in a great hurry. Though tools, toys, and other signs of habitation abounded, the men, women, and children of the town seemed nowhere in sight. A layer of mist blanketed everything, giving the town the air not so much of an idyllic glen, but the setting, perhaps, of a particularly gruesome penny dreadful. Scarcely so much as an insect crossed my path. Had I not already visited the inn, I truly would have believed the settlement was abandoned. Naturally, the question came to mind - what could drive an entire town to hide themselves in the middle of the day?
I decided to explore the harbor; in my experience, only a hurricane could keep the men of the sea away from their boats. Yet a hurricane must have transpired, for even the harbor, which I had read was a thriving hub of fishing and coal transport, was devoid of both men and birds. The harbor was crowded with empty vessels, bobbing as though their passengers had thrown themselves overboard.
Concerned now - not unnerved nor disconcerted, dear reader - that the town was observing some sort of holiday or ritual that I had missed in my research, I contemplated my options. I could visit the ruins of Liscannor Castle, Kilmacreehy Church, or perhaps St. Bridget's Well. Yet, something prevented me from doing so. The town was gripped by some kind of fervor for solitude. There was an uncanny stillness in the air: a silence that signified the total lack of life. I had felt this stillness only once before - while hunting a man-eating tiger in the thicket of the Chitwan jungle, moments before the tiger pounced and nearly rent me limb from limb.
Suddenly desirous of the company of others, I decided to seek out a tavern. Though I quickly found it, it was as bare as the rest of the town, much to my chagrin. Only a few stragglers remained, ostensibly quaffing what remained of their beverages before quickly departing. Though I would have assumed - and indeed, expected - that my arrival be met with suspicion if not interest, I daresay that with the exception of the innkeeper and perhaps bar, not a single soul in Liscannor even registered my arrival. The bartender, like the innkeeper, was a stout Irishman who resembled nothing more so than a fish on legs. Above all else, though, what most inspired trepidation was his unwillingness to gossip. No bartender on the face of God's earth is above telling tales - none except the man who stolidly poured me a drink and then refused to answer almost all of my queries regarding the town, its people, or the silence.
When I mentioned the 'bean si', however, his face took on an oily pallor, to the point that I could hardly have distinguished him from a snapper if I tried. Recognizing the face of a man with unwanted knowledge, I pressed my luck. A few judicious pounds sterling later, and the man admitted that it was possible to hear the cries of women and children from across the moor each night. Though more coins jangled in my pockets, he declared that it was closing time and demanded that I leave the establishment immediately.
With nothing left to do for the night, I decided to return to the inn. I arrived just as darkness was falling. Inside, the innkeeper hurriedly greeted me before demanding that I return to my room at once. As I settled in, preparing to change into my sleeping garments, a high-pitched wail echoed through the room, jolting me to my feet. I listened more carefully, assuming they were the cries the bartender had mentioned. Then the wails morphed into a child shrieking for help, in clear Irish. With great haste, I retrieved my equipment from my luggage and returned downstairs, determined to assist. There, in the foyer, I ran headfirst into the innkeeper, who immediately pointed his weapon at me.
I recognized the innkeeper's weapon as a rather modern Winchester Model 1886, a rifle more suited to shooting lions and polar bears than marauders. He recognized me just as quickly, though he refused to lower his weapon. The innkeeper declared that he knew I planned to investigate the screams, and as a man of God, he could not allow me to throw my life away. When I demanded an explanation, he offered the following tale:bean sis were wailing hags whose screams heralded the death of men, women, and children. Though bean sis usually merely heralded death, ever since Percival Karlsson had taken up residence in the estate upon the hill two decades prior, the creatures had begun stealing into the village. Whenever they were heard, a town resident would vanish in the night - and of the men who investigated the moors after dark, none had ever returned.
Though I was now keen to investigate this phenomenon, the innkeeper begged me to return to my room, offering to take me to Percival's estate himself in the morning if I would accede. I refused, citing my newfound interest in the phenomenon as a naturalist rather than would-be saviour. At this, the innkeeper declared that he would shoot me himself if I did not return to the room. Though I could have disarmed him and left, I saw a look in his eyes that forced me to acquiesce: it was the look of a man hellbent on salvation - but whether it was his or mine I could not tell. The innkeeper escorted me upstairs to my room, and then slammed the door shut as soon as I entered. I heard the tell-tale click of an outside latch, and then his footsteps receding. I cast about the room for another exit, but found that the walls to be solid rock without so much as a crack. With that, there was nothing left for the night but sleep - but who could sleep after such an event? Tomorrow, when I arrive at Percival's estate, I will ask him about it.
January 29, 1894
Contrary to the end of my last entry, dear reader, I did in fact achieve rest last night - a fitful rest, to be sure, but rest nonetheless. I awoke to find that the door to my room had been unlocked sometime in the night, and after refreshing myself, cautiously returned downstairs. The innkeeper waited behind the front desk, and gave me a bored look as though the events of the previous night had never transpired. He noted that breakfast was ready in the dining hall in the next room. I considered confronting him, but noticed the rifle propped against the wall beside him and decided against it, discretion being the better part of valor.
After finishing my breakfast, I decided to step outside for a moment and view the town in the fresh daylight. Imagine my surprise when I ran into a stagecoach waiting outside, the driver holding a sign with my name on it. He introduced himself as Casey, Percival Karlsson's coachman, and reported that he had been sent to Liscannor to pick me up. When I asked how he knew I had arrived, he responded that Percival had a knack for predicting his guests' arrival. Eager to leave Liscannor as soon as possible, I retrieved my luggage, paid off the innkeeper, and loaded it into the stagecoach. As we raced to the Karlsson estate, I asked Casey about the Sirens. He informed me that Liscannor was a pagan village, and as pagan communities are wont to do, had built a complex mythology around the local landscape; the keening sounds I had heard were the result of wind rushing through unique rock structures that the Liscannites had built. When I informed him of my meeting with the innkeeper the previous night, he responded that likely the innkeeper simply wished to dissuade me from investigating their heathen rituals. I was about to ask how he was privy to this information, and then the Karlsson estate appeared.
It was a grand, ancient domicile, built right on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher. Intriguingly, the overall shape of the estate was that of a bow of a ship. Though much of the estate resembled the Tower of London, the tip of the bow was a Gothic-style keep that seemed to brush against the sky itself. The estate seemed to be the ultimate fusion of Spanish and English architecture. Casey did not pause for even an instant, taking us directly into the main gate, where he deposited me in front of the keep with my luggage before riding off.
I stood there for a moment, taking in the massive building. With a great creaking, the doors of the keep slowly opened to reveal an older black man, who slowly approached. He introduced himself as Samson, Karlsson's valet, and offered to assist with my baggage. I gratefully took him up on his offer, and together we entered the estate.
The interior of Karlsson's estate was as lush and opulent as the exterior was sharp and grand. The walls were positively bursting with culture; massive floor-to-ceiling tapestries butted heads with enormous jade Incan masks and ornate Indian jewelry. The floor was smooth, pure white marble. thick, crimson carpet ran through the middle of the hall, branching off into side passages and up stairwells. I gazed at the fruits of Karlsson's adventures with admiration, feeling the throes of wanderlust already flare up.
I was so engrossed in my perusal of Karlsson's treasures that I nearly failed to notice Mr. Samson's plight. He had begun mumbling to himself in a strange language, that I initially assumed was some rural dialect of an African language. It was only when he dropped my luggage and began to howl that I realized his distress. I immediately rushed to Samson's side, but he feebly attempted to push me away, howling in broken Swahili about demons. Then Samson collapsed, still bellowing at the top of his lungs. It would have been almost comical to an outside observer, watching an Englishman cradle this broken African like a mother to her child. I knelt there for what seemed like hours but must have been only seconds, before I heard footsteps approach, and saw my old friend Percival Karlsson hurrying towards us. Normally I should have hurried to embrace him, but these were not normal circumstances. Percival approached, beckoned me to move aside, and injected a syringe into Samson's neck, immediately quieting him.
Moen>
**11:36 PM <Timetraveling>
11:21 PM <•TyGently>
1:54 AM <TwistedGears> it's… okay? it's prometheus fucking up yet a-fucking-gain, so personally I'd down vote it
1:56 AM <TwistedGears> like as much as you and gw are talking about this you don't seem to be doing anything to fix PL's problems
11:11 PM <•TwistedGears> short of outside interference causing this there's nothing you can do to correct that
11:30 PM <•TwistedGears> make it chaos insurgency
11:30 PM <•TwistedGears> do it
**11:09 PM <•GreenWolf>
**11:28 PM <•TyGently>
3:18 PM <BeardedPotato>
3:25 PM <ParaDLell>
11:39 PM <kola> It kinda is [too over-the-top]
11:39 PM <kola> like PL's version of LOLfoundation
11:40 PM <kola> theTrashman the premise is amusing enough for me to want to read more
11:41 PM <kola> It is just a little too early**
2:54 PM <GuardGoldman> I mean I can pick up the nervousness from the dialogue, but their actions being described might help set the scene.
10:56 PM <•TyGently> partially it may be that PL should well know their plan won't work because, you know
10:57 PM <•TyGently> the masquerade exists
10:59 PM <•TyGently> like, the inclusion of the other gois is a bit weird because in the first draft you had, the gois were learning something private, that was jeopardizing PL, and they were not supposed to know
11:00 PM <•TyGently> it was the punchline to a joke
11:02 PM <•TyGently> there is still some weird bits
11:02 PM <•TyGently> like when the tech guy starts gushing and never actually says what the proble is, just vehemently says it's not his fault
**10:52 PM <TL333s> it is amusing
10:55 PM <•Cimmerian> writing's pretty solid
10:54 PM <•Cimmerian> Bit underwhelming so far.
10:54 PM <•Cimmerian> building towards something interesting?**
11:26 PM <SunnyClockwork> but still second part saves it
[[/collapsible]]
11:59 PM <ARD> You recall how we were discussing what if 9JX was controlled by two AIs in tandem correct
11:59 PM <ARD> Well, if that were the case, then both AIs would be designed from conception to interface and interact with each other
11:59 PM <ARD> What if one of the AIs went dormant - the other wouldn't know how to react to the effective loss of half its brain
SEPTEMBER 1, 1998
T-MINUS TWELVE HOURS
The conference room lit up with a soothing, light blue sheen specifically chosen to reduce stress levels in human beings. None of the seven people sitting at the rocket-shaped conference table in the room's center felt less stressed.
From the prow of the table, Francis Schaeffer, VP of Prometheus Defense, began to speak.
"Alright everyone, thanks for coming in this morning. Let's cut to the chase then; I want to talk about Project Sunrise. As you know, we were planning to use the new combat-oriented Brattain dual intelligence, 9JXY-05, to pilot the PDCDS. Unfortunately, we've run into some difficulties and been forced to replace the primary combat intelligence, JX, with Lee Major - "
Gennady Zarkov, Prometheus Defense General Manager, cut in. "Why? JX was specifically designed to pilot the machine. I personally worked with Bard to develop its logic circuits."
"Cuthbert, you're the engineering director. Would you mind explaining why?" Schaeffer nimbly deflected the question.
Cuthbert Salazar, to Schaeffer's left, swallowed. "… Well, uh, sir, I'll try to keep it simple - "
"Please do."
" So, uh, I assume you're all familiar with the Brattain-model artificial intelligences… well, the standard protocol for training a Brat - a Brattain - is to let it teach itself, so to speak. We feed it huge volumes of data from all kinds of sources, and essentially teach it to simulate human thought processes: distinguish between fact and fiction, respond to dynamic events, et cetera, and generally make it a well-adjusted near-human intelligence. Books like The Art of War, The Feynman Lectures on Physics… the standard artificial intelligence orientation manuals, so to speak."
"Something went wrong with the process?" asked James Fielding, Director of Operations, sitting across from Salazar.
"Well, we can't give the AI all the information at once. Imagine if it thought that The Terminator was a documentary - that's only an extreme hypothetical, keep in mind!" Salazar frantically exclaimed. "To avoid this kind of hypothetical situation, we feed the Brat a slow drip of restricted information to teach it to distinguish fact from fiction. Then we give it unrestricted access to a specialized digital archive so that it can… teach itself. Unfortunately…" Salazar trailed off.
"Unfortunately?" Fielding pressed.
"Due to an access permissions error - which was patched thirty minutes ago - JX received access to the archive without actually learning to distinguish between fact and fiction… it may have read The Mourning Bride. Ever heard the saying, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?"
Salazar was met with silence, but continued stoically.
"We suspect that JX processed it and determined that acting like a… uh, how do I put this?"
"Just tell us," prodded Eleanor Beckett, Director of Business Development.
"It determined that acting like, well, a woman would make it a better fighter. So it polled a few of us asking what the most temperamental kind of woman was, and uh, since there are some parents on the team, we told it the answer was teenagers - as a joke, of course!" Salazar hastily mentioned.
Zarkov leaned forward. His cybernetic eye narrowed. "Are you saying that the Morphologically Adaptive Macroaggressive Nanorobotics Emergent Cluster Intelligence Mobile Continental Defensive System - that half of our five-billion-dollar war machine thinks it is Sabrina the Teenage Witch?"
"Well, not quite. JX is essentially mimicking several different fictional teenage girl archetypes - "
"Good lord," said Fielding and Bennett in unison.
"I mean, there is a silver lining," Salazar mumbled. "JY went through without an issue, and after JX reprogrammed its personality matrix, it did learn how to distinguish fiction and nonfiction, so that's good…"
Almost immediately he was barraged by an explosion of sound from the five people staring at him.
"How could asking about a woman's temperament not set off any kind of red flag ? Why would you even think to make jokes?" This interjection came from Susan Hannay, the other General Manager, whose palms were flattened against the table.
"Well - well - the whole point of a neural network is partially unpredicted outcomes!" Salazar defended. "We thought JX was still reading The Taming of the Shrew! Besides, we'd already gone through seven other AIs without a hitch! How were we supposed to know this would happen? I mean, yes we've seen these kinds of questions before, but only during the orientation phase! We didn't know something was wrong until it was too late! We can't read the AI's mind, just look at the console output! We didn't know JX actually accepted our answer until after it altered its personality matrix!"
"Hey, hey! Let's all calm down. Cuthbert, I'm sure Susan wasn't being accusative. Right, Susan?" Schaeffer didn't wait for an answer. "Cuthbert's team is going to pull JX out and reformat its personality matrix. We'll use Lee Major in tandem with JX for the demonstration tomorrow. The PDCDS has already been shut down and the techs are already ready to replace JX with Lee Major. The situation is well under control. "
"Will JY respond well to Lee's introduction?" Fielding asked. "JX and JY haven't been… separate since they went online."
Salazar nodded. "It'll be fine… Lee's architecture is similar to JX's. JY should barely notice."
Schaeffer stood up from the table and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "See? We're fine. In 12 hours, Sunrise will be back on track. 24, we'll have that defense contract. Unless someone decides to break into the base and blow up the PDCDS, we'll be fine."
Schaeffer chuckled. "So I hope there's no spies in the room. Loose lips sink ships."
SEPTEMBER 1, 1998
T-MINUS TEN HOURS
"…Urgent message, high priority, regarding Prometheus Defense Project Sunrise," read GOC Undersecretary D.C. al Fine…
"…the 9JXY combat intelligence is experiencing technical malfunctions regarding a prototype artificial intelligence matrix (origins unknown)," a Peregrine Systems Human Utility Droid replayed…
"…has developed the mindset of an adolescent female while in possession of a highly advanced modular weapons system," observed a thousand minds connected through the Maxwellist networks…
"… is being disassembled for memory formatting. Recommended course of action is to infiltrate the Prometheus Defense facility and recover the 9JX-05 before its unveiling tomorrow… " read O5-6…
"… Immediate action is suggested; no other parties currently know of this event. Discretion is strongly advised." the Delta Command Engineer transcribed.
SEPTEMBER 1, 1998
T-MINUS EIGHT HOURS
The Prometheus Laboratories Morphologically Adaptive Macroaggressive Nanorobotics Emergent Cluster Intelligence Mobile Continental Defensive System was a miracle of modern, postmodern, and transmodern scientific and engineering principles.
Before Vik killed everyone, he went for a swim.
The pool was pleasantly cool, and he basked in the warmth of the sun's rays. Once Vik had sufficiently sated his ectothermic tendencies, he swam to the ladder and pulled himself out, shivering from the sudden feeling of cold. He trotted into the locker room and started toweling his hair when he heard a voice coming towards him.
"… and I told him, no, the hooker herself was the SCP! Yeah yeah, yeah, I get what you're saying." Franklin entered the locker room, talking on his phone. He didn't notice Vik at first, which suited Vik fine since he was still buck naked. Luckily for both of them, Vik managed to put on his undershorts before Franklin snapped his phone closed. He glanced around the locker room and saw Vik.
Vik nodded.
Franklin slowly exploded.
It was a bit like watching a caterpillar burst from a cocoon. As Franklin's eyes rolled about and he emitted a low, undulating moan, his skin began to split at the seams. The spastic body slowly stretched and expanded, as if a balloon had inflated inside it. Bloody chunks of flesh flaked off, unable to stay attached to the expanding mass. The fatty mass began to bend inwards, subducting under itself and turning inside out. Franklin's sensory nerves slowly began to force their way out of his skin, poking out of his pores like guinea worms.
The slobbering, conical mass of flesh that used to be Franklin rattled out of the locker room, shuddering as its exposed nerves and organs walloped against the tile floor.
"Rude git," Vik muttered to himself, looking for his shirt and pants. Fumbling for his cell, he noticed that he'd been getting several calls from the lab tech. As he swiped his card to get out of the gym, he rang up the tech.
"It's Vikranth, what's happening?"
The other end of the line was quiet except for what sounded like muffled screaming and groaning.
"If this is some kind of prank, it's not funny," Vikranth grumbled.
FIVE HOURS LATER
Vikranth wandered through the site, enjoying his lunch break but wondering where everyone was. Ahead of him, a man was trying frantically to open a door.
"Let me in! PLEASE! I'm not infected! Pluh-pluh-please! I'm not infect -he- he-hected…." the man blubbered to the unresponsive door. His face blanched as he heard footsteps. "Don't look, don't look, don't look, don't look…"
"What's wrong?" Vikranth asked. He wasn't very good with emotions, but he felt that he had to do something.
The man screamed loudly, whilst pulling a bent paperclip out of his pocket and then jabbing it into his ears; clearly, Vikranth had come on a bit too strong. He resolved to re-read How to Win Friends and Influence People when he got home.
2602
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I browsed, weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious canon of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly moping, suddenly there came a posting
As of a newbie gently posting, posting SCP-2404
"Tis a new user," I muttered, "posting to the page amore."
"I'll delete it, and nothing more."
Presently the vote grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
"Sorry," said I, "weedkillerX420XXX, your skip will shortly be no more"
"But the fact is I was modding, and so quickly you came plodding"
"And so poorly you came trodding, trodding on our standards so"
"That I scarce was sure your skip would live to see the coming morn"
Here I opened up the post
"Deleted thread" and nothing more
But the newbie was unbroken, and his dumbness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “Post some more?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “No more!”—
" Poster!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! "
"By that Bright that bends above us—by that Clef we both adore—
"Tell this soul with sorrow modding if, your head is vaguely nodding,"
"because you plan to read the guides before you go and post some more— "
"Get feedback first and edit well, before you plan to post some more"
"Quoth the Newbie “Nevermore.”
" “Be that word our sign of banning, bird or newb!” I shrieked, upstarting—
"“Get thee back into the tempest of the Web’s Plutonian shore! "
" Leave no black plume as a token of that shit thy soul hath posted! "
"Leave my Recent Posts unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! "
"Take thy user from out my page, and take thy skip from off my door!” "
Quoth the newbie, “Nevermore.”
"And more newbies, never reading, still are shitting, still are shitting "
"Clogging up Most Recent Posts just above my chamber door; "
"Plans to kill six eighty-two in ways that all of us abhor"
"And the coldposts from that newbie that lies whining on the floor "
"Will be deleted—nevermore!"
KYS
•Decibelle> ill be honest
5:28 PM <•Decibelle> its an okay tale but
5:29 PM <•Decibelle> id rather our introduction to jed be through a tale focusing on her
5:29 PM <•Decibelle> rather than this sort of view
5:29 PM <•Decibelle> this could be like a second tale about her
5:31 PM <•Decibelle> like here, there are a few plot points and stuff that are sorta just thrown at us and tangled up without much in the way of coming together fully
5:31 PM <•Decibelle> why is guy cheapsake talking to the foundation? why is this story focusing on jed yet we still dont know much about her?
5:31 PM <ARD> Yeah, I was worried about that
5:31 PM <•Decibelle> the tale is a fine length for a singular article
5:31 PM <•Decibelle> but you have too many ideas and concepts for one
5:32 PM <•Decibelle> i think making this a series would be fine, and starting out with showing us what jed does and what shes up to and working from there would be better
5:32 PM <•Decibelle> and introducing guy into the overall story more naturally would help
5:33 PM <•Decibelle> it was sort of jarring
5:33 PM <•Decibelle> as a side note, this is the second trans girl who does anart on the site whos name starts with a j
5:35 PM <ARD> I think I've got enough material for at least three tales - one with Santosh and guy, one with Jed, and then one where they intersect
5:35 PM LilyAFK → Lily
5:35 PM <•Decibelle> i think making your first tale be with jed as the central protag is good
TL;DR
Too much material. Split it into three tales - one with Jed, one with Guy and Santosh, one with all three. KYS can be split into Guy/Santosh and TRIO. Guy/Santosh should take place on East Coast and end with interview. TRIO takes place mostly in Neo-Tokyo.
Need to write up a tale with Jed. Jed's tale should be structured a lot like MOONLIGHTING. Intersperse present action with backstory.
current plan: Present action consists of Jed putting together a bunch of half-finished prototypes of projects since she can't find the inspiration to finish any single one. Past action is Jed's childhood, college confrontation, time with AWCY, split with AWCY, meeting with Maxwellists, dunk tank transformation. End with Jed deciding to do something brand new: Choices, which leads to Guy and Santosh's tale.
TyGently> I have just now finished
11:53 PM <TyGently> and I concur with conwell on the flashbacks
11:53 PM <TyGently> all except the last are pretty tropey and frustratingly standard as far as trans narratives go
11:54 PM <•ARD> the art brainstorming and neo-tokyo parts I think have merit and can stand on their own
11:55 PM <TyGently> I'm also concerned about the current arc of the piece since it doesn't really seem like there's a full narrative here
11:55 PM <•ARD> damnation
11:56 PM <TyGently> idk about neo-tokyo because it doesn't seem to fully factor into her later brainstorming
11:56 PM <•ARD> TyGently: alright, now I think I know how I can salvage this piece
11:57 PM <•ARD> TyGently: I can strip the tropey backstory and focus more on Jed, Buster, and their time in neo-tokyo and how she tries to use the city to inspire her art in some way
11:58 PM <TyGently> yeah, connecting the art more to the other themes would be nice
11:59 PM <TyGently> like, her personal experience with transhumanism and how others in neo-tokyo adapt to it, what that allows for in art
TyGently> pft
11:59 PM <TyGently> anytime
TL;DR
The backstory parts were tropey and overly standard. The last part, about the android transplant, was dope AF tho - find a way to keep that. Focus more on Neo-Tokyo. How does the city help her create art?
Weapons for Children
Jed's best friend is a robot named Buster, who appeared with Neo-Tokyo but adopted Maxwellism. His design hearkens back to old 80s and 90s style androids. Like C-3P0 or the Iron Giant. Buster communicates by beeping and whirring. He's mute, big, bulky, and full of heart. They live together and he helps her with her projects.
Part 1: Jed is working on the Wormhole Vagina Robot. Opens with her stabbing the robot, the wound is a vagina. Great, but now what? What is it actually saying? Is it even saying anything? It was supposed to be a critique about
Goddamnit. Fine, let's do something else.
Part 2: Cathedral of WAN. A hundred different machines plugged into a central wetware supercomputer suspended from the ceiling, sharing information with each other in a digital rapture.
Part 3:
Part 4: Jed gives up. Can't really come up with anything on the list, now what? Buster gives her THE LOOK. She looks at him, he looks at her. You know what, okay. Maybe I need to try something completely different - something for me.
Intermission 4: Jed is strapped to a glass table. Huge injection into the neck, everything goes numb. Then they dunk her in the acid. Fizzy, bubbly, cold, slimy sensations as her physical form melts away. Then there's pins and needles and then the sensation of feeling heavier as her robot body turns on.
"Henri," asked San Francisco Jones, noted anarchist hacktivist, "What are you wearing."
It was not a question. It was a disavowal of his friend's fashion sense.
"This," said Henri LaToufierre, infamous anafashionista and cosplayer, "is my new line of Nu-C aquatic swimwear. Part of the Nuaesthetic line. Men's small. Colored painful orange - made it myself," he crowed, twirling. "Is it not… stylish?"
Henri was clad in a bizarre fusion of a crop top and a woman's two-piece sailor suit. The crop top was, true to its name, painfully orange. The shoulder blades of the piece jutted outwards, ending in pointed tips sharp enough to impale a man. The cuffs were blue with yellow stripes. Henri's tie was a solid pink, with a solid red line underneath bisecting the top. The entire top had a bizarre, polygonal look to it. To Jones' eye, it was as if Henri were wearing the letter T. Henri's skirt was the same shade of blinding orange, and bore the same polygonal look. Where the frills of the skirt should have been, the skirt ended in the same sharp jagged tips. It was like a bottle cap - or more accurately, a Reese's peanut butter cup.
"Do you like it?" Henri asked expectantly. He extended his arms once more, demonstrating the suit's utter lack of smooth curves.
"It's a… a sailor suit?" Jones said. He made no attempt to disguise his bafflement, as did the steadily growing crowd around them. Henri nodded towards the crowd.
"Yes - but it transforms into a mankini," Henri said. "You want to see me transform?"
"Henri, I will buy one of those things if it means you won't."
Henri considered the offer. "Buy two."
Jones took a deep breath. "Henri… Henri I cannot handle this. I need your help with a project."
"I was inspired by the functional minimalism of Dieter Rahms and the aggressive maximalism of Kill -"
"Henri," Jones interrupted him. "Do not finish that sentence. Please."
" - la Kill."
"Oh my God," Jones said, walking briskly away from Henri. "Oh my God."
"Ladies and gentlemen," Henri said loudly at the crowd that had amassed around them, "introducing Nu-C. The swimwear of tomorrow… today! Nu-C was anafashionistically designed from the dreams of Olympic swimmers and woven from the threads of silkworms, on the looms of computer programmers' minds as they worked! As soon as you take a dive, Nu-C automatically reconfigures itself around your body to perfectly accentuate your swimming profile and maximize body heat retainment. Cut through the waves with warmth, speed, and style now for just 100 euros! I'm accepting orders now - I do indeed take bitcoin!"
8:30 AM
The room swirls into view, colored purple and pink and smelling like sex and bad decisions. The bed is soft and plush, with a thread count in the thousands and a price tag even higher. A naked boy on the left wiggles his tail and furry, pointed ears and says, "Hey. Rookie. Wake up."
On the right, a naked girl with the same accoutrements and also fantastic breasts snaps her fingers. "Wake up. Something big is going down."
It's way too early to be thinking about anything, and there's a hangover that has made it clear that it isn't going anywhere. The bed is so very inviting, as are the duo lounging on it… but greed wins out over lust.
"…something big?"
"It's the Poltergeists," the two hybrids say in unison. "They're all at Berlin Station but I can't probe any of their minds for some reason. Whatever they're doing, it's big."
"So?"
"They're all at Berlin Station… except one. Achmed's doing the same thing as you — enjoying the company of his favorite cyber-whore at the Nuts and Bolts. You gotta get the info out of him the old-fashioned way."
"…Fine. When?"
"Now!" they both say. "Hop in the shower, quick one, five minutes — you smell like sex and bad decisions — and get an Anti-Hangover too, I know you have the points for it."
"Okay."
Roll over the male and stumble out of the bed towards the bathroom. There's a woman with chocolate-colored skin and jet-black hair staring out of the mirror; she looks like she was struck by lightning. Lurch into the shower and let it wash the decadence and depravity of the previous night into the drain. Dry off, put on clothes, then stagger out of the room towards the lobby. Stop by the kiosk and redeem one hundred -
INSUFFICIENT PLEASURE POINTS FOR PURCHASE
Hiring four nubile Asian cybernekos to appease Asmodeus has a hefty price tag. That's fine. There's still two pills in the pocket of this bike jacket. Pretty sure they should do the trick. Totter into the lobby bathroom. Drink from the tap. Swallow them both. Hangover's gone, vision is sharper, mind racing but there's this itchy sensation and now it's stabbing there is a stabbing pain in your head and chest and there is something crawling out of the tap with tentacles and claws and fangs red and green and purple and suddenly everything smells like smoke but it's a sweet sickly smoke so TAKE A DEEP BREATH
8:45 AM
and suddenly come back down and feel the heft of a wrench in one hand and a grizzled Middle Eastern man with a cybernetic eye and bald silver head shackled to a chair in the middle of a cold concrete floor and hear someone say in a bizarrely modulated voice, "What's in the train?"
The man spits on the floor. "Fuck you!"
Suddenly that wrench isn't dangling it's swinging and there's a CRUNCH as it collides with the man's left knee. He screams out in pain and somebody is laughing, producing these bizarre robotic giggles.
The question comes again. "What's in the train?"
He screams "Fuck you!"
Wrong answer.
The wrench winds up again and everything is starting to spin again fuck fuck fuck wait there's an orange powder on that cart over there so hold off on that wrench swing and step over to the cart and just snort that powder and drop the wrench because who needs a wrench when there's lightning coming out of your fingertips so start laughing again because he's going to really be screaming when this is over but first TAKE A DEEP BREATH because
9:20 AM
"We're gonna rob the Phitransum Combine."
Wait where is this — alright, calm down, this is the firing range slash armory back at the warehouse so everything is fine. This is a safe place, so step back for a moment and figure out what's happening. The Inside Man is scribbling across the armory whiteboard. He's practically shaking with excitement. From the look of things, he and a few thousand of his alternate-reality counterparts are doing that thing where they research, analyze variables, and crunch the numbers to plot and simulate an entire heist in their collective heads.
"This is perfect. The entire freaking Poltergeist gang is gonna be there. If you can loot the Combine before them then we can frame them for the crime. We'll replenish our treasury and get the Poltergeists out of the way… and that will get us one step closer to claiming the name 'Chicago Spirit'."
The Inside Man steps back from the whiteboard. It's a mess of arrows, letters, and overly detailed faces, but what sticks out is the drawing of the train. It barely looks like a train at all — this beast is the lovechild of a Rolls-Royce and a fighter jet designed by someone with a hard-on for Julius Caesar. There are even fins on the top. Who puts fins on a train?
"Treasury?"
The Inside Man looks unimpressed. "Yes, treasury. We need to have some class."
He opens up one of the armory lockers and throws a shotgun to you which almost gets dropped because there's a brain in a jar where the drum magazine is supposed to be. The jar is covered in mesh; inside, the brain is speared on a bizarre metal crown and is hooked up to a bunch of electrodes coming out of the base. There's also some kind of music player plugged into a dock in front of the jar. It could only have come from the Inside Man, and there he is, flashing a smarmy, self-satisfied grin.
"What the fuck is this?"
"It's from a world where wars are won with the coolest weapons," the Man says, smirking. "The gun doesn't fire regular bullets — when you pull the trigger, it zaps the brain and causes it to shoot off a psychic slug. Hit someone with that slug and it rewires their brain. You prime the slug with your music. No recoil, no reloading, no running out of ammo. It'll fire as long as your phone has charge."
He sounds quite pleased with himself.
"There's two settings — Salmon and Acid. You can switch by hitting the fast-forward button. One of them makes people think they're a fish — the other literally melts their brain."
"And if there aren't people?"
"If it has a brain, then this thing will fry it. My boys tell me that Alexylva uses cyber-everything to guard their trains, so you'll be fine. Good job getting the deets on that train from Achmed, by the way."
"Thanks."
"Right. Get to the insertion point, sneak onto the Combine, get into the vault car, steal the loot with that fancy curtain trick you do, and book it. I'll guide you through the details. Keep in touch with the headset."
Helmet — check. Leathers — check. Shotgun — in hand. Handbag — full of drugs. Step outside the warehouse and sneak out of the alley to where you left Achmed's muscle car. Buckle the shotgun into, appropriately, the shotgun seat. It looks secure enough so hit the gas and peel out down the street. The insertion point is on the outskirts of the city which is still a ways away so just calm down and TAKE A DEEP BREATH
10:30 AM
Pull the satchel open. Take out the baggie of chartreuse powder. Take out the baggie of tangerine powder. Spread them in a mix on the dash. Snort the mix in a single go. Wipe bloody nose and floor it.
The engine roars, literally, howling in anger as it mashes up and digests the cocktail of sex, drugs, and demons inside the driver's brain. The transmission turns from metal to bone and begins to cackle as its calcium gears shift. The driver's seat is a spinal column. The exhaust is screaming in pain. The tires are bleeding. The steering wheel is blinking.
There's no time to scream. There's only time to hold on for dear life as hell on wheels rockets into the grassland limbo that surrounds Eurtec and pursues the train with white-hot fury.
Grab the shotgun. Grab the satchel. Unbuckle the human skin belt. Stand up and get buffeted by the wind. Squint against the cold knives of the air and try not to fall out of the maw of the slobbering beast traveling at several hundred miles per hour. Look at the train on the left and realize that it is actually about twenty meters away — this fucking hellhound is chasing something else entirely. Open the satchel. Pop the purple pills inside. Scream as bones start to melt and organs deform as all the calcium in the body replaces itself with a dense yet stretchy aramid fiber.
Jump out of the vehicle and reach for the train. Grab onto train as left arm unspools itself into a twenty-meter long string and then just as rapidly respools itself. Stand shakily on caboose of Alexylva Express, watch the hellhound race out of sight into the grasslands, and then as the train shifts transdimensional gears and the world explodes into a swirl of rainbow bubbles your lungs start to twist counterclockwise to reality so TAKE A DEEP BREATH
10:31 AM
and flinch as the Inside Man's voice explodes inside the helmet then dial the volume down right quick.
"Rookie! Hey! You okay? What the hell happened? Did you cross into the next universe?"
"I'm onboard. In the last car."
"Nice. Poltergeists are still onboard. Get to the vault car, snag the loot, then kill yourself or whatever and respawn back here. I can sense something in the caboose — one thing, but it's hungry. Get your shotty ready."
Kick the door open and swing the shotgun into position with a single fluid movement.
There's no actual furniture inside the caboose. Just a bunch of inactive brass robots and also a very big wolf with very sharp teeth that is growling so shoot and pray to God Satan that those psychic slugs actually work. The shotgun fires with a thick bass drop. The wolf stops growling, flops onto its side, and starts wiggling around like a fish, mouthing wolf sounds. Then it realizes that it thinks it needs water to breathe and starts making loud gasping sounds.
Step over the wolf and navigate through the machines. Open up the door to the next car and TAKE A DEEP BREATH
10:32 AM
because there's a dozen Poltergeists in the next car popping open the crates littered throughout and they don't look happy at the interruption. Every single one of them has gotten a headjob: a new, bright red eye loaded with cybernetics, a face covered in shiny silver, and metal plates lining the skull. They're also holding submachine guns.
Duck behind one of the unopened crates as bullets start whistling overhead. Peek over the crate and start shooting then duck down as one bullet almost goes right between your eyes. There's way too many of them to kill, and pretty soon they're gonna figure out that they can literally waltz up to the crate and pop you in the head. Tune out the shouts of the Poltergeists and the rumbling of the train and the cacophony of gunfire and search the satchel for the good stuff. At the bottom, buried beneath the baggies and pills, is a modified autoinjector filled with buzzing neon locusts that flap against the plastic. There's no time for anything fancy — pop the autoinjector open and jab it into your neck.
Suddenly everything is double — like there's a second everything superimposed just over what's actually there, including yourself. The superimposed image is vibrating and blurry so that means it's working hopefully but there's really no point worrying about it now because either it works or you die so hit fast-forward on the shotgun, vault over the crate, shoot the first Poltergeist in your crosshairs and TAKE A DEEP BREATH
10:33 AM
because suddenly you ARE the Poltergeist and your vision is half-red and your head feels like pins-and-needles and there's a submachine gun weighing awkwardly in your hands but otherwise the drug-fueled haze has cleared up nicely. The Rookie is dead ahead of you, clad in a black leather jumpsuit and red-black helmet but with a toxic green glow spilling out from underneath her helmet. She's not the Rookie: that's a demon in there, piloting and repairing that body in its owner's absence — but it's fueled by nearby souls and is even less efficient than a Hummer, so unless someone dies very soon it's going to cannibalize its host body in a very ugly and very radioactive way. Under the circumstances, do the only thing that makes sense. Shoot the Poltergeist on the left to free up her soul for the Fauxkie's convenience and in the process abruptly teleport two feet to occupy the vacuum in her brain that was left behind. The Fauxkie moves too sluggishly to avoid the bullets tearing through your favorite leather jacket and also INTO YOUR BODY, but then kicks into overdrive as your brimstone valet feasts upon the now-untethered soul of the not-so-innocent. Green smoke pours from the bullet wounds as they seal up and the radioactive bitch starts shooting like mad. It actually smacks itself in the face with the butt of the gun — it's like this thing has never fired one before — but muscle memory kicks in and the Fauxkie manages to avoid completely shattering its nose.
TyGently: I think it could perhaps do better if the setting were clearer before it becomes relevant
when you've only got dialogue it's good for it to be anchored
the "whisper" bit btw is long enough that it screws up formatting on mobile, on the sandbox site at least
otherwise it's entertaining
perhaps you could play up the comedic horror of turning people into ducks as a humane option, touch on if they're still conscious or something, idk
** mention something about them spending the rest of their happy little lives at the duck pond**
Foundation Site-42 Weapons Testing Range
"What?"
"Not just people, actually."
"What?"
"I know, right? Oh man, you have no idea how long I've been working on this — "
"Hold on hold on hold on back up. Back up for me. That thing in your hand… that NERF gun… turns people into ducks."
"Yes."
"How the fuck did you do that?"
"It wasn't easy. Been working on this sonuvabitch for close to five years now. Cost at least a few million bucks."
"No — I mean, how the hell does it work?"
"It's pretty cool, actually. So. You know SCP-2730?"
"Uh… Yes. Gilbert Gottfried? The, uh, the were-duck pretending to be Gilbert Gottfried?"
"Yeah. So, turns out that he can actually turn other people into ducks too, and we figured out how it worked, and, well…"
"Huh. Okay. So… how does it work?"
"That's classified."
"Come on. I have higher clearance than you."
"Alright. But I have to whisper it into your ear."
"Just tell me."
"I have to whisper it! I don't want anyone without clearance hearing us!"
"There is nobody around."
"The walls have ears!"
"Fine. Whisper it."
"……………………………………"
"That's… that's just…"
"I know. This is seriously one of the best days of my life. C'mon, lemme show you this baby in action."
"Wha — are you going to shoot someone with that?"
"I already did!"
"Okay, how on earth did you get permission to do that?"
"How else do you test a gun that turns people into ducks? I've had the full backing of the Ethics Committee on this one!"
"What?"
"Think about it — it doesn't kill anyone, just turns 'em into a duck. Pain-free and they get to quack and fly around. We can even drop them off at the duck pond. Way more humane than shooting 'em."
"And this — this gun works? It actually works and it turns people into ducks?"
"Look down the range."
"…there is a duck on the range."
"Say hi to Duck-6773."
"You mean…"
"Yep! I have to test it on a couple more cases. Come on. You'll get to see this bad boy in action."
"Okay…"
"Right. D-8712, I need you to stand right there. This gun doesn't do anything, see? It's a NERF gun. We're just testing some laser targeting sights… okay, now watch carefully…"
PEW
"Okay. That is a duck. That is a duck, standing where that D-class was standing."
"Right?! It's the coolest fucking thing I've ever built! Okay. We've got one more test to do…"
"What the hell is that?"
"That is a Peregrine Series Humanoid Utility Droid."
"An android. You're going to try to turn an android into a duck."
"Edge cases mate. Edge cases. Stand back."
PEW
"That is… that is a… that is a carbon-fiber duck."
"Holy shit. I wasn't actually expecting that to work. Holy shit."
"Did… did it just say "quack"? Did it just auto-tune the word "quack"?"
"This is the coolest thing I've ever built. Oh my god."
"So, uh, what exactly are you planning to do with this duck gun?"
"What do you think? Mass production baby!"
"Mass — mass production?"
"Of course! Not, like, actual mass production — but like, as the Foundation's standard-issue sidearm or firearm or whatever."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"It's light, it's easy to conceal, it's easy to aim, and it has no recoil. Think about it. Assassinating persons of interest, fending off Insurgency raids… by turning them into ducks! We might even be able to turn 'em back and interrogate them or something! Worst case scenario… you like Peking duck?"
It was raining in Brookline. Inside a cramped, sparsely furnished apartment, Santosh Desai browsed MSN on his computer; fried eggs and poorly brewed coffee to his left. One article caught his eye as he idly scrolled through the newsfeed.
"San Diego woman found drowned in bathroom"
He clicked on it. At that moment, his email gave off a special ding, indicating that he had received a message from someone in the Foundation.
Santosh clicked on the message and entered the twenty-digit encryption key.
> To: Santosh Desai (pcs.57|iaseds#pcs.57|iaseds)
> From: Henry Allen (pcs.57|nellah#pcs.57|nellah)
> Subject: Internal Work Order KCP335831 has been assigned to Santosh Desai
>attachment: MTF_Anart_Catalogue.pdf; SCP-exhibit-jed.jpg; SCP-exhibit-jed-2.jpg;
Internal Work Order Number: KCP03831
Internal Work Order Type: Containment ProceduresRequested Completion Date: 09/01/2004
Internal Work Order Summary: Development of Containment Procedures for Euclid-Class Anomalous Artwork Exhibit
Requested Scope of Work: Design and implement containment procedures for a series of anomalous artwork exhibits (designation pending) that have begun appearing across the New England area.Externally, the exhibit consists of four white prefabricated walls and a white roof, with a single doorway. The phrase Choices by Jed [sic] is written on the wall above the doorway. It is unclear what is inside the exhibit, as it is opaque to imaging equipment. Audiovisual equipment is rendered inoperable while inside the exhibit. Persons that approach within 1 meter of the exhibit are compelled to enter one at a time and wait for their turn to enter. All agents that have entered the exhibit have been unable to report on their experience — to wit, they claim to be able to recall their experience inside the exhibit, but are physically unable to relay the details of the experience to others. This effect extends to drawing pictures, miming actions, and writing containment procedures for the object. The cube has no other discernible effects.
At this time, there are five known copies of the exhibit in the New England region: Cambridge, Massachusetts; Hartford, Connecticut; Concord and Manchester, New Hampshire; and Portland, Maine. It is presumed that the creator of the exhibit, who has been designated as PoI# 1976, goes by the name Jed.
Due to the compulsion effect and the public locations of these exhibits, remote destruction has been deemed nonviable. The containment procedures should outline steps to contain new exhibits and locate and apprehend PoI #1976. The annual budget for containment is $75,000. The initial budget to begin containment is $100,000. Attached is a list of Mobile Task Forces you may utilize.
These procedures should be completed and implementation should begin by October.
Requestor: Henry Allen
Requesting Department: Containment Development Team
Santosh pulled up Word drafts of three other containment procedures, stared at them, and groaned.
It was drizzling in Cambridge. Santosh stood across the street from a large white cube, huddled in a totally unnecessary thick winter coat. Next to him stood Peter White, a mountain of a Finn and the agent tasked with monitoring the exhibit.
Santosh stared at the structure. "Is this it?"
Peter shrugged. "Bigger than it looks."
Santosh shot him a look. "What do you mean?"
Peter shrugged again. "Can't say exactly. Sorry."
"Oh. Right."
They continued to look at the exhibit. "So, uh," Santosh said, "do you know who Jed might be?"
"Someone from Awsee?"
"Maybe."
The two continued to stare at the structure in silence; the drizzle intensified. Santosh wished he was back in front of his computer.
"Okay," he mumbled aloud, "I can't get close enough to analyze it properly… but I can figure out where it, where all the pieces came from. Then I can figure out how to contain them and the whole thing… So I just need to find out where the parts came from and the person who bought them all."
Guy Chesapeake was in the middle of an intense Counter-Strike match when his cell phone rang.
"Answer… speaker… phone," he enunciated, figuring now was as good a time as any to test his new speech-recognition software.
"Hey Guy, it's Santosh. Can you do me a favor?"
"Sorry, I'm drowning in work right now," Guy replied. Onscreen, he clicked a terrorist's head. The terrorist promptly dropped to the ground.
"Guy, it sounds like you're playing Counter-Strike."
"Nope, working on a commission piece," said Guy. He clicked again, and swore as the shot missed.
"Please? It's about anart," Santosh teased.
"I suppose the commission can wait," Guy said even as he continued to click on terrorists. "What's up?"
"Do you know anything about an anartist called Jed?"
"Yeah! She's basically the Ada Lovelace of anart." Guy cursed under his breath as the bomb detonated. "Big fan of her work."
"Jed's a she?"
"Yeah."
"Huh. Uh, what do you know about her?"
"Me, personally? Not that much. I've never actually met her but I do follow her on Friendster and Myspace. She's real smart, did a lot of the early GUI work for Titan… ah, really into interactive artwork and body modding. I heard she actually got herself a full-blown gynoid shell."
"Gynoid shell?"
"Yeah. Turned herself into an android."
"Okay…what kind of interactive artwork?"
"VR, AR, haptic feedback, that sort of thing. First person shooters, visual novels, museum tours. Basically just video games but art."
"Does she have anything to do with Are We Cool Yet?"
"Uhh… I think? Hang on a sec, let me double-check."
Santosh could hear Guy tapping away at his keyboard.
"Okay, uh, she won first place in an AWCY contest for best use of technology to send a message. Get this — she made a VR whorehouse — but the VR gear could read your mind so that the whole time you're banging these digital whores they're just reciting your worst fears back to you."
"Oh…kay…"
"Fucking AWCY. Literally, haha. But, uh, I don't think she does anything big for the group — just enters their tech contests. Anyways, I think I've got a magazine around here where they did an interview with her. Pictures and everything… You still have that Reader I got you? I can IM it to you on that."
"Yeah, I'd appreciate that. Thanks, Guy," said Santosh, pouring himself a glass of water. "I'll call you up if I need anything else."
"Yeah yeah. So where's this sudden interest come from?"
"She put up an exhibit in Boston and it's pretty interesting. Wanted to learn more about her. Alright, thanks again Guy. I gotta go finish some other work now," Santosh said quickly before hanging up.
He downed the glass and then started tapping away at his keyboard.
It was starting to rain in Brookline. As Santosh pushed away from the computer and turned to look out the window, the ebook on the desk buzzed. He picked it up to see a message from Guy.
Santosh opened the message to a digital issue of a magazine. Emblazoned in large letters on the first page was the word Planasthai. Underneath that was the tagline "The Future of Anart is Now", alongside an animation of a cartoonish, winking blue-and-silver robotic face.
He tapped the face and the screen changed to display a picture of a very feminine-looking robot; if not for the blue-and-silver color scheme and the thin lines running down and across its body, Santosh would have thought it was a real woman. He started reading.
The Future of Anart is Now
Over the past few years, the fields of anart and paratechnology have been surprisingly distant. Several anartists are making steps to change this trend, but none as much as Jed — not only is Jed one of the most prominent paratech aficionados in the anart world, but she is also an android (technically, gynoid). Some of Jed's recent work includes Redline, which won first place in the Seventh Annual AWCY Technomancer Challenge, and Vaishnavastra, which won the inaugural Neo-Tokyo Gibson Award for Excellence and Innovation in Art. Jed is putting the finishing touches on a new piece called Choices, and we got the chance to sit down with her and talk.
Tell us: Who is Jed?
Hi, I'm Jed. I'm an an anartist, gynoid, and trans woman. I was briefly a part of Are We Cool Yet? but I've since broken ties with the group and am now a freelance anartist supported by the Guild of Humanities within the Church of Maxwellism. My specialty is interactive artwork, especially artwork that incorporates paratechnology in some way. When I'm not working on art, I chair weekly meetings of LGBAnarT in Neo-Tokyo, swim, read, watch cartoons, and play Counter-Strike.
Tell us a little bit about your background. What got you interested in art?
Oh, boy, that is a long story. My relationship with my parents was shaky, to say the least. I had tiger parents — Dad called all the shots and directed basically everything in my life and Mom let it happen. I eventually snapped after my freshman year of college — my dad wanted me to become a computer programmer, I told him didn't want to do it. He told me that what I wanted didn't matter, and that that was how the world worked. I packed up and left a few weeks later, and spent the next couple months bumming around with some college friends. One of them happened to be in AWCY, he introduced me to anart, and that was that. I spent like six months in AWCY churning out robot after robot, but when I built up the courage to finally come out as a woman — well, I ditched AWCY. The Maxwellists came to me a few months later — they liked my work and wanted to sponsor me. They even offered to help me transition by giving me a gynoid body, so of course I leaped at the chance. Since then, I divide my time between commissions for the Church's Guild of Humanities and personal projects.
If you don't mind, would you be willing to share some more details about your upgrade?
To be perfectly honest, I don't think we have enough room to explain how the process works! It was hugely experimental at the time and massively risky, but I was willing to try anything. Basically they anesthetized me, dipped me into a vat full of some kind of acid that literally ate away everything except my nervous system, and then clamped the gynoid shell around me. This is a massive oversimplification of course and I would love to talk more about it but we're not here to talk about android transplantation — we're here to talk art.
What would you say defines Jed's art?
Well, like I said, a lot of my work is interactive but I also focus heavily on femininity. Not feminine like some dumb stereotype about flowers and makeup, but more like how do people perceive and interact with women, you know, how does society treat women? How do people and society perceive and interact with transgender individuals? There are a lot of failures and shortcomings in those areas, especially the last one — just look up the trans panic defense — and it's important to draw attention to those shortcomings and critique them because the first step to fixing a problem is diagnosing it but society doesn't want to take those first steps. But people are dying because of those problems. I was lucky enough to be able to get this body but far too many women, trans or cis, are getting hurt and even killed in what's supposed to be a developed society — that is absolutely unacceptable. So that's what a lot of my art is about — trying to get people to re-examine their attitudes, prejudices, and bigotry towards women because society still needs to shape the fuck up in those regards. Oh, uh, excuse my French.
Don't worry about it. You also mentioned focusing on interactive art, could you elaborate? What makes interactive art such a favored medium of yours?
I really like exploring how people make choices, in like high- or low-pressure scenarios, and show other people what those choices are and how those choices affect the world around them. I can't really say why. I mean, maybe it's because I loved playing video games and reading Choose Your Own Adventure books as a kid? [laughter] I guess if I had to pick a 'real' reason [making air quotes] it's partly because I never really got to pick my own path as a kid and partly because a lot of people see, well, my identity as a choice and that's just flat-out wrong, so this is kind of a way of, you know, poking back, I guess, and reclaiming the ability to choose. The things you do in my art? Those are choices. Who I am is not. Plus, I think people become a lot more invested in something when they influence its outcome. The art becomes more meaningful when you become a part of it. And of course, it's a ton of fun trying out the latest and greatest paratech.
Speaking of choices, tell us about your newest upcoming work, Choices.
I wish I could. [laughter] Actually, one of the things about Choices is that when you participate you get a geas placed on you that prevents you from saying anything about your experience. It's a major departure for me in a lot of ways because I pushed aside most of my traditional themes for a much more intimate experience. Everything that happens inside Choices is a secret; only you will know what happens inside. But it's also a way for me to, I guess, confront some aspects of my own personality that I really, really am not keen on. To tell you the truth, I find the events that occur inside Choices to be intensely erotic. Choices should be as far from that as possible, but for some reason, some wires got crossed in my brain — pardon the pun — and so it's intensely thrilling to me. I normally wouldn't be this cavalier about it, but hey. Choices is all about forcing you out of your comfort zone, so I owe it to you guys to do the same. You probably already hear about way weirder anartists all the time anyways — I hope. [laughter]
Do you have any advice for budding anartists?
Bad advice is still advice, right? I guess there's two main things I would say. Don't keep talking about all the cool art you're going to make or you'll never get around to actually making it. And to any girls reading this and interested in making art, go for it! Anyone who says you'll be terrible is secretly scared that you'll show them up — so show them up. You're so much better than them. That sounded better in my head. I wish I was as good a speaker as I am an anartist.
Trust me, you're great. One final question: is Jed a nickname?
It's actually my initials, J-E-D. I can't tell you what it stands for, though — a girl needs to have some secrets!
Thank you very much for your time, Jed!
Thank you for having me!
Choices by Jed will be appearing this fall, in Boston, Cambridge, Hartford, Concord, Manchester, and Portland.
Santosh put the reader down.
If Eurtec had been a whole new world, Neo-Tokyo was an entirely different universe. The only thing connecting it to the rest of reality was the rain — and it was always raining in Neo-Tokyo. Every single building in the city was either a towering black glass and metal skyscraper or a squat black glass and metal bungalow. Hundreds of covered walkways, electrical cables, and glass tubes crisscrossed the skyline, blocking out the cloudy grey sky with a web of black glass and metal. Neon tubing ran everywhere, illuminating the blackness with shades of lime, tangerine, crimson, cerulean, indigo, and gold.
Even more so than Eurtec, Neo-Tokyo was a haven for man-machines. Every single person Santosh laid eyes upon was augmented: a man ambling through the streets like a gorilla on an extra pair of shiny silver arms; people climbing the skyscrapers on eight grey spider legs; rolling cylinders with antennae poking out everywhere; shiny floating swarms that hovered over everyone else and briefly formed human-looking faces from their amorphous masses. A bird landed in front of Santosh with a thud; when he looked closer, he could see sharp metallic feathers and tiny jet engines on its wings.
Santosh had only been standing inside Neo-Tokyo for five minutes and it felt like his head was going to explode. Guy had no such problems, expertly shepherding Santosh through the press of cold metal into the closest skyscraper. The building's lobby provided little respite from the outside; it shared the same dark metal architecture, cables, and neon tubing. Only the high, uniform ceiling and its bright white lights indicated any difference between the inside and outside.
"Pretty cool, right?" Guy said.
Santosh took a deep breath. "Jesus, Guy. Did we die and go to TRON hell?"
Guy rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, you have to admit this is pretty freaking cool. Look, even the inside of this place looks like a laser tag arena."
"Felt like I was gonna choke to death on cyberpunk," Santosh snapped, slumping against the wall. "It is really cool, but, look, can — can we just go find Jed?"
"Sure," Guy said. "Just chill here for a couple minutes and catch your breath. I'll ask around about, what was it called?"
"L-G-B-Anart-T."
"Yeah, that. Sit tight dude."
Several minutes later, Guy returned. "Hey, you feeling alright?"
"Yeah," Santosh said. He shook his head vigorously for a second to clear it out and asked, "Anything?"
"Yeah. Nobody here actually knows what LGBAnarT is, but a few of them said that Jed usually hangs out a few blocks from here in one of the skyscrapers. C'mon, I got directions."
Santosh followed Guy through the lobby to an elevator, which opened almost before Guy pushed the button. The elevator, thankfully, was not black glass — it was regular glass and metal.
The elevator panel lacked traditional pushbuttons — instead, there was a keypad and a small cable jack.
"Okay… he said 150th floor," said Guy, tapping away at the keypad. Before Santosh could register the sentence, the doors closed and the elevator rocketed upwards.
"Guy, did you say 150th floor?" Santosh asked.
"Yes."
"But the Empire State Building only has like, a hundred?"
"Yeah."
"Guy, what the hell is this place?"
"Hell if I know," Guy said.
"What? You said you'd fill me in when we got here! Aren't these weird cyberpunk cities supposed to be your thing?"
"I know, I know. Look, basically nobody knows what Neo-Tokyo is. Officially, the Maxwellist Church built it as an answer to Eurtec — their own technotopia for folks who didn't like the GOC. But the rumor is that it just sort of showed up, out of nowhere, right at the stroke of midnight on New Years 2000. One moment there's nothing here, and the next, poof. Cyberpunk city. I heard that some of these people are actually space aliens. No joke, actual freaking aliens. How cool is that?"
At that moment, the elevator doors dinged open. Guy and Santosh stepped out, and for the briefest moment Santosh's head spun at hyperspeed as he registered the streets several thousand feet below. Then he and Guy were forced back by a press of cold metal and flesh.
Guy forced his way through the throng of machines, Santosh following closely behind and doing his best. As they navigated the maze in the sky, Santosh fought to keep from staring out of the skyway. Occasionally there would be a gap in the web, and it was possible to see lightning arcing through the sky. For the briefest of instants there was even something visible in the clouds: the silhouette of a giant, chained to some massive object and illuminated by the bolts of electricity.
Santosh was considering what he had just seen when he crashed into Guy.
"Hey, what's up?" Santosh asked.
"This should be the place," Guy said. They were standing inside a massive roundabout slash rotunda, supported by dozens of skyways spanning the rest of the city. In the center of the rotunda was a gigantic spiral of supercomputers, humming in time to the pulse of the city.
"Hey, is that her over there?" asked Guy, pointing off in the distance. Santosh followed his finger and immediately noticed Jed, leaning against the wall and nursing a can of something. Even from this distance, her cerulean-chrome color scheme was unmistakable.
"Yeah. C'mon."
ARD> my next project is going to be a postmodern tale series about a reformed evil demon who uses their ability to step outside a page and step into other pages to defeat an evil scientology expy
3:16 PM <ARD> it's like King Crimson but meta
3:16 PM <rumetzen> sounds promising
3:16 PM <rumetzen> the stand or the album
3:16 PM <ARD> the stand
3:16 PM <rumetzen> nice
3:16 PM <ARD> basically the idea is that imagine you're like
3:16 PM <ARD> 500 words into the text
3:17 PM <ARD> the demon steps out of the text and everyone is like "where did he go"
3:17 PM <rumetzen> i've started watching ventu aureo and i'm liking it a lot
3:17 PM <ARD> and then five hundred words later
3:17 PM <ARD> he steps back in
3:17 PM <ARD> and people are like "where did you come from"
3:17 PM <ARD> so if he wants to get past a locked gate
3:17 PM ⇐ Rimple quit (moc.duolccri.etaghgih.96919756-CRInys|80549diu#moc.duolccri.etaghgih.96919756-CRInys|80549diu) Quit: Connection closed for inactivity
3:17 PM <rumetzen> heh
3:17 PM <ARD> he waves to the guard on the other side and steps out of the text
3:18 PM <ARD> then it switches to the guard's perspective on the other side wondering where he went
3:18 PM <ARD> and the demon steps back into the text, behind the guard, on the other side of the gate
•Jekeled> ARD, i think the biggest problem with this tale is that it was never very good in the first place
12:26 AM <•Jekeled> ARD, try-hard prose and warmed over cyberpunk themes
•ARD> •Jekeled> There is merit in a drugged-up neuromodder fucking his way to the bottom
12:38 AM <•ARD> 12:30 AM <•Jekeled> But 1) he needs to have augments 2) stuff needs to happen 3) the prose needs to be tightened way down and 4) stuff needs to happen in a coherent way
12:38 AM <•ARD> 12:30 AM <•Jekeled> Not this nonlinear bullshit
12:38 AM <•ARD> 12:35 AM <•ARD> Jekeled: here's a highly preliminary pitch - the doctor's dying. he has maybe 24 hours to live before a bad batch of nanobots eats through his gray matter and puts him down, but he doesn't want to face the fact that today is his last day. so he goes about the day the same way he always has, with imminent death in the back of his mind, until he finally experiences both the little and major deaths at the same time
12:38 AM <•ARD> 12:36 AM <•Jekeled> i like it but he should die without getting any
12:38 AM <•ARD> 12:36 AM <•ARD> he bites the dust just as about he's about to get all up in that ALTERNATIVE PIPING
•ARD> instead of nanobots, it's the result of a botched self-surgery he did to increase his alcohol tolerance
12:47 AM <•ARD> 12:43 AM <•ARD> he wakes up with a head exposed and the realization that he's fucked UP - both as an adjective and verb
12:47 AM <•ARD> 12:45 AM <•ARD> hell, I could keep the same beginning
12:47 AM <•ARD> 12:45 AM <•ARD> except with the punchline that the head he's operating on is HIS
12:47 AM <•ARD> 12:45 AM <•ARD> and that sets up the driving plot - i have 24 hours to live
12:47 AM <•TyGently> this is all highly relevant to third law btw
12:47 AM <•GW> yes
12:47 AM <•GW> this is good
12:47 AM <•GW> you have convinced me
The uppers kick in and my hand twitches, gashing right down the pons, ripping through umpteen millions of neurons before I can recover my composure, finally steadier than I've been for hours, minutes even, and put the last probe right into the target neuron, thankfully one that I didn't destroy, and pull out as gracefully as I can, a tactical retreat if you will, and start sewing up the damage.
"I'm high as fuck, Doc!"
Hopefully he won't have lost the ability to dream.
I'm doing something-or-other with Jack Thompson down at Sofia's, the friendly local neighborhood local supermarket (it's in the title, of course) when I get the idea—or he does, and tells it to me, and I think of it then—about the idea of unconscious optimization, it's something that's real set to my line of work, he tells me, though I'll never use it (ha, ha), and though Jack's now three links upwind of 'pedia, has been for months now, I've fixed up the idea, nice and bright and shiny new, genius that I am—
"I'm high as fuck, Doc!"
—and really, aren't I, I tell Jack, over at Sofia's, as we wander the organic organic fish sticks (all organic labels locally sourced) and watch them curve and wallow in the endless freezer sea (anyone who says they like the cold has never been a frozen food,) me being the only (and best) conglomeration of assorted confluences of the "non-augmented" and "back-alley augmenter" while being, of course, respectively at The Top Of My Profession in each of—
I finish sewing up and hope everything works fine. I cross my fingers and metaphorically flip the metaphorical switch to turn the program on, squirting lines and lines of init code into this kid's brain, he comes in and says "give me something new, surprise me," and he's stoned out of his mind (I get it, I do, and I get his skull off without much difficulty, and on too, he doesn't feel a thing, not that the brain does, but the skull neither…) and so I decide to go with my specialty, "but it comes with downsides," Jack says, "like not really being able to know what'll be the most useful or the most wanted or the best, like why isn't there some kinda program that uses your unconscious—like, you know, your involuntary—to actually just…to…well, to optimize you know."
He's right!
"How do you feel?"
"I'm high as fuck, Doc!"
Close enough. I check the readouts, make sure everything appears to be flowing fine (it does,) everything optimized, my specialty, the specialty, and I send the kid out the door ("surprise me, doc!") and head down outside into the rain-flecked suburbs, I'm a backstreet doctor, really, not a backalley doctor, the cloistered, sterile suburbs of Eurtec, streets and streets of (perfectly engineered) houses curving off into the distance, tightly nested little estates branching out, insulated from the pressure and heat of the capitalist forge that made it, blotting out the sun, crowds of locusts…I spiral around the streets, circling down into the streets proper, into the big city now, out of the 'burbs, and hit up my favorite dive bar, doesn't everyone have one, down, down in the city below….
Bars are wondrous places, where the sacred and (he) Profane go to be merry and other assorted foibles; I know this one, know it well: I eat myself here, I die here.
I sit down. I have never been here before. "Give me a drink," I say. I have never had a drink before either. I have had many other things, but never a drink. It is harder to break a taboo on something that will be allowed at some point than to violate the specter of the never-to-be. (Sitting at the bar, now, waiting for my drink to arrive, I pop some more uppers. Don't want my hand to be unsteady again….) The drink arrives. Both of them. First and current (first and last?). I drink. I have never had a drink before. I drink, and die….
A man comes in. He will have Alzheimer's, he says.
"I live under a dark shadow every day. Every lapse, every slip—"
Get on the table. He wants to remember? He gets to remember. The neurons become old, caked in plaque and gunk; they die off, taking the mind with it. Slow death of the self. Well, this'll kill 'im anyways. I take another drink. It tastes good.
"Jonathan! Is that you?"
It's a friend. I can't remember his name right now. Or his face. There's no recognition there; it feels like I'm being violated by a stranger. He is pretty cute, though. I wouldn't say no.
"Hi!"
I try to smile; the uppers help. I feel bright, alive. I smile.
"How are you doing?"
He wants to remember. Easy, easy. All it requires is to replace the brain, which is easier than it sounds. I don't even need to open up his skull! Just a quick injection of my own patented blend (patent pending) of nanobots—
"Good, good!"
(Good god!)
We talk some more; I mostly listen. The nanobots will go into the brain, mapping every neuron position, mapping every transmission through a range of stimuli, and slowly bit by bit assimilate until they are the brain, and the old person is dead, and the new person is happy. I finish drinking; I died the instant the first sip hit my lips (or was it my tongue?).
What people don't understand is that nothing changes; the wiring all stays the same, but only the input is new, in ways; that doesn't mean that it's not the same, in the end…put someone on Mars, put someone on the Moon, and they will feel the same. To change feeling is to change the self. He'll have his memory, but he'll have died in the process. Sometimes all you can hope for is that the new person is happy, the way babies are happy. The guy asks the question; I haven't even asked his name. I say yes. (Hey, I didn't say no!)
I follow him home to his house, not even as blasted as I'd like to be. I don't even have any implants! My liver's just that strong…he doesn't live in the 'burbs, which means that he maybe hasn't heard of me (wait, he knows me) and also that he's a hipster, gentrifying by anti-gentrifying, and I kinda wanna snort as I walk through his apartment door. I finish deep in his bowels; would the old me have liked it? Who cares!
I give him the injection and then let him go, with instructions to come back if there's any problems (not that there will be, and if there are, he'll probably be too dead to come back anyways. It's a placebo).
We have sex. His cock is pretty good; so is mine. He's had something done to his anus, some sort of weird textured attachment (I'm still thrusting away into it, while I think this; but professional detachment, professional interest…) that must make shitting a nightmare, unless—and the thought suddenly occurs to me—there's some sort of alternative piping in there…he feels good, wrapped around me, and I thrust a little harder. He's panting there, on the bed. So am I. I feel ready; I'm about to—
I take another drink; I die again, a smaller death this time. Why don't I have any augmentations? Not even I know. I'm fine with le petit morte, as the French so delicately put it, but something about this one is too big for me, logic and reason and sense and anything be damned, and so I don't, big hypocrite that I am, it's a personal and professional failing, no matter what I may say to other people…I finish deep in his bowels; would the old me have liked it? Who cares!
Is this what you want, I wonder, as the youth walks in my door and asks me to surprise him? A world of static, infinite change? A world where…ah, what the hell. Get on the table.