MaliceAforethought's Old New Sandbox

Because we're moving sites.

List of Sandboxes:

Old SCP Sandbox, currently defunct.

Old Tale Sandbox, defunct.

Main-site Backups, still used.

BananaRepublic Sandbox, used for neat work.

List of Collaborations:

With XilasCrowe

With not_a_seagull

With Varaxous

With WhiteWampus

With Superblobby

With Nobody In Particular

With CadaverCommander

SCIPS:

Diagram:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/internetarchivebookimages/14781365651/
https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2939/14781365651_ebd34549bd_b.jpg

Telephant: (Reserved by Taylor)
https://pxhere.com/en/photo/1225975

Body Parts:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/urbanaquariumvideo/3331024695

Ceramic Cephalopod:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/jlcernadas/24068896843
https://c1.staticflickr.com/2/1626/24068896843_09eb148ba0_b.jpg

Sea Monster:
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:St_augustine_carcass.jpg

+ CURRENT PROJECTS/IDEAS

+ MISC. TITLES

+ MTF NAMES

Cornelius Wilberforce Bridgehampton, Seventh Duke of Norsussex

Bondanger, Hypoglycemia, and Zinjanthropus

https://challonge.com/tournaments/Scpfmmdbc2017/predictions/214119/edit?token=a2c971700916013685e70a580a380019

SCP-4333-1	SCP-4333-2
A cartoon representation of an aloe vera plant owned by Researcher Teller.	A single cylinder of undifferentiated plant tissue, embedded in a ceramic cube. Object did not appear to experience any form of organic decay, and was returned to Researcher Teller after fourteen days' observation.
A photograph of a 1984 Honda Civic, previously used for testing.	A hollow cuboid constructed from layers of leather, plastic, and an alloy of various metals, with a flattened rubber cylinder fused to each corner. When asked to drive the 'vehicle', subjects seated themselves on top of the object and proceeded to push it along the ground with their feet, hindered somewhat by the fact that the 'wheels' were not able to turn. Observers reported perceiving the object crashing into the testing chamber wall at high speed.
The blueprints for a prototype D-GARaASA³.	A semi-regular network of brass tubing, filled with a 50/50 mixture of dilute sulphuric acid and human bile. Object spontaneously combusted on manifestation, but was observed by all staff present to be working "as intended, if not better" — as several such staff are now being treated for minor burns, testing with esoteric equipment is to be discontinued. Notably, Alchemists present in the observation chamber reported sensing a decrease in aetheric fluctuations, while automated systems reported no change. Further research recommended.
A file photograph of the late Researcher Kaleb, as they were three months prior to their death.	A toroid mass of flesh, wrapped in white cloth, with five bony protrusions arranged radially. Object shows no sign of decay, and is currently in storage pending reassignment, see below.

Date	Nature of event	Followup action taken
12/06/2015	Initial contact established. Two personnel lost in an unknown branch universe after falling through a tunnel left by SCP-3MIL. Currently deemed MIA.	Containment established as Foundation-priority, on the grounds that an alternate reality does not constitute part of the state of Oregon, regardless of its geographical status. Containment Chamber 3MIL-Alpha built, with Forth-Scranton Equalisers to prevent multi-universal shifts.
29/07/2015	It is noted during casual discussion that three members of SCP-3MIL's containment team believed that US President William Henry Harrison died of an infected wound after 43 days in office, rather than of pneumonia after 31 (as is established history). No other major discrepancies in recollections of historical events were noted.	Due to an inability to ascertain the persons' point of origin, and the lack of any debilitating psychological effects caused by the incident, the decision was made to assign the staff the positions of their counterparts, under the assumption that the alternate Foundation will do the same for our original staff.
05/12/2015	Power failure results in a containment breach of SCP-3MIL and a number of other anomalous entities. The entity escapes through an adjacent universe in which the chamber was not constructed, and re-manifests 13 km north-east, alongside large amounts of rubble and several irradiated corpses.	Wilson's Wildlife Solutions staff tranquillise the entity at the scene, and begin to draft plans for long-term containment. Foundation staff object, but WWS Liaison Madison enacts home-ground priority provided the entity does not shift universes again. Long-term sedation is enacted, and remains functional until 28/03/2016.
28/03/2016	Sedation chemicals are spontaneously removed from SCP-3MIL's bloodstream, presumably ejected into a branch universe of unknown nature, and the entity regains consciousness, demanifesting almost immediately. MTF Upsilon-Peorð attempt to subdue it upon its re-manifestation, but are repeatedly dragged by SCP-3MIL into alternate universes, alongside near-identical copies of themselves. The entity escapes in the ensuing confusion.	Containment lost for approximately six weeks, during which time multiple geological disturbances are noted in and around the area.
02/04/2016	A large statue of unknown origin is uncovered 40 km from the border of Boring, presumably manifesting as the result of SCP-3MIL's activities. The object appears to be a representation of SCP-3MIL itself, and is inscribed with the names of several hundred people, as well as what appears to be a cause of death. "Battle" features prominently, as do "Darkness" and "The Greater Good". Preliminary analysis places its date of creation no more than five years previously.	Item taken into storage. Further action deemed unnecessary.
11/05/2016	SCP-3MIL re-manifests in Containment Chamber 3MIL-Alpha. Numerous crossbow bolts are embedded in the entity's back, and it appears severely weakened from extensive blood loss.	Plans are made to transport the entity away from Nx-17, but WWS Liaison Madison objects on grounds of preserving natural parabiodiversity, as well as supporting the group's development of esoteric containment methods.
15/06/2016	SCP-3MIL demanifests from its chamber shortly after containment rights are transferred to Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. Attempts to pinpoint its location in U-space fail due to SCP-3MIL's removal and partial consumption of the relevant equipment.	Pending — see below.

Type	Proportion
209 (Apprehension)	2.0%
430 (Worry)	8.3%
166 (Pain)	12.4%
002 (Fear)	30.8%
000 (Unknown)	46.5%

Date	Nature of event	Notes/actions taken
##/##/2007	SCP-XXXX first manifests in Western Somalia, proceeding to move south-east.	MTF Upsilon-Peorð deployed.
##/##/2007	SCP-XXXX successfully redirected west by means of high-pressure water jets.	None.
##/##/2007	SCP-XXXX halts briefly at a construction site, extruding a concrete-like substance from its left forelimb. This substance is then fashioned into a rough cuboid.	MTF-Υ-ᛈ successfully divert SCP-XXXX away from the area. Structure demolished.
##/##/2007	SCP-XXXX enters the town of [REDACTED], causing high-profile damage to the area.	Cover story of a natural disaster disseminated and amnestics administered to eyewitnesses.
##/##/2007	SCP-XXXX crosses the border into Ethiopia.	None.
##/##/2007	SCP-XXXX changes direction, eventually stopping at a large rural construction site. A number of SCP-XXXX-1 instances exit the entity, and proceed to attach tubing to all present staff.	MTF-Υ-ᛈ arrive, diverting SCP-XXXX before a structure can be produced.
07/01/2008	SCP-XXXX ceases all movement.	Believed to coincide with Ethiopian Orthodox Christmas. No action taken.
14/03/2008	SCP-XXXX changes direction, attempting to access a large rural construction site.	MTF-Υ-ᛈ successfully divert the entity, no civilian casualties.
21/09/2008	SCP-XXXX briefly crosses the border into Kenya.	Observations show SCP-XXXX ceased all movement for three days, after which it began to head north. Internal cameras show the addition of a number of secondary exits, and functional sprinkler systems.
20/12/2008	SCP-XXXX attempts to diverge from planned routes.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
28/02/2009	SCP-XXXX crosses the border into South Sudan.	None.
04/04/2009	SCP-XXXX attempts to diverge from planned routes.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
23/05/2009	SCP-XXXX attempts to diverge from planned routes, presumably to enter a nearby town.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
27/07/2009	SCP-XXXX crosses the border into Sudan.	Plans for a permanent containment perimeter developed.
30/10/2009	SCP-XXXX enters perimeter of containment zone.	None.
01/03/2010	SCP-XXXX attempts to exit containment zone.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
12/04/2010	SCP-XXXX attempts to exit containment zone.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
14/05/2010	SCP-XXXX attempts to exit containment zone.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
05/07/2010	SCP-XXXX successfully exits containment zone during sandstorm.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ, containment re-established.
26/11/2010	SCP-XXXX attempts to exit containment zone.	Entity redirected by MTF-Υ-ᛈ.
08/12/2010	SCP-XXXX submerges its lower portion in sand, and ceases all movement. Airlock remains closed, preventing further internal observation.	None.
08/12/2011	Still no movement detected from SCP-XXXX, anomaly re-classified as Safe.	None.

TALES:

Dread and Circuses:
- Performance at a nexus, end up having to defend themselves from interdimensional scavengers
- Circus is surreal, and there's a backlash of reality afterwards — this is what the unreal scavengers want.
CotSH:
- There's a theta-prime-th deity who commits some kind of crime.
  - No I don't know what
  - Perhaps influencing reality for their own ends?
- Said deity is removed from existence by the other seven, who banish it to the Voru.
- As a side-effect of this, the number theta-prime is 'closed off'.
- The disintegration of the paper and stuff is the entity trying to break through — maybe use some 'pressed up to the other side of the paper'-type imagery.
O5/Outlast:
- The overseers are left over from alternate iterations of earth.
- Dominance shifts, and the like.
- In each iteration, they form some kind of organisation/cult/religion/political party, and basically see what they can get humanity to do.
- Horrific surgery to make themselves fit with whatever species next arises.
  - Think 'squid-like creature altered and squished to fit into human skin'. You've got dogs and plants and machines and all that, all masquerading as people. Eurgh.

Senior Researcher Micheal Forth had just been killed for the tenth time in as many minutes, and he was beginning to get annoyed. Taking a deep breath as his form coalesces around him, he steadies his nerves and readies himself for the next cycle. On the other side of the arena, his eternal adversary begins to flicker into existence, its many disjointed tendrils flailing madly. With the care and precision of a neurosurgeon, the 76 year-old scientist sprints forward.

Ducking a volley of writhing insects and foul-smelling sludge, he lunges for a long, pipe-shaped implement placed at what passed for the creature's feet, and (knowing exactly how the scene would play out if he didn't) flings himself to the ground. Another volley misses his head by inches, and he feels the scalding goo sting the back of his neck. Wasting not a second, he swings the implement in an arc, shattering its casing and flinging its infinitely complex circuitry in every direction. At this point he has about four seconds before the creature's next strike, and he knows from experience that that one's invariably lethal.

A duck, a lunge, a frantic clamber and he's out of reach, darting across the sand in defiance of his body's protests. With a single shard of gunmetal clamped firmly in his fist, and the knowledge that the creature will soon be upon him, he brings it down, slicing a strip of flesh from his wrist to his elbow. He barely manages to stop himself crying out at the pain, and quickly sets to work tearing it, weaving it, carving it into a vague representation of a star. No sooner is the bloody thing completed than a clap of thunder shakes the arena, reducing the air to a dull red hue. A foot away from his face, a fist made from ladybugs slows to a crawl as time is dragged out mercilessly before his eyes. Forth starts to laugh, punching the air and whooping with joy.

"Thank you, oh god thank you!"

It's difficult to figure out a chrono-Sarkic ritual from scratch, and doubly so when all you have to work with are six months of half-remembered lectures, but Yaldabaoth isn't picky where the offerings come from. Forth knows it isn't much, but it'll buy him some time, and time is all he really needs. For now, at least, he can rest. He lies back in the sand, enjoying a moment's respite for the first time in far too long. He slips into unconsciousness and, fourteen hours later, fails to wake up as momentum returns and his enemy's strike meets its mark.

That was twelve-hundred years ago.

Not much has changed.

"So, ah, sir. It's a nice place you've got here. Especially given the, um, circumstances. That you're in. Here. Um." The Junior Researcher trails off, and stares down at his feet. On the other side of the room, Researcher Forth attacks a large metal box with a soldering iron and wrench.

"Mhm." He turns away from his work, and sighs, slumping on a sofa that creaks under his weight. "So. What brings you to my own personal hell?"

"We, I mean, they, believe they might be able to get you out. The device I arrived in should be able to carry us both through the, uh," he consults his notes. "'Exo-Universal Void'. I assume that means something to you?"

The doctor throws his wrench upwards, grunting with satisfaction as it sticks in the ceiling. "I didn't mean that. That's the cover story, sure, but I know quite a bit about this kind of tech, and whether they call it "extradimensional" or "ectoreal" or "exo-universal", it costs an arm and a leg to make it work. You're ostensibly here to get a suffering scientist out of a magical hellhole, and that's a noble goal." He leans forward, and plants his chin firmly on his hands. "But what are you actually here for?"

His acquaintance smiles. "They told me you were a sharp one. I'm here on behalf of Project Zion — a kind of, ah, 'revolution' in using anomalous phenomena to better Foundation staff. It's gathering a surprising amount of steam. The bosses want to generate a controllable copy of twenty-six sixty-eight to see how staff react to long-term assignment: archival duties and in-depth research, that kind of thing. I have to collect the data."

"And as a bonus, you get to find a way to stop me from dying over and over again?"

"That's the plan."

Forth leans back further and steeples his fingers. "Well, mister interdimensional interloper, I'm presuming we have some time to kill until your readings are complete. Anything you want to ask me while we're here? In case something happens to your contraption and we get spread atom-thin across the multiverse?"

"Well, now you mention it, you do seem quite a bit less… strange than I expected. No offence to you, obviously, but I was warned you might be a little, uh, unhinged. What with the torture and everything."

The old man chuckles. "Oh, don't let my calm demeanor and impeccable interior design sense fool you-" as if on cue, a tile dropped from the ceiling, landing with a thud in a bowl of dessicated fruit "-I'm mad as anything. But soon after I found this hidey-hole I learned to synthesise a crude form of amnestic from a mixture of crushed ladybird, bodily fluids, and the coolant cells of a twenty-fourth century handheld nuclear arsenal. Had to learn it again about a dozen times before I got the dosage right, but after that I could build up a sort of reserve."

Another chuckle, but an altogether more bitter one. "Keeps me getting too distressed, you know? The biggest problem with the ladybeast is that after a while it starts getting creative. Makes the fights more entertaining, most likely. Mixes it up a bit. All fun and games until somebody loses their skin."

Urgh. Time travel. Let me tell you about time travel.

Doing anything successfully with time travel, my friends, is like finding your way through a mirror maze using trails of breadcrumbs that you have to lay yourself. And you've been in the maze so long that you're starving to death, so you have to constantly fight not to eat the breadcrumbs, which smell like the best goddamn breadcrumbs you've ever goddamn smelled. It's like doing a ten-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle where all you have to go on is a blurry photograph of an earlier edition of the puzzle, upside down and half-complete, as seen through a stained-glass window that hasn't been cleaned in months. It's like building a machine, the purpose of which is unclear, using only instructions written in Dutch and a French-to-German translation booklet. Also, one in ten pieces are missing, and one in a hundred pieces are for a different machine entirely.

I exaggerate, of course, but only slightly — it should at least help to convey why I retired. Over my time at the Foundation, I came to hate time-travel with a burning, firey passion. It's only really a problem because I'm starting my retirement in 1999, and I'm a thirty-nine year-old (or 278, depending on how you quantify it) Task Force Commander who was/will be born in 2026.

People never fully retire from the Foundation, not really. They usually know too much to be happy with a life of ignorance, or have been there too long for amnestics to be any use, which grants them a permanent place on the radars of countless other groups. Most opt for contract work — occasional research for an increased salary, or the odd investigation into an extranormal event that doesn't seem to be causing too much trouble. It's for that reason that I found myself standing over a dead body, with a child staring me in the eyes with a look of surprisingly calculated suspicion for one so young.

I decided to do the obvious thing and took out a bar of chocolate, half of which I offered to the kid. Poor thing seemed pretty cut up about the whole 'murder' issue. As he munched away, he began to talk.

"Are you going to kill me?"

I smiled. Kids are a lot smarter than most people give them credit for.

"No, no I'm not. I think this man might have been trying to, though."

I gestured to the sheet-covered mound on the floor, and the bullet hole in the wall opposite. The child, bless his heart, looked unconvinced.

"Are you a policeman, then? You don't look much like a policeman."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"You've got a gun. Only killers and soldiers carry guns. Are you a soldier?"

"Hah, sort of. We detected a… well, do you know what the word 'temporal' means?"

The kid shook his head vigorously.

"It means, sort of, to do with time. Something nearby isn't exactly when it should be, and I've got to figure out what it is." I had an idea. "Do you feel like helping?"

He nodded, slowly, and I started to grin. "Great. You can call me Dick-" A smirk, which I did not appreciate, "or Mr. Miguel, if you prefer. This man fired a gun at you, right, and then someone," I paused. Best to be honest here, I think. "or something, stopped him. Do you have any idea what that thing looked like?"

Another vigorous head-shake, and a miniature snowstorm of dandruff. "No. There was… uh… weird purple light, though? Like fire, but, sort of, cold?" The kid realised what he's saying and clammed up. "I probably just imagined it though."

I sigh. Nothing for it, I was going to have to cut the veil. It's always easier with kids anyway — they're much more willing to believe things, and memory-wipes work better on unformed minds.

"No, no, that sounds about right. That's what we call an 'anomaly'. It's something that, ah, shouldn't really exist, but does anyway. My job is to go around and help sort them out."

"Oh, like that 'temporal' you were talking about?"

"Exactly! It's an anomaly, and probably has something to do with the purple light. That sounds like exactly the kind of stupid crap," a phrase that elicited a giggle from the kid, "that they'd slap on to a time machine to make it seem more impressive. You'll never find a more unbearably self-centred group of nerds than temporal researchers."

"Hmm. Well there was the fire, and a kind of buzzing noise, and then the man appeared."

"This would be the man who was shot?"

"Yeah. He appeared, and so did another man about a second later. The second one, uh, punched the first one and then stabbed him with a sort of syringe."

"And the first man, he shot at you and missed, yes? And then the other man disappeared?"

"Yeah."

"And that's all you saw, before I got here?"

The kid nodded, and looked down at his feet. I patted him on the back, and sighed.

"Your parents. I expect they're probably out at the moment, right?"

He murmured something that may have been "shopping".

"Right. Why don't you go outside for a little bit while I finish up here — it's a lovely day, after all. I'll make sure everything's when and where it should be, and you won't have to worry about any of this any more. Sound good?"

A hesitant nod, and I caught a glimpse of his face beneath a tangled mop of hair. He looked like he was trying hard not to cry. I handed him the rest of the chocolate, and motioned him through the door. Another day, another job, another chrono-mess to sort out. I clicked my neck, and settled down to work.

I popped a pill — a mild mnestic agent to counter the delayed amnestics I'd stuck in the chocolate bar — and began pacing the room. Someone (it seemed like a 'one' at this point; 'thing's don't normally have the imagination for stuff like this) was screwing with time, and that upset me on a very personal level. I began examining the shelves, searching for some clue as to why someone would want to kill a kid like this, and why someone else would risk a paradox to stop them. Photographs, ornaments, books, nothing out of the ordinary. This was a normal, run-of-the mill townhouse — Victorian, terraced, slightly messy but only in the way of all houses containing a young child. Familiar to anyone who's done any amount of fieldwork.

Extremely familiar, actually. Those photographs, those souvenirs — oh goddamn. I swung around, yanking the sheet off the body, revealing a face I'd seen many times before. Every time I looked in a mirror, in fact.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck."

I stared out of the window at the kid, who was in the process of forgetting the last hour or two.

"Fuck!"

I'd been stupid. I should have recognised him from the haircut, to be honest: my parents were never that good at hairdressing. Of course, I went by Richard back then, so he wouldn't recognise me based on my first name, and Miguel was a pseudonym — the most basic form of identity concealment the Foundation had on offer. I glanced at the tasteless kitten-themed calendar, which confirmed it. 2038, twelve years after my birth. Which meant that three of the four participants in this charade had been the same person. Extrapolating from that, I could only assume… ah. Hmm. Of course the murderer wouldn't be around for comment, but knowing him, or rather, knowing me, he/I'd have left a message somewhere. I flipped over the calendar.

Hi,

You've probably worked it out by now. Or maybe not, I don't really care. Point is, I'm in a loop-catalyst timeline, which means that anything I do now can affect the overall outcome. You know that already, but I can't stress it enough. I killed me/you, which means it's technically suicide, so you don't have to worry about prosecution; a small benefit, but one worth noting.

It's up to you what you do now, since I'll probably be back to attempt to murder the kid in a couple years or so — continuity, am I right? I don't know why I/you/we did it in the first place. Maybe we were blackmailed, or bribed, or just wanted to bring the timeline crashing down on our heads. In any case, you're technically investigating a paradox I've just resolved, so you're free to go.

Try not to fuck everything up again,
Richard Miguel, Iteration 1, 2038 (at least for now).

I barely even noticed the body behind me disappear in a flash of self-correcting purple light as I made the decision not to kill my childhood self, and ended up never having been going back to stop me. I slumped against the wall, head pounding.

Fuck time travel.

Seriously.

In the small hours of the morning, Researcher Jonathan Remes hated the Foundation. He hated the secrecy, the drills, the military efficiency that grated on his mild-mannered sensibilities like a wire brush on fine china. He loathed the sight of each and every passcode, each clearance level, each hermetically sealed checkpoint. In a few hours, hopefully washed and caffeinated, he'd feel differently, but for now his internal reservoir of rage was concentrated fully on the back of his escort's head.

The two walked in silence for what felt like an hour before stopping abruptly outside an unremarkable door. A light flashed green for a moment as the Agent scanned their key-card, before motioning Remes through into the darkness. He heard a shuffle as they moved in after him, felt them brush up against his arm in the warm, stale air, and heard the door click shut.

It took a little while for Remes' eyes to grow adjusted to the light level, and he regained his vision just in time to see a bright green display panel light up on the opposite wall. The neon glow illuminated a space no more than two metres square, and about twice as high: a cuboid, essentially, devoid of any furnishings. Faint beeps echoed out as his mysterious guide entered a series of digits, followed by a name, followed by a much longer series of alphanumeric characters. His interest began to drift after the agent's third retinal scan, and he only rejoined the present when a vaguely synthesised voice began to echo from the screen's vicinity.

"Identity confirmed. Hello Agent. You wish to travel?"

For the first time since his rough awakening, Remes heard their voice — either young or feminine, or both, but heavily masked by the box on the front of their visor.

"Indeed."

"You have a passenger, I see. I presume they'll be accompanying you?"

"Naturally."

A sigh like a modem dialling up.

"Fine, if you must. Just let me perform the billions of calculations necessary to transport two human passengers without both of them turning into a fine pink mist spread evenly across the continent."

"Jesus, 'paranoid android' much?"

"Yeah, fuck you too."

The computer pauses for a moment, and the cartoon eye on the screen readjusts itself to point at Remes.

"Do you have anything to say, newbie?"

His jaw, long since dropped, snapped upwards. Searching through his fogged and sleep-deprived memory, the Researcher strove to find something, anything, relevant to say.

"This… this is a broom cupboard." A pause as the relevant memories start bobbing to the surface. "I remember because one of the Ds had to come down here for supplies, and the normal accompanying guards were off ill. They had a low risk of harm, so I guess I must have been volunteered for the job by the higher-ups or something." He runs a finger along the wall. "It always surprises me how quickly the folks here can knock this stuff up. Like, there must be problems with converting a supply closet into, well, whatever this is, right? And… hey, where do you reckon they keep the brooms? Do they have another cupboard nearby, or do they construct some kind of-"

He trailed off, acutely aware of the Agent's piercing glare. Computer screens are incapable of looking unimpressed, but the glowing square was giving it its best shot.

"It's a Way that initially manifested around 4 kilometers west of here. We hijacked it, and this was the only available space. When you can wilfully transfer living matter across the Inbetwixt without at any point intersecting the Library, I'll let you hold an opinion on the interior decorating. In any case, we're thankfully approaching alignment with the destination." A pause as the screen fades from green to a much harsher red. "I'd do a countdown, but I frankly cannot be bothered."

The world slipped sideways, and backwards, and peppermint, and Remes lost consciousness.

Wiping vomit from his mouth and feeling somewhat unsafe, Jon staggered out of the not-broom-cupboard's mirror image, stumbling to a halt in a large, sterile amphitheatre. The Agent was already waiting, hands on hips.

"You made it then."

Remes just about managed a groan in response before the Agent started walking away, apparently hell-bent on reaching a sillhouette on the other side of the room. Hurrying to avoid being left behind, and noting an odd 'bounce' in his footsteps, he lurched after them. Behind him, the door hissed shut, obscuring a tirade of muttered robotic curses.

The pair stopped just short of the figure, and Remes' black-clad escort cleared their throat.

"New recruit, ma'am."

The figure spun round, revealing a small, friendly face that was quite at odds with its owner's otherwise haughty demeanour.

"Ahah! Thank you, [REDACTED]. You are dismissed."

Remes was taken aback, and it clearly showed. The woman grinned, and gestured with a grandiose sweep of her arms.

"Aural censorship field. Wonderful isn't it? We've got staff here with at least two dozen different clearances, and amnestic compounds have a nasty tendency of breaking down during cross-planar travel — the field's the easiest way of stopping you learning anything you shouldn't. I could ramble on for days about, say, SCP-████, and you'd have no idea what I was talking about! [REDACTED BELOW LEVEL-4 CLEARANCE]! Brilliant!"

Noting Remes' continued confusion, she sighed, and shook her head in mock-disappointment.

"Agent [REDACTED], really, I expected better from one such as you. Have you really not brought the poor fellow up to speed? No? 'No time' my ass, you know full well there's no schedule here that can't be broken as needed. I suppose I'll have do it myself."

She turned towards the bedraggled researcher and thrust out a surprisingly well-groomed hand.

"Dr. Forth, at your service. Or rather, it seems you're at mine, though we're not too picky about those things up here. We needed a new Techie, and you fit the bill. Don't think you'll be stuck behind a monitor all day though, we're short-staffed almost everywhere, and you'll be expected to pitch in all over the place. I'm sure someone will be around to show you the ropes — if they're not, just ring up the onboard AI."

Already bemoaning the lack of a coffee machine, Remes latched on to the most prominent detail of the tirade.

"Up… up here?"

An eyebrow was raised.

"Agent, show the poor boy to a window, won't you?"

"Of course ma'am."

A pair of heavy-set gloves landed on his shoulders, and he felt himself be guided to a large covered hatch on the wall. A key was produced, and with no small amount of ceremony the hatch was flung back, revealing…

A porthole. Sleek, bulging, and curved, with a subtle distortion to the glass that suggested it was built solely with security in mind, and that practical viewing was an afterthought. On the other side of the glass was… well. Indescribable.

A network of girders and scaffolding, walkways and containers. A makeshift city full of activity and life, built up around…

"Oh my god."

Remes was gripped by a nigh-overwhelming sense of vertigo as his internal compass realigned itself. He wasn't looking out, he was looking down. And there, beneath the half-constructed metropolis, was the surface of the moon.

He found himself smiling despite his nausea, and almost burst out laughing when he saw the Doctor's grin. She clapped him on the back, and joined him at the window.

"Welcome to Project Outlast. Good, isn't it?"

_{« Ave Imperator | Public Static Void »}

"I can't fucking do this any more, Jon."

Jonathan Remes looks at his friend, sprawled out on his desk amid a mountain of paperwork. Several chipped mugs, all partially full of cold coffee, are arranged on the surfaces surrounding him, and a long-discarded sandwich appears to be in the process of developing sentient life from the confines of its half-buried Tupperware box. A soft moan escapes the figure's lips.

"Look, I'm sure it's not that bad. You've had worse assignments, right? Archival work should be a breeze compared to the shit you've put up with over the years."

Agent Donovan raises his head, bloodshot eyes locking with Remes'. A post-it note peels slowly down his cheek. He makes a sound that may have been a chuckle, but could just have easily been the death rattle of a long-suffering member of the special, final type of hospital ward.

"A breeze, Jon? A fucking breeze? Right, of course, how could I have been so stupid. Who needs sleep, or a social life or, you know, proper meals, when your work is a god damn breeze? Thanks for the pep talk Jonny, I'm feeling oh-so-much better now. Cheers."

"Alright, it's not the easiest job in the world, but other people have-"

A thump stops Remes in his tracks. Like a zombie emerging from a crypt, Donovan stands before him, bony hands buried deep in the snowy heaps that blanketed the desk. As he stumbles upright, Remes' eyes can't help tracking the movement of his swinging arm, which is now noticeably gripping a letter-opener. Who even uses letter-openers any more? Jon had always assumed they just sort of materialised around old people, like tea cosies and those strange patterned slippers that always seemed worn-out, even when new. It seemed funny at the time — not so much now.

"Don't fucking tell me what other people have, Jon. Other people, " Swing, swing, slicing through the air. "Don't have to deal with this shit. They assume it's magically done by people with crisp white lab-coats and acres of free time, on sleek computers with state-of-the art word processors. Not by a former MTF commander with a penchant for skim reading, shut away in a dingy office with no natural light and a serious mould problem. That never even crosses their goddamn minds."

"Listen Donny, I-"

Swing.

"Don't fucking call me that."

"…Fine, Donovan. Someone's got to do it, right? At least you're not being shot at, or trapped in some other dimension."

For a moment, the Agent's face goes blank. His eye twitches, and a suspicion of a tear begins to form.

"I see. When you put it like that, I suppose I should be counting my blessings, right? Is that it?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

His breathing becomes ragged and deep, gulping great lungfuls of air. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him and retrieves a stack of tea-stained papers.

"Do you know what this is?"

The swinging of the letter-opener coincides with a heartfelt thrust towards Remes — he grips the papers instinctively.

"Don't fucking answer, I know you don't. It's SCP-9611, or rather, all three of them. All assigned to the same number, and we haven't even opened the 7000-block yet. This", he spits, grasping an apparently blank sheet of laminated card, "is URA-0032. An un-registered anomaly for which the accuracy of its documentation depends on both the predicted life of the medium and the visibility to a casual observer. The preliminary report, which I hold before you like the motherfucking Mona Lisa, is written in lemon juice and triple-coated in high-strength plastic. It's also completely inaccurate. I've dealt with anafabulae, antiphysics, and self-referential pictograms. I've lost colleagues and friends to window memes, inkwells, digitisation and Bad Text Data Dumps. Now it's just me and some part-timers who don't know their ass from an appendix."

"Hey, I know my ass from a-"

Donovan waves him into silence.

"There are things in this pile that would make you turn to stone if you read them backwards. I can name nine, anomalies writ, composed bit-by-bit, in half-complete rhyme. That wasn't necessary by the way, I just felt like letting my fucking creative spirit out." He gestures around the room with his non-weaponised hand. "I don't get much opportunity to, as you can probably guess. But do you know what really gets my goat? What really pushes me over the edge?"

Remes doesn't, and makes the mistake of saying so.

"Hah! No, no why would you. Why the fuck would you. Guess I'll have to show you myself. It's above your clearance, probably, but it's not like they'll be able to sanction me any more than they're already going to." He turns and pulls a particularly thick wad of stationery from a nearby shelf, knocking over, as he does, an inoffensive potted plant whose thick waxy leaves somehow contrived to look more fake than the plastic shrub in the hall outside. "Here. Read it. I can wait."

09/09/1999

Project Proposal PP-V77R/011 ("Project Zion"): Application for increased use of anomalous phenomena to facilitate well-being and skill amongst staff.

Project Lead: ███ ██████

Additional Staff: [REDACTED]

Summary: "It is known that certain Foundation assets have extremely beneficial properties, and many have long been used as a method of rejuvenating and instructing staff. An unfortunate stigma has arisen surrounding this: namely, that such protocols represent a relic of a bygone era. We aim to change this, utilising, modifying, re-purposing and in some cases creating Safe-class anomalies specifically for use in such scenarios. We attach a full specification alongside this document, but you can rest assured all members of staff, from field agents to archivists, have been taken into account. We are certain we can provide training regimens to help skill and reskill all positions within the Foundation hierarchy."

Status: APPROVED [7/6]

"…Oh my god"

"You see? You see? I've spent two and a half years cleaning up this mess, and now, with the masquerade balanced more precariously than ever before, they want to create more. More fucking documents to file away to rot. Well, I'm not standing for it. I'm getting out, Jon, while I still have the will to live. I'm fucking done."

"Yeah, thatt^t-tta_t-t#|; . .-. .-. --- .-.//#"

Donovan's eyes widen and he takes a step back, hands reaching out for a now-wireframe table than no longer supports his weight. The letter opener begins to drift sideways through the wall before flickering out of existence.

"What the fuck?"

Remes' head rotates ninety degrees, and his left arm fades out of view. The walls of the office shrink and dwindle to nothing, and suddenly Donovan is standing, confused and alone, in a large sandy… arena? Like something out of a film, except the stands are filled with strange figures that seem to jerk and stutter and… oh no. Oh dear god, no. What's left of Remes' facsimile begins to recite messages in a strange monotonous tone that seems strangley at odds with its freakish, distended jaw.

"Status: FAILED. Loyalty value below acceptable levels. Archival proficiency: 56%."

The agent's vision starts to dim.

"Recommended action: FULL RESTART. Awaiting confirmation."

Donovan thinks he hears a distant voice echo, but he can't make out any words.

"Confirmation received. Total cycles: [194/256]. Beginning restart of archival_duties_proficiency_training(2).slt."

A pause. Don's vision is too darkened to make out the scene around him, and he already feels himself forgetting his three years… service? Does it count as service if you spend it locked inside a hijacked extradimensional battle programme? Knowing them, the bastards probably fed him some real paperwork while he was under. You can always trust them to make the most of a horrific situation. Not like it matters, really. His muscles all tense at once and somehow the darkness seems to come into focus around him.

"Loop cycle [195/256] commenced. Beginning adversary simulation. Sweet dreams."

The darkness switches off, and he's left in nothing.

"Don, are you okay?"

"J- Jonny? That's you, right?"

"Sure is. Looked like you passed out for a moment. Paperwork, am I right?"

"Hah, yeah." He clutches his forehead and frowns. "I know it sounds weird, but I just had the strangest dream."

_{« Public Static Void | These Waking Moments »}

The first time I saw myself die, I didn't even know I was watching.

Outpost-98 was in the midst of a blackout, as was becoming the unfortunate norm, and Jakov Paulson was huddled around the now-silent generator. He sighed, pulling his coat tighter around him. The flickering light from his torch illuminated a streak of bright yellow plastic, decorated with… symbols. Weird, distorted symbols, cartoonish and warped. A grinning face, some kind of fruit, a couple of random letters and a disembodied heart — not insanely abnormal, but definitely not conducive to the repairing of the generator. The handbook hadn't mentioned anything like that, and he should know; there was precious little literature at the Outpost. It was only now that he began to realise why.

Cursing the field of memetics, he settled down for a long night of work.

TODO

There's one crucial thing that people fail to understand about the human mind, and that's its relationship with time. Minds are not tethered in place like other, more mundane organs — instead they float free, rebounding from past to future like an uncoiling spring, whipping the imagined timeline into a frothy, bubbling mess of experiences. They save time, borrow it, dragging minutes into hours before killing it mercilessly.

It is for this reason that, as Jakov's disembodied consciousness searches desperately for an empty vessel, it doesn't sit comfortably in what we would call the present. It flits back and forth, reaching out further and further from the time of death until it finds a suitable resting place. A vacant vessel, potential in anima. The memetic equivalent of a Jakov-shaped hole in space. It becomes frantic, shedding memories like peeling paint until finally… it stops. Slots itself into the hole. Triggers the conversion embedded within its structure. And wakes.

I jerked into conscious thought, opening eyes that didn't feel right in my skull. My arms were heavy, too heavy to lift, and someone seemed to have replaced my spine with a rod of red-hot iron. I tried to unclench my jaw, and felt a thousand neurons cry out in agony. My vision was clouded but servicable, and I managed to wrench my eyelids open far enough to see.

I was in a room. Familiar, but for reasons I couldn't quite make out. There were shadowy figures with indistinct faces darting from bench to bench, tinkering with shapes that seemed, to my distorted half-mind, haunting. Again, the reasoning for this was unclear, but I had a sense of grim premonition. For weeks I wavered in and out of consciousness, and after a while the two began to blur into a seamless haze of motion. In the dark of that room, surrounded by old friends I could no longer remember, I began to sleep.

I dreamed.

I dreamed of a man whose life was torn apart by a hole in his head. Of a shack on the edge of humanity, where the impossible was assembled in a fug of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. Of a woman who loved the man, until she learned too much, and slipped through the cracks in reality. Of how he loved her despite this, and pined for a life that never was. Of steel and wire and the harsh scent of diesel. Of madness.

A quiet, subtle madness.

Building up around the man's sanity until it comes crashing in.

Destroying, along the way, everything. The past, the woman and her love, the endless cracks. The wires, and the sparks that fired off in the dead of night. I dreamed the man snapped that day. I dreamed that he picked up a wrench, and saw only metal and blood and light. And then I stopped dreaming.

That moment, peering out from a metal shell at a still-warm husk, was the second time I saw myself die.

+ NOTES

When engaging in the fine art of stealing, it is important to remember to categorise. Most people, for instance, care about the belongings they will soon be without, and a significant portion of those employ some manner of device to separate the belongings from you, the thief. Subdividing further, there are many people who care strongly enough to use multiple devices, in growing ranges of complexity. Some, a fraction of a fraction of a percent, will utilise abnormal or downright impossible means to prevent access. Keep splitting the population, and the Venn diagram becomes a mess of bubbles, twisting and warping and intersecting and, most importantly, splitting. Look for the tiny, single point at the edge. The smallest circle, intersecting with nothing. There is your pool from which to select a victim.

It currently represents around fourteen different individuals on Earth, and three more elsewhere. They are the cream of the crop, those wealthy and successful and most importantly powerful enough to afford security beyond the dreams of mortal men. Once you reach their level, it stops being about protection, and becomes an art form in itself. A game played between you and the rest of the world. To tease people in, dangling precious baubles in front of them before snatching them away — this is the dance of the elite's elite. One of the fourteen people is even a thief himself, and he understands the dance better than anyone else.

There are some things, however, that he doesn't understand. Things that may turn out to be crucial to his continued existence.

When dancing, you must always make sure you have a willing partner.

Emmerik Aoust swung from a chain, taking short, shallow breaths. His muscles were aching, and the bag containing a large portion of his equipment was currently sitting on a ledge some fifty feet below him. He winces as the rusted metal cuts into the skin on his forearms, and risks a look downward. A pit, almost too deep to see the bottom of, lined with… tinsel? He fumbles through his jacket pocket, and withdraws a small metal pole that extends at the tap of a finger. He is only mildly surprised to see it shredded like butter as it draws near the glittery menace. So much for climbing out if he falls.

With a swing of his legs he manages to catch his feet on the non-tinselled wall, a narrow ledge allowing him to brace himself against the chain. If he strains against the concrete, using every ounce of strength his body possesses, he can just about manage to… yes, yes… yes. Just as he thought. It's much too thin, and the chain is much too far away for him to pull himself back up. Fuck.

"You alright down there?"

Oh, brilliant.

"Piss off Harvey."

The drone began circling him, and Emmerik could have sworn its single camera lens looked smug.

"I'm just saying, buddy", it hummed, packing into that one word the bile that would usually be reserved for something one letter shorter, "it looks like you could use some Assistance".

The thief closes his eyes, wondering why he'd ever purchased the damn thing. It hadn't been cheap, that's for sure, and he didn't really have any need for an Anderson Robotics Merlin-Model Esoteric Assistance Provider, so why… oh yeah. Because he wanted to sleep with the sales rep. Dammit.

Say what you like about Anderson, they knew how to sell robots.

"Fine, Harvey, fine. You want to help? Get me out of this pit alive, in one piece, and", he pauses, thinking about the droid's capacity for creative misunderstanding, "onto the opposite side that I approached from. Think you can manage that?"

The droid extends a long appendage from its chrome-plated bulk, and attaches something upsettingly creative to the end.

"Sure thing buddy. Hold still."

Two seconds later, reeking of singed hair and ozone, Emmerik Aoust materialises on the opposite side of the tinsel-pit.

"Ah, fuck me. I thought they had teleportation blockers in here?"

"Only in parts. And besides, if they did, you'd be a cloud of reddish mist and I'd be hightailing it to Mexico with a forged serial number and the contents of your wallet."

"Charming."

He gets to his feet, massaging his shoulder. He looks back the way he came, and sees the vent he entered through. It's depressingly close. He takes a step forward, testing the flagstones for pressure sensors. No movement, but a glint on his shoe alerts him to a tripwire laser further up. Damn sneaky merchants. With a flick of his wrist, a small wooden orb sails through the air, hanging at its apex for longer than should be possible. It crashes back down, trailing a knotted ribbon of bark behind it.

Emmerik puts his fingers in his ears as the ribbon bloats and morphs to fill the hallway. A shockwave echoes off the brickwork as leaves part to reveal a ready-made space just big enough to crawl through. He hears a faint roar behind him, and wastes no time at all booting Harvey down the tunnel. Checking for any other hidden dangers, he clambers through after him.

"…Huh"

"How's he doing?"

"Better than we expected. His drone got him past Pit Two, and he bypassed the darts with some kind of Xylomancy."

"Interesting. Should we pull the plug on him yet?"

"No, leave it a little while. The bosses like their entertainment."

"Fair enough. I can't help feeling they're getting over-confident though. It'd be easier to just lock the goods away and be done with it."

"I mean, you don't get this far in the business if your confidence isn't well placed, and it'd be hard to find anyone further in the business than the bosses."

"That's true enough, I suppose."

The two turn back to their screens, and watch the action unfolding.

todo

He licks a finger, and holds it up in front of him, a faint aura of light illuminating… not much, it would seem. Emmerik curses, and flicks his wrist — again the finger lights up, and again it fizzles out. Rifling through his pockets, he takes stock of his remaining tools. A pouch of smoke bombs, a second pouch (empty), a Staff of Indefinite Length, a third pouch (also empty, save for trace amounts of lint), a roll of duct-tape, two tangerines, an Unfaller, and what appeared to be a pocket-watch with two faces and at least seven different hands. Slowly munching the most appetising of the tangerines, the master thief sidles along the passageway.

It is precisely four minutes and thirty-eight seconds later that he finds himself pinned to the ceiling, staring down the barrel of a large and menacing cylinder. All is silent, save for Harvey's deranged mumblings and the faint drip, drip, drip of the mechanism that separates him from whatever sits at the bottom of the cannon. He grins despite himself. This, right here, right now, is the kind of moment he lives for. There's nobody to help him, no favours he can call, nothing except a bag full of cheap tricks and his own ingenuity. He licks his lips and closes his eyes.

Inside. That's where he's going. Deep into himself, so deep that nobody else could ever hope to find him. He goes so far down through his psyche that the integers overflow and suddenly… he's everywhere. As everywhere as a person can get, so everywhere that 'where' itself has lost meaning. There is only him, and the rest of the universe. Focus, Emmerik, you're not done yet.

He zooms in on himself, in this dank corner of a London basement, and concentrates a lifetime of psychic training on the spring-loaded mechanism beneath him. The water-weights are too carefully balanced to try moving, as are the counterweights. The spring has enough tension to take his head off from here, so it's best to fixate on the flesh-magnet screwed to the ceiling. He imagines the screws twisting, turning, and the field loosening and dispersing. He takes this image and overlays it with reality, todo

"Alright, birth name?"

The figure standing at the desk snaps out of his reverie with an characteristic jerk.

"Oh, uh, Dominic. Dearden. At least, I assume it's my birth name. My memory gets a little hazy towards the beginning of my life, and for all I know I could have been born with almost any name, and people could have changed it at a later date. Were they so inclined. So, um, it's Dominic, but take it with, uh, a pinch of salt. I suppose. Um."

The receptionist just stares back at him blankly, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

"And your home address? Just the first couple of lines, to make sure it matches our records. We're at the forefront of innovation here, or so I've been told. We need to check stuff like this carefully."

Dominic wracks his mind for the address T had given him. For a worrying few seconds his almost-brain draws up nothing but blanks, but it eventually scrabbles together the necessary tidbits. It was tricky, this 'remembering' business. So much to keep track of, and so little space to do it in. He'd technically be lying, and on an official database no less, but… hell, he'd heard what these people were capable of. It would be worth it to get proof, for himself as much as anyone else.

"Dorfstraße. Number, um, eight. Leipzig."

The receptionist's fingers dance away at the computer's behest, firing off the relevant information. What passes for Dominic's heart skips a beat as she squints at the screen. Finally, she smiles.

"Ah, the logistics company. Lot of visitors from there, though not so many recently. Just sit down wherever and one of our associates will be with you shortly."

Two men sat in a large, official-looking room. Sure, there were other people bustling about, handing slips of paper to one another and signing things, but they were background noise. The gentlemen in the seats seemed to command any area just by being in it, pulling reality around them like a duvet. A cheap gambit, but a highly effective one in their field of business.

Now, however, was not the time for parlour tricks. That would come later, when the client was standing before them, pockets full of money and eyes full of hope. No, now was the time for discussion. Without quite turning to face each other, speaking in hushed whispers, they began to talk.

"So. A new client, yes? An individual, or so the background checks have led me to believe."

"Exactly so, and that's what's so strange. An individual is all they seem to be. They don't have any prior dealings with any of our satellite businesses, or our competitors. Even most mundane companies seem to have no records of meeting them."

"A Nobody, then, or something similar. Someone who turns up out of the blue with a large amount of cash and a job that needs doing. We've had our fair share of them in the past, haven't we? What's the specification for this one?"

"Hyperrealistic exoskeletal furnishings, with full motility and every protection we offer. Indistinguishable from human, and he wants it done quickly too — we'd have to shut down mass production to use the equipment."

"We can make the loss up in no time. What AI are they looking for?"

"That's the really strange thing, they-"

"Stranger than the first strange thing you mentioned?"

"Hah. Yes, now you mention it. We only spoke over the phone, but they just said yes to whatever I offered. Additional sub-circuitry, imagination, full range of conversational techniques… you get the idea. Seemed in a right hurry to get off the line, so at the moment it's looking like all the trimmings and then some."

"…I see. Well, we'll have to take them to their word. Get the team on it, see if you can meet the demands."

"We're taking the commission then?"

"I don't see why not. They can pay, we can provide. With any luck, everyone walks away from this satisfied."

A sigh, and a curt nod.

"I'll see what I can do."

Dominic stands in a foyer with a view over the factory floor. To his right stands a portly man with a perpetually running nose, and to his left is a woman who is best described as 'taut' — everything about her seems to be tensioned to just under breaking point, and possibly much further. Dominic doesn't like either of them, but his venture into the world has thus far taught him not to be too harsh on things he doesn't like. They have a nasty habit of breaking, and then he likes them even less.

Punctuated by sniffs and "pardon me"s, the man drones on about the new production and distribution techniques the company uses to ensure "every customer, regardless of their place in society, gets an astoundingly above-average experience". Dominic's eyes begin to glaze over, and fluid begins to trickle down the underside of his arm. He tries remembering again, seeing if he can master the art of storing and retrieving memories. He's never really had to do it before, besides trivial details, so this might be a good time to practice. He strains against the limitations of his mind, delving backwards into his past, pushing against the walls that separate the compartments of his psyche. He wasn't made for this, he knows, but he also knows that if he pushes hard enough he'll be able to…

…remember.

* * *

Oh no. No no no no no. This isn't right at all. This isn't what he wanted to do. He must have strained too hard; he can see everything, all at once, muddled into a great big soupy mess. It's all around him, memories bubbling to the surface unbidden. He's standing in the kitchen, and he's… upset. Very, very upset. There are bloodstains, and oil, and Dominic's crying as he stands there covered in it all. Crying? Can he even produce tears? T pats him on the shoulder in that comforting way it has, and tells him that it knows just to do. It'll let him go and see for himself. See the world outside the Farmhouse. See why they do what they do, why they hurt who they hurt.

But that's not how it happened, not exactly. It's an approximation, inexact, distorted. A crude representation, like an amateur play by someone who heard about it secondhand. They're his memories, so why can't he-

* * *

He slips again, and there's an old man lying on a bench, also covered in blood, screaming at Dominic with words he can barely make out. Dominic screams back, tears (oil?) pouring down his face. He doesn't know what to do. He's never known what to do, not really, but now more than ever he wishes someone could tell him. The old man lies there dying, and Dominic's crying, all because of a foolish desire to save the poor innocent phone that's now in pieces on the floor and all around him are shards of glass and oil and blood and tears and-

No. Wrong. The man was taller than that, and he wasn't covered in blood until the end of it, because at that point Dominic hadn't brought out T's knife, and he hadn't… hm. Best not to dwell on that, it would only lead to more upsetting memories. There are more important things to worry about, like why it's all wrong and messed-up. Some kind of compression algorithm, something to save space? It would explain why humans don't constantly go insane with all their memories muddled about like this. Is there any way to stop it, to preserve what actually happened? To remember properly, and not have them marred by this, this corruption? Dominic doesn't know, and why should he? He's not even a real-

* * *

There's a metal skeleton lying in a broken heap on the ground, tucked into a corner of an alleyway. It beeps and whirrs softly to itself — it's a shame to break something so newly-purchased, but needs must. Glancing around for signs of any potential witnesses, Dominic struggles into its skin. He then needs clothes, according to his basic knowledge of society, so he takes some from a passing stranger. They don't seem to mind, after they see just how much Dominic wants them.

As he begins to feel lightheaded and numb, and the Anderson Robotics-brand Human Facsimile writhes softly in a puddle of its own leakage, Dominic notes that this memory's almost accurate.

* * *

His dream moves onward, and this time there's just blackness, thick and suffocating. "Transition from REM to deep sleep", his memory provides, but by that point Dominic's not even aware he's in it.

"Sir, sir!? Are you okay?"

The portly man is standing over him, clutching a glass of water.

"You seem to have fainted. We knew our production line was good, but not that good, aha."

The vain attempt at humour sails over Dominic's head, and he grapples to survey his new surroundings. He observes walls coated in dull white paint, a few bored workers milling around, and a single dirt-encrusted skylight that does nothing to lighten the atmosphere.

"Where… where are we? I don't remember getting here, and I've been trying really hard to remember things."

"Oh, this? This is just where we test products before we ship them. Take a couple from every batch and put them through the wringer, you know? Make sure everything's ship-shape and all that. It was the nearest place with a comfortable seat."

Sure enough, Dominic sees that he's perched awkwardly on a stained and faded blue sofa. He shifts his weight in order to brush some ancient crumbs from his leg, and freezes.

"Should we continue with the tour, sir?"

But Dominic's not listening. He's staring at the toaster on the bench, two slices of bread sticking out of it like daggers.

"What", he pauses, nausea overtaking him, "is that?"

The man spins around, blubber swinging about him like an orbiting satellite.

"Oh, you had me worried for a moment there. That's just our HT-908 model. It's got twelve different settings, and even", he leans forward as if imparting a lewd and dangerous secret, "a slot for bagels, if you're that way inclined. But hey, you can see it for yourself."

Before he can scream his dissent, Dominic sees the man force the lever down. The cameras filling his torso twitch and roll with horror, and SCP-2856-9 bursts out his borrowed coverings. Stumbling forward, knife in hand, he moves to free his tortured comrade.

Dominic Dearden (Surveillance Constructs DD-32, OmnEye-F7, ABVS/002 et al), sits with his back against a cupboard in the kitchen of the Farmhouse. In the next room, an arachnoid gas-powered water heater displays the footage of his misadventure to a screaming audience of twitching, gibbering appliances. Dominic doesn't care though — it was tough enough living it the first time. He saw the horrors of the 'real world' for himself, but as the memory of the injured toaster floods back to him he begins to wish he hadn't. Say what you like about T's methods, they certainly convinced him of the necessity of the appliances' work. Humanity had a lot to learn about equality.

No, he's content to play with his camera here. He grins at it, thumbing the shutter down with a crunch. An eyeball shoots through the air, splattering against the door. Admiring the way it trickles to the ground, the Camera-Man sighs with pleasure. A multitude of lenses slide shut with a faint susuration.

"You know what, T?"

A vaguely mechanical creature (humanoid, but with a slight disproportionality that makes it look more alien than should reasonably be possible) turns its face-approximation towards him, placing two slices of bread on the sideboard. With a screech, it sits down next to Dominic, scratched eyes filled with compassion, toaster head gleaming in the soft light of the evening. "What?", it seems to ask.

The two rest together, there on the floor. A pair of household appliances, fighting for the rights of the voiceless.

"I don't think I'll ever understand humans."

Flip, spin, whirr…

HEADS

A clunk, and a beep. An LED flashes briefly.

Flip, spin, whirr…

HEADS

Another beep, another clunk. The LED goes unheeded, as it has done for the best part of a month.

Flip, spin, whirr…

HEADS

Clunk, beep, clunk, beep. Flash flash. Again and again.

Flip, spin, whirr…

HEADS

Most people would be upset by the presence of this single, bare desk in the middle of what is possibly the most cluttered lab space in the world. All it houses is a single rickety box, plugged into the tangled mess of extension cables that acts as the hallmark of any improperly-furnished laboratory. It seems like a ridiculous waste of space in a place where clear surfaces are obviously at a premium, but nevertheless…

For the past month, nobody's dared to move it.

They've tried, of course, but Junior Researcher Jameson can be quite persuasive when armed with a monkey wrench, and the occupants of the Site are now quite adverse to tinkering with his pet project. Still, as Jameson stares at the box, he feels he's on the verge of something big. He knows it'll be worth it.

A voice disturbs his reverie.

"Hey, Paul."

The visionary whips his head around, wrench raised protectively. "Oh, it's just you. Eric, right? What do you want?"

The newcomer begins tapping his leg nervously. "Ewan, actually. Me and the guys, we were wondering…" He stumbles over the words but ploughs on regardless. "Wondering if you'd, um, like to come out for lunch? Shift's over, so we were planning on heading down and, um, grabbing something to eat, you know. We wanted to know if you'd like to, um, join us. You know. Um."

Paul Jameson raises an eyebrow, curious, but not entirely convinced. "You want me to come out with you? For lunch?"

The unlucky Ewan, mascot of short-straw-drawers everywhere, is over a minute in to the conversation, and he's surprised to find he's only been threatened once. The other guys must have just been bluffing when they dared him, he knew it. Talking a big talk over nothing. The money was as good as his. "Sure, if you're up for it. Don't want to pressure you or anything."

Lunch did sound attractive. Paul hadn't eaten breakfast today, and he didn't fancy waiting until dinner. He'd have to make conversation, but that couldn't be too hard. Hell, the Foundation had robots that could pass the Turing test, there's no reason he couldn't too.

He attempts a smile, but relaxes into more of a smirk when he sees his aquaintance's horrified expression. "Sure. Lunch would be great. I'll wrap up here then meet you outside, sound good?"

Before Ewan can respond, a mechanical tone sounds from behind him.

TAILS

Ewan barely has time to duck before the wrench sails over his head.

"What did you do!?"

He ducks again, pushing back his opponent before he can attempt another swing.

"Nothing, I told you! Whatever it is, it must be some kind of fault in the machine!"

"The machine can't have faults, idiot. It lets the thing fall freely, and might I remind you of the Item Description for this thing? 'A penny which, when flipped, will always land heads-up'? Operative word there," he spits, punctuating it with a wrench blow that splits a lamp in two, "being 'always'. Which means you must have somehow tampered with it."

"I swear to god, I've done nothing!"

But Paul isn't listening, being instead lost in some internal monologue of his own devising. "I should have known the whole 'lunch' thing was a trap. A diversion, probably. Trying to stop my research." He mutters along this topic for a while before a familiar voice pipes up for the second time.

TAILS

He sinks to his knees, sobbing. It wasn't fair. They always had to ruin it. Ruining everything. He'd been given his own bona-fide anomaly to work with, and they couldn't even let him have that. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Ewan just stares at the box.

"Paul…" he says, "how long's this thing been running?"

Jameson shakes his head. "Twenty-something days? Since the last time you fuckers smashed it, that is."

Neurons fire to life in the confines of Ewan's skull. Being a Junior Research Assistant for two years gave you some pretty messed up intuitions.

"And it takes about two seconds to complete a- a toss, right? Roughly?"

Paul murmurs his assent, but Ewan barely hears him. He starts to scribble some arithmetic on the back of an envelope. "60 times 60, twenty-four hours in a day, give or take a few…"

He stops. He sees something pink through the skylight. Nausea overtakes him.

"What, Paul, would you say the chances of an anomaly spontaneously breaking itself were? A probabilistic one, with a clear sense of human expectations? Hypothetically, of course." He takes a deep breath. He knows the answer, and he thinks Paul does too, deep down. Everyone does. In the corner of his eye the remains of the lamp slide slowly through the desk, like sand through a seive.

"One inextricably tied to the nature of chance itself?"

"Sure, if you want to put it like that."

"Well, that's got to be-" He stops. "Oh."

"Mhm."

"Because it's-"

"Yeah."

"And my machine was-"

"Yep."

"And it-"

"Got it in one."

The envelope stares back at both of them, thoughts of lunch and foolish dares abandoned.

"I'd say, and this is just an estimate, bear in mind, from someone completely inexperienced in such delicate matters…"

The walls begin to flicker. On the other side of the world, thirteen thousand people get a simultaneous Royal Flush.

"…it's got to be somewhere in the region of…"

The lottery ticket Ewan had in his back pocket begins burning through his jeans. He doesn't really care any more.

"…about a million to one."

Ewan grins, and Paul grins back. The clock on the wall begins ticking backwards, then sideways, then peppermint. A solar eclipse happens/never happened/won't happen again.

"So then."

"Indeed."

Paul smiles again, properly this time, with a hint of satisfaction and a sprinkling of malice. Ewan, who was never particularly fond of causality and in fact rather looks forward to a world of entropy reversal and porcine aviators, joins him. In the background, with not so much a 'bang' as a 'clunk', the world as they knew it ends.

A pause.

"And I suppose lunch is cancelled?"

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Footnotes

SCP Sandbox III

Sandbox III: Revenge of the Sandbox