Per 
- 1
- Pinpricks
- Pillars story
- Hecking Frogs
- Hekatonkheires
- Truth About Eggnog
- Friendship Is Only Skin Deep
- First one
- Family Matters
- Ambrose Pillars
- Thingie
- only mist surrounds me.
- ExqCorp 2
- Are You Ready For The Country
- I Just Wanna Grill
- There's No 'I' In Team
- ExqCorp
- Dinosaur Milk
- Lantern Bearer
- Bug Room
- Speak Of The Devil
- I Am Livius
- Lost Footsoldier
- Toadstool Catering
- Water Cow
- Lady Starlight
- Image Sources
- Scraps
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Pinpricks of light sway in the darkness, attached to bodies of gray flesh and mold. Blue and bright, the lights stare at me from the shadows like eyes. It bounces off sloughing, wet skin and walls of black, cut stone. My skin feels loose, but firm in the spots where the light bursts through. I brush my arm and the fat and the flesh peels off, dropping on the floor with a wet thud. Gnawing and gulping follows shortly afterwards.
The pinpricks of light are on me. In me. I feel their tendrils wriggle beneath, burrowing into everything, replacing flesh and nerve where there is none. They pull at my bones and cartilage since my muscles no longer can. They flail out of where my eye used to be. I don't remember when I lost it. Or where. The tendrils don't hurt. Not anymore.
Not after… how long has it been? Did I get them yesterday? Or has it been longer? I think it's been much, much longer. But it could have been yesterday. It doesn't really matter. Not here in the dark.
Still, it'd be nice to know I guess. I reach out to the other pinpricks, shouting to see if they know. They don't answer. I grab one of them, I think his name is, or used to be… something with a D, and ask again. Nothing but dank air and wheezing comes out.
Oh yeah, I don't have vocal cords anymore. There's only light in my throat now. I let go off the person who's name used to be something with an A and apologise. My hand feels heavier. Few seconds later I realize that it's in my mouth, and now it feels lighter than before. This works.
I shrug and accept that I won't ever know for sure how long I've been here. There definitely was something before the pinpricks, though. I don't think I was very happy back then. I was somewhere else first. There was… a sky, and red plants. And mushrooms, kind of like the pinpricks and their tendrils, but not as fun.
I remember being angry at… someone. Seems quite pointless now, but back then I was furious, and so were others. We did something that others didn't like. There was blood and steel and fire, and I burned. I was even less happy afterwards. I was forced to move, or someone moved me, and then there was mist and huge shadows of stone.
And shapes in the fog.
I was scared of them then, but now there's a connection of some sort. Has been ever since the big men of steel ran from them and the pinpricks. I… screamed when they slithered in my mouth and my eyes and nostrils and ears and through my skin and my bones, and then I died. Or was I born? Maybe both. I don't know why I'd fear such a wonderful thing, honestly.
The shapes whisper to the pinpricks sometimes. I think they made them.
And I love them for it.
There's images, too, sometimes. The shapes show me what they see. There's people and lights. But they're warm, not like the pinpricks. The shapes don't like them, so I don't either. I don't really know why to be honest. Sometimes I feel like I don't have a choice.
I can feel them now. Walking and breathing and talking and living above us. Most of them don't know we're here. But that's fine, they will soon.
They too will know the pinpricks.
Snow squeaks and crunches under the tires of a black, pockmarked Honda as it rolls into a university parking lot, hitting the speed bumps a little too fast and bouncing violently as a response. A metallic screech rings out as the driver hits the breaks a little too late, causing the bumper to thud against a cinder block as it comes to a halt. Muffled curses spill from inside, rising quickly in volume as the door opens and a lithe, tall man with snow-white hair steps outside.
"Cursed machine," the young man says with a rolled r as he yanks the sunglasses of his face in frustration, two pitch-black eyes inspecting the damage. Another man steps out of the passenger's side, his eyes wide and his legs slightly shaky. He's shorter but has a stronger build, a buzzcut adorning his head.
"Sir- sir, y- your eyes," he says, gesturing at him and the glasses. The other man waves his hand dismissively.
"There's nobody around ya dope. It's fine." The white-haired man hops on the cinder block and off again on the other side. "And don't call me sir. My name is Winter."
"Yes si- uhh, Winter. Yes, Winter," the shorter man stutters, not noticing that their superior has already walked off. He blinks and quickly scrambles after him.
They walk through an archway, emerging into an open air atrium, a large assortment of concrete blocks and wooden boards sitting in the center, seemingly working as both an art piece and a rest area.
"Ever been through a Way before?" Winter asks, walking up to the centerpiece.
"I've read a lot about them." Winter chuckles.
"Well, I assure you lad, them books do not prepare you for the real thing", he says and sets his hand on the rough, stained stone while looking around to make sure no one's watching. "Control and knowledge are the pillars of civilization."
The centerpiece pulses, little puffs of snow and dust falling off. The sound of grinding stone echoes out as concrete cracks, rectangular structures sliding out and rearranging to form an opening leading up to a darkly lit stairwell going down. A thick, dimly glowing mist begins to spill out, curling around Winters form as he turns to the other man.
"Ready to- why are you holding your nose?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.
"I heard that if you don't hold your breath inside a Way, you'll throw up your lungs," the man says meekly.
"That's not- yes, Aaron, that is exactly what happens. You passed the pop quiz." The man called Aaron nods and takes a deep inhale of breath. Winter smirks and steps in.
"Wait, how come you're not-"
"I'm a demigod, remember? Doesn't apply to me. You should hurry up and follow me closely if you don't want to be eaten by the Way though." Not questioning it, Aaron runs in after him, making an audible gulp as the entryway closes behind them.
As they descend in silence, Aaron's, whose body is unaccustomed to cross-dimensional travel, skin turns a slight shade green as the undulations and torrents of Limitspace turn his bowels and disrupt the bloodflow in his head, reminding him strongly of Monday mornings in college. After a while, a warm and prickly wave blows their hair back, signaling that they've crossed into another dimension. Aaron's mouth stings as he gets to taste his breakfast again.
SCP-5224
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-5224 is held in a waterless terrarium otherwise suited for amphibians. SCP-5224 is never to come within 100 meters of water.
Frogs created by SCP-5224 must be terminated and disposed off per standard biological waste disposal methods.
Description: SCP-5224 is a female marsh frog (Pelophylax ridibundus). It does not experience senescence, and it does not need to eat, drink or breathe.
If SCP-5224 croaks within 100 meters from a body of water, it will start to go through eutrophication,1 and additional members of the order Anura2 will begin to manifest within it. Said frogs will always be native to the area, and the rate of frogs produced is 5000 per 1 cubic meter per second. This will continue until SCP-5224 stops croaking.
After manifestation, produced frogs will instantly head towards the nearest site of plant agriculture. Upon arrival, they will begin to consume insect life at a rate that is highly damaging to the ecological balance of the region. Aside from this and their method of creation, produced frogs are non-anomalous.
Incident Report 5224.1: On 29/01/21, a peregrine falcon holding a clay pot materialized in SCP-5224's containment chamber. It dropped the pot, grabbed SCP-5224, and disappeared.
Upon inspection, carvings on the pot were found to contain a message written in hieroglyphic script:
Apologies for any problems my wife might have caused. Sent our son to fetch her. She's been a little confused ever since the days of Babylon when she became associated with plagues instead of fertility and crops.
If y'all could stop changing our domains, that'd be appreciated.
With love, Khnum.
Investigation into the whereabouts of SCP-5224 is ongoing.
Special Containment Procedures: As SCP-5215 cannot be moved, it is contained at the site of its discovery, which has been disguised as a privately owned garden.
Description: SCP-5215 is an indestructible pomegranate tree (Punica granatum). The only parts of the plant that can be broken off and destroyed are its leaves and fruit, which hold anomalous properties of their own.
Following the ingestion of SCP-5125's fruit, 50 eyes will form in various locations on the subject's body. These eyes are fully functional
Special Containment Procedures:
Description: SCP-5224 is a phenomenon in which all commercially produced eggnog radiates abnormally high levels of Akiva radiation. This was discovered accidentally on December 17th, 2018, during standard research and radiometry of SCP-5907, when a researcher walked through the measurement field of an Akivameter while holding a cup of eggnog.
Further research shows that upon consuming the beverage, said radiation will transfer to the consumer, localizing in the stomach region. Additionally, approximately seven hours after ingestion, a burst of higher intensity radiation can be detected within the subject, after which Akiva levels will return to ambient. All of this appears to be harmless, and subjects do not experience symptoms of Akiva poisoning.
Origin of SCP-5224 is unknown. Research continues.
Research Note.3: On December 20th, 2018, further inspection of the radiation burst detected within test subjects has revealed that it does not dissipate as we initially thought. By using more sensitive equipment we have been able to discover what appear to be minuscule, incorporeal organisms phasing out of the subjects body immediately after the burst. Currently, these organisms cannot be detected by anything other than the high saturation of Akiva radiation coming off of them, but their shape appears to be roughly similar to that of an arachnid.
Through the strategic placement of eight Faith Vacuums, we have established an exclusion field to contain and observe these organisms further.
Research Note.4: The organisms, hereforth referred to as SCP-5224-1, have been under observation for a period of two days. When not exposed to human life, they appear to quickly fall dormant. However, when in the presence of a living, conscious human, they begin to mobilize, attaching themselves to the subjects skull or spine. This seems to trigger a release of endorphins in the subject, as well as a slight increase in their generosity and general positivity towards the current season and the holidays associated with it. Simultaneously, SCP-5224-1 will rapidly increase in size.
Special Containment Procedures: Each instance of SCP-5137 is kept in a separate containment chamber. Living personnel are not to come in contact with SCP-5137 outside of testing. Those that come within close proximity to SCP-5137 are required to adopt a friendly disposition towards the instance.
Description: SCP-5137 denotes a number of thaumaturgically animated constructs made out of an intact human epidermis. SCP-5137 instances resemble previously living humans, and consist of the epidermis, hair, and nails of the individual. Their overall body shape remains humanoid in form, regardless of their lack of muscles, bones, and other support structures. Despite lacking the required anatomy, SCP-5137 are capable of locomotion, vocalization, sight and hearing. They possess a rudimentary sentience and a limited vocabulary, most of which revolves around the concept of friendship.
When in close proximity to a living human, SCP-5137 will split down the middle and attempt to envelop the individual. If unobstructed, SCP-5137 will morph in size and coloration until it is indistinguishable from the subject's actual skin. SCP-5137 refer to this behavior as 'hugging'.
However, if the subject shows aversion to SCP-5137, it will detach the subjects epidermis through unknown means. Brain activity will immediately cease, and the detached epidermis will become a new instance of SCP-5137.
As of writing, the Foundation is in possession of 27 instances of SCP-5137.
Incident Report 5137-3: During testing, an instance of SCP-5137 was discovered to have stored the SD card of a handheld camera within the creases of its body. Upon removal of the item, SCP-5137 showed signs of considerable distress. The following are transcripts of the footage stored within the card.
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 05.08.2020. The camera has been placed on a flat surface, facing a bed. A man (hereby referred to as PoI-5137) in his 30s walks into frame and sits on the bed. His appearance is disheveled, and he is sniffling, clearly in emotional distress. He sighs, before beginning to speak.}
PoI-5137: So, my therapist told me that I should film myself every day. Just talk to the camera about my thoughts. She said it'll help clear my head, offer some self-reflection, or something. I don't know.
{He sighs and punches the bed.}
PoI-5137: Fuck, this is so stupid. Why am I even doing this?
[END FOOTAGE]
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 06.08.2020. The man is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.}
PoI-5137: Hi. It's me again. For the record, I still think this is dumb, but I guess its nice to talk every once in a while. So not everything is just inside my head.
{He shakes his head and chuckles.}
PoI-5137: Man, how sad am I? The only thing I can talk to is a camera. Especially now that Tom's gone, I have no human interaction anymore. Sure there's Dr. Ashwood, but she only talks to me because I pay her.
{Pause.}
I miss Tom. I really do. I don't know why he put up with me for as long as he did to be honest. Shit, maybe that's why his heart gave out. Maybe I'm the reason that he's dead.
{Pause.}
I'm so alone.
[END FOOTAGE]
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 07.08.2020. This time the man is sitting at a table, leaning towards the camera, which has been set on the table. In front of him is an old book with a black, leathery cover. The man opens his mouth, as if about to say something, and then closes it. This repeats for a while.}
PoI-5137: So… I might be going insane. More insane than I already am, that is. But anyway, I think I know how to bring Tom back… And I know how absolutely bonkers mad that sounds, but hear me out. Walking home from the grocery store, I fell down a sinkhole. And like Alice tumbling all the way to Wonderland, I fell out… somewhere else. A library. A huge library, bigger than any structure I have ever seen before. It was so tall, that you could fit skyscrapers inside of it. And it was teeming with… I guess people, but not normal people. Not human people. No, there were all kinds of weird, terrifying creatures of different shapes and sizes. It was like the Mos Eisley cantina scene!
Obviously, I was terrified, screaming and scrambling all over the place, but then this well dressed dude, another human, with an eye tattooed on his forehead, came up to me and calmed me down. He said his name was Basar, and that I was safe.
He told that we were in the "Wanderer's Library", an infinite library that functions as a hub between dimensions. Can you believe that? It's insane! He assured me that nothing there was allowed to hurt me. That the Library enforces pacifism. Then, after telling me the basics, about the Librarians, the rules, how loaning works, etc, he then just kind of… shuffled off.
I was still really overwhelmed, but the curiosity got the best of me, and I started perusing the shelves. I… must have spent hours there. You wouldn't believe all the things I learnt. I also found… this.
{The man lifts the book up and shows it to the camera. The cover reads "Engrams of the Dead".}
PoI-5137: I got myself a library card and loaned this. It's a book on necromancy. Most of the things here are… complex and dangerous, but there's one ritual that seems easy enough. "Crafting and Awakening of A Skin Construct".
{The man looks at the camera and smiles. His eyes are welling up.}
PoI-5137: I can bring Tom back.
[END FOOTAGE]
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 08.08.2020. The camera appears to be on a tripod in a living room. Furniture has been moved to the sides to make more room in the middle, where the corpse of an adult human lays atop an intricate, thaumaturgic sigil. Lit candles are positioned on the edges of the sigil.}
PoI-5137: I went and dug Tom up. Poor bastard must have been cold down there, in the dirt. It's okay though, that's over now. Well, almost over. First we need to get him on his feet again! Then everything will be fine again. Neither of us will have to be alone anymore.
{The man kneels down next to the body, and begins flaying it with a knife.}
PoI-5137: Just hang in there, Tom. It won't be too long now.
{Removal of the corpse's epidermis takes several hours. Extraneous dialogue has been omitted. Upon completion of the task, the man drags the skinless body out of frame and arranges the skin in the middle of the sigil. He then moves behind it and begins chanting in an unknown language. After several minutes, the sigil flashes, and the candles are extinguished as their flames are sucked into the skin, which then animates, getting on all fours and turning towards the man.}
PoI-5137: Tom! It actually worked! Oh my god, it actually worked! Welcome back! How are you feeling?
{Pause.}
PoI-5137: Oh, right. It says that I need to state your purpose. I… I need you to be my friend so I wouldn't be alone anymore. Like before. Does that sound good?
SCP-5137-1: (In an exaggeratedly cheerful tone) Friend… Yes! I will be friend. I will not let you be alone. This is my purpose.
PoI-5137: Great! Let's go eat. I made you your favorite food as a welcome back gift.
[END FOOTAGE]
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 09.08.2020. The man is sitting on the bed again. SCP-5137-1 is crouching behind him, leaning on his shoulder.}
PoI-5137: I have now spent an entire day with Tom and we've been having tons of fun! Playing video games, cooking, and just shooting the shit. Like in the old times! It's like nothing has changed.
{SCP-5137-1's face buckles inwards.}
PoI-5137: I even cancelled my appointments with Dr. Ashwood. I don't need her anymore, I have Tom now. I do wish we could go outside though. I miss our hiking trips. Actually, hmm, maybe we could go hiking somewhere really remote. Would that be fun Tom?
SCP-5137-1: I will go anywhere with my friend!
PoI-5137: Yeah! Let's do that next weekend. For now though, I'm really tired, so we gotta sleep.
{The man appears to forget to turn off the camera as he prepares to sleep. SCP-5137-1 splits down the middle and envelops him, altering its shape until it is unperceivable aside from occasional shifting. The man caresses SCP-5137-1 as he goes to sleep.}
PoI-5137: It's good to have you back.
{After a while, the man falls asleep. As he does so, SCP-5137-1 detaches from him. It crawls up the wall, into the ceiling and then out of the bedroom window.}
[END FOOTAGE]
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 10.08.2020. The camera is being held by the man, who is walking through his house.}
PoI-5137: Tom! Tom, where are you?
{The man walks in to the kitchen, where SCP-5137-1 is stood. It turns around towards the man and smiles.}
PoI-5137: Oh, there you are.
SCP-5137-1: Good morning, friend!
SCP-5137-2: Yes, good morning!
{The camera whips around to the ceiling, revealing another instance of SCP-5137.}
PoI-5137: Where… where did that come from?
SCP-5137-1: I brought you another friend!
PoI-5137: What? How? And why?
SCP-5137-1: I don't want you to be alone, so I went out when you were sleeping and made a new friend!
SCP-5137-2: You should never be alone.
SCP-5137-1: And you never will!
PoI-5137: What? No, this isn't… this shouldn't be possible. How did you make him, Tom? Who is he?
{The sound of a doorbell is audible.}
PoI-5137: Both of you, hide. We will continue this later.
{Both SCP-5137 instances scamper into cupboards. The man holds the camera down as he walks to the front door and opens. The legs of an elderly woman become visible.}
Unknown Woman: Hi… sorry to bother you, but have you seen my husband, Gerry lately? He didn't come home last night, and he isn't answering his phone. I'm getting a bit worried, so I'm going down the neighborhood in hopes that someone would know where he is.
PoI-5137: N-no! I… I haven't seen him.
Unknown Woman: Are you okay, young man? You seem a bit distraught.
PoI-5137: No, everything's fine. I just… I just lost a friend recently.
Unknown Woman: Oh, sorry to hear that. Well uh, if you hear anything or if you see Gerry, would you be so kind as to come and tell me?
PoI-5137: I will. I uh, I hope you find him.
{The man closes the door and walks back to the kitchen, where the two SCP-5137 instances are waiting.}
PoI-5137: Gerry… is that you?
{SCP-5137-2 turns its head upside down, as if cocking it.}
SCP-5137-2: Hello friend!
PoI-5137: Oh god, oh god, oh god… Tom, how could you? This isn't what I wanted! Why couldn't it just be us?
SCP-5137-1: But… you need friends!
{SCP-5137-2 frowns.}
SCP-5137-2: Do you not like me? I can be a good friend… Do you need me to give you a hug, so you can see how good of a friend I can be?
{SCP-5137-2 stands up and splits down the middle. Thaumaturgic energy begins coursing through its innards, as it slowly walks towards the man.}
PoI-5137: No! No! I mean… no, I'm sorry. I'm… just having a migraine. That's why I lashed out. It wasn't anything you did.
{SCP-5137-2 closes and smiles.}
¨
SCP-5137-2: Good to hear that, friend![END FOOTAGE]
[START FOOTAGE]
{Date on the timestamp reads 13.08.2020. The man is sitting on his bed again, with his head in his hands. Sniffling is audible.}
PoI-5137: I never wanted this to happen. I just wanted my friend back, that's all. Why couldn't he just come back the way he was supposed to? Instead I… I made a monster. How could I have been so blind?
{The man stands up, taking a deep breath and straightening his back.}
PoI-5137: I know what has to be done. I started this, and now it is time to end it.
{He takes the camera, and walks out of his room. SCP-5137-1 is standing at the end of the corridor, looking towards the man. It cocks its head and the man stops.}
SCP-5137-1: Hello, friend.
{Its tone is less jovial than usual, and its smile isn't as wide.}
PoI-5137: Tom, we need to talk.
SCP-5137-1: Of course. I like talking to my friend.
PoI-5137: Let's go to the kitchen for this.
{The man approaches SCP-5137-1. It does not move.}
PoI-5137: You're blocking my path.
{SCP-5137-1 stays still for a second, before stepping to the side. It stares at the man while doing so. The man walks to the kitchen, frequently turning to look at SCP-5137-1, who is following behind. In the kitchen, he turns towards SCP-5137-1.}
PoI-5137: I know you killed Gerry.
SCP-5137-1: I don't understand what you're talking about.
PoI-5137: Don't act stupid! It's over! We're over! I don't know what you are, but you're not Tom! And you are certainly not my friend.
{SCP-5137-1 frowns and steps forward.}
SCP-5137-1: Let me give you a-
{The man grabs a knife off the counter and slashes SCP-5137-1's throat open. It stops and its head flops backwards. The opening slowly stitches together, as its head rises back to its original position.}
SCP-5137-1 You have damaged me. Why would friend do such a thing? All I've done is make sure you wouldn't be alone.
PoI-5137: I'm not your friend! And I never will be! Get it through your empty head and then get out!
SCP-5137-1: But… what about all the other friends I've brought you?
PoI-5137: What other-
{Several instances of SCP-5137 emerge from behind corners, out of cupboards, windows and air vents. They crawl across surfaces, surrounding the man as they approach.}
All of the SCP-5137 instances in unison: Why don't you like us? We just want to be your friends. Let us be your friends.
PoI-5137: No, no- How are there so many? How are there- I'm so sorry. Please, go away! I'm so sorry! I never-
{The SCP-5137 instances swarm over the man, who accidentally lets go off the camera. Screaming and ripping sounds become audible, until they abruptly stop. The swarm dissipates, as a new instance of SCP-5137 detaches from the man's now skinless body. It walks up to the camera, smiles, and grabs it.}
[END FOOTAGE]
Critters: Avelon21,
UncertaintyCrossing,
PlaguePJP,
Phiiota,
Elunerazim,
TheDevelopingCookie,
CountAbra,
DrChandra,
Ralliston
The crowbar impacts with the balloon-like head of what used to be the hotel bartender, scattering thick, purple sludge across the walls and roof of the abandoned bar. A figure in a white, hooded cloak, decorated with a set of metallic wings on the hood, lets out a sigh of relief after having been surprised by the now dead Strange. Circling the loudly breathing mouth on the floor, he walks over to the bar and vaults over it, a cloud of dust skittering away from the first boots they've seen in years. His cloak sends a lapel pin shaped like a pentagram clattering on the floor. Mirage quickly pockets it.
"You don't mind if I borrow this, do you?" he asks the bartender while snatching a bottle of vodka from behind the bar. The corpse does not respond. He looks down at the bottle, the light of his eyes reflecting off the glass. 'Mirage, from the Spirit Co' reads the faded, green label. The man chuckles upon seeing his name.
"It's a match made in heaven," he says as he unscrews the bottle and chugs it down, only to be met with the all too familiar taste of iron.
"Fuck!" he spits, throwing the bottle on the floor. "Every time! Can a man not get a proper drink in the apocalypse?"
Stepping away from the pool of blood forming around shards of glass, Mirage goes and sits on the edge of a giant hole in the wall, setting his eyes on a familiar sight. Tall buildings with flickering neon signs, a purple sky, from which a giant, yellow eye stares down at the city, and a large sign in the distance that reads 'Welcome to LAS LOST VEGAS, Nevada'.
He leans forward and lets himself fall.
As soon as he detaches from the ledge, Mirage is met with a barrage of winds, their invisible, puny fists punching him in the face as he plummets. He grasps at the corners of the cloak fluttering behind him, and spreads it taught into one large wing. The punches turn into gentle grazes, and falling turns into a peaceful glide.
With trained hands, he constantly adjusts the cloak ever so slightly to adapt to the winds, and to reign them in his command.
The sky is peaceful. Safe. High in the air, Mirage feels detached from the city that sprawls underneath. That jungle of crumbling concrete and ash. An unsatiated graveyard of civilization, its fires still burning after a millenium. When the threads that support reality began to fray, Vegas, already sprawling with the anomalous, was one of the first to fall. The tumultuous expanse of magic was devastating, causing the city to shift and change in all sorts of terrible ways. Humans who weren't changed either died or fled, and now only the Strange remain.
As strange as the city is, a passing glance from up high might betray your eyes. Many of the lights are still on. There's music coming for the casinos, and cars on the street, though they no longer move. Once you train your eyes and look closer though, the nature of the city reveals itself. The ruby lights of eternal demonic revelries catch Mirage's eyes, beaming out of windows as they cast silhouettes of lost souls trapped in a never-ending dance. Drifting above, he can spot the tentacles of the Shifting Sands of Mandalay Bay peeking out of sewers in search of new things to add to its growing mass of sand and bone, the bloody graffiti drawn by the lions as prayers to their dark, golden gods, and the neon ghosts zapping in and around Neonopolis, the jewel of Fremont Street. Like the white spot in the center of an abscess, the huge shopping mall sticks out of the surrounding ruins in all of its multicolored glory.
Allowing himself into an increasing descent, Mirage pivots to the right, riding the current as he encircles the complex in a tightening spiral, until eventually tucking his feet in an rolling safely on to the roof.
Descending into the building itself, Mirage makes his way through maintenance corridors like he has a thousand times before. It doesn't take long before the dark, tight space emerges out into a hall of massive proportions, illuminated by dozens of signs, billboards and a large, swirling mass of stars and nebulae in the ceiling. Things have fallen mostly into disrepair, but the lights are still on, advertisements are still up, and operational screens still portray the same old messages that they did since this all started: "The Government has declared a State of Emergency. Make way to your local shelters", "All life in New York has mysteriously disappeared. Will you be next?", and "All is fine. Trust in Us. You have no need to worry. Just come up and touch the screen and we'll tell you everything you need to know. You know you want to. Then you can just sit back and relax. Trust in us." Mirage does his best to avoid eye contact with the latter.
Rest of the way has been permanently etched into his muscle memory. He goes past the axe throwing ground and ducks, a sharp gust of wind whipping his hood as an axe thrown by an angry poltergeist sails overhead. Then he quickly scampers past Heart Attack Grill, as to not be noticed by the rolling mass of fat and eyes and mouths serving an infinite wave of burgers to emaciated ghouls desperately trying to consume them, as muffled screams escape from a giant beating heart in the corner. Mirage is actively trying not to theorize where the meat in the patties comes from. Next is the Toy Shack, a vintage toy shop. A cymbal monkey sits in the display window, its round, unblinking marble eyes following him as he goes past. Now approaching his destination, he trains his ears, hiding every time he hears cycling accompanied by the hissing of a crocodile.
Hiding behind a corner, Mirage watches as a four-eyed lizard on a unicycle rolls past, long snout looking for prey. After making sure that the wheeled beast is within a safe distance, Mirage scampers towards a somewhat welcome sight. A pair of broken glass doors with a sign above them that reads "The Metropolitan Gallery of Las Vegas". Upon entry, Mirage lets out a long sigh of relief, which turns into a pronounced 'harumpf' of frustration near the end, as he sets his eyes on the same old, faded paintings for the who-knows-how-manyeth time. His rapid footsteps echo through the corridors, mixing with seething muttering.
"Physical paint, how arbitrary and boring… these are not even 3D. Where's the pizzazz? Where's the danger? Nowhere I can see, but here they are. In a gallery for all the world to see, and the world accepts it like a herd of sheep. Nobody appreciates real art anymore…" he says, unknowingly fondling the cracked crystal hanging off his belt.
Tucked in the most remote corner of the gallery is a sleeping bag, a small table, an assortment of water bottles and canned foods, and a cracked mirror. The reflection of his light bouncing off the silvery surface, Mirage catches a glimpse of his hooded face. The glowing eyes that constantly bleed a black ichor, the stretched mouth, the hooked nose. With a sharp inhale, he turns away, focusing intently on unloading the contents of his satchel, which are mostly comprised of even more food cans to add to his collection.
"Fuck," Mirage curses as he notices to have accidentally grabbed a can of tuna. "Not falling for that anymore. Almost drowned the last time". He rolls the can down a corridor, before collapsing on top of the sleeping bag. He closes his eyes, hoping for the elusive creature known as sleep to catch him. Waiting, he idly watches as the green and red shapes swirl within the darkness, pulsating and flowing, following the movements of his eyes. A while passes and the shapes begin to congregate, coming together and merging into new shapes and new colors, like the pieces of a puzzle slowly coming together, until eventually, their form becomes recognizable. Soon the backs of his eyelids are plastered entirely with images of the paintings that taint the walls of the Metropolitan. The same old fucking paintings that he has had to look at for years, day after day. Those goddamn paintings that stupid idiots enjoy more than his art!
Screaming, Mirage shoots up, grabbing his crowbar. With determined, large steps, he marches to up to the aisles. Tossing the weapon in his hands, he walks slowly down the corridor, staring at both walls from under his brow, like sizing up an opponent. Then, he stops, and with a swift blow to the side, decimates the frame of a painting, causing it to flop front down onto the floor. Reast of the paintings on the wall rattle from the impact, as if shivering in fear.
The relative peace the paintings have enjoyed for a millenium, quietly hanging and fading away, is broken as the fury of a pissed off artist turns into a whirlwind of metal and rage. Paintings, carefully crafted for days and weeks are shredded into slices and wooden frames brake into a hail of splinters and fragments that stick in Mirages hands and face like pins and needles, but he is too distracted, too enveloped in his own screams to notice.
"Take that, Sean Scully! That's what you get for hogging the spotlight!"
Grabbing a storage container, Mirage hurls it across the room, paper and art supplies flying out as it does. A temporal anomaly causes some items to slow down, flying through the air at a cumbersome pace, while others stop entirely. Snatching a bottle of spray paint, Mirage rolls the striker of his lighter. "It's all just physical! Nothing but colors! There is no effect, no risk, no reward. Just a bunch of pretty pictures!" He screams as a gout of flame bursts out of the can like the breath of a dragon. The fire catches on the remaining paintings and the debris in the air, turning the inside of the gallery into a roaring firestorm.
Pushing through smoke and flame, his white coated in soot, Mirage grabs his crowbar again, as he sets his sights on a marble statue standing valiantly against the destruction. With large, powerful swings, he brings the quickly heating metal down again and again again, as more and more pieces of rebar crumble and collapse.
"You would think that when the Veil broke, us anartists would finally get the chance to shine but nOoOo!" he screams through the smoke starting to fill up the room and flood into his lungs.
"It was still just Picasso that, Monet this. Well, Picasso! Can! Go! Fuck! HIMSELF!" he shouts, accompanying each word with a furious whack.
"And why on Earth is there a gift shop? Is that what art is to you people? A business? Just an advertisement for merchandise? Do you think you're cool yet? Do you think you're so fucking cool you little piss babies?" he asks, but only echoes answer. He lifts his crowbar high for a final blow.
"I am the coolest around here!" The crowbar comes crashing down on the head of the sculpture, exploding it like a melon. Pieces of stone fly outwards in every direction, a particularly sharp piece slicing into Mirage's cheek, a line of crimson trailing behind it. He leans back, and lifts his foot up high, as everything slows down. Mirage sees the fire and the smoke dancing amidst one another, mixing and forming into shapes and scenes. The smoldering remains of canvases float in the air, like fireflies in the night. His foot, on a slow but unavoidable collision course, pierces through the ever-shifting visual cacophony of light and dark, as it presses against the statue with a force that nearly sends Mirage sprawling. The leverage force separates the statue from its pedestal, and it falls backwards, displacing embers that escape around its sides as it crashes down, like a meteor burning in the atmosphere. Finally, after being stuck in a descent for a short eternity, it hits the floor, breaking into thousands of little pieces that slide across the surface, disappearing into the smoke.
Regaining some of his sensibility, or what was left of it in the first place, Mirage realizes that finally realizes that everything is not fine, that he is in danger, as his head begins to spin. Smoke and embers burning his eyes, he scampers to what he thinks is the direction of the exit. Through either muscle memory or sheer luck, or perhaps the decision of some entity with a sense of humor, Mirage forces his way through the heat, until his intake of breath no longer consists of fire and carbon monoxide. The air ripples, as he jumps out of the glass door and breaking through the time dilatation. After getting within a relatively safe distance, his legs decide that they have done their work for the day, and refuse to move, while his upper body still attempts to move forwards, causing him to fall on his face, while coughing his lungs out.
"We never were cool, were we?" he whispers from between cracked lips as some of the smoke clears from his brain. He drags himself across the floor to a wall, where he sits for a while, just staring at the smoke pouring out of the gallery. Out of his home. The closest thing to it anyway. Too tired to think, too tired to speak. Time passes and the flames begin to die down, as he shakes his brain fog away.
"You know what? Fuck that. I am so damn cool. I am the coolest motherfucker alive!" He stands up, and begins to flail wildly as he points his crowbar at people who aren't there.
"And I am going to show all of you just how cool I am! I will show you how pathetic you all are by learning how to paint and painting the greatest painting anyone has ever seen! Then you'll see, then you'll all see!" He grabs his crystal and storms out of the gallery, as his maniacal laugh fills the halls of Neonopolis.
The wasteland of Lost Vegas spreads around Mirage, as he walks through the smoldering streets. Rusted cars lie on top of cracked concrete, and dark shapes move in the windows off the tall buildings that sway in the wind. Crawling on the sidewalk, a man is constantly shifting between solid, liquid and gas, screaming incomprehensibly.
"Tsk tsk. Poor chap, been drinking too much dead Elvis piss," Mirage says as he walks past, eyes set on the huge green building ahead, shining in the night like an emerald amidst a dark sea. The MGM Grand Hotel.
Upon reaching the courtyard, it does not take Mirage long to realize that he is not alone, as the shadows begin to growl.
"Come out, come out wherever you are!" he shouts, and as if on cue, a creature leaps from a ledge, landing in front of him. Its shape is like that of the lions of old, but it has no fur, instead covered by a thick grey hide. Its face has no eyes, but the whipping tentacles that make up its mane have plenty.
He hears another emerge behind him, and then another, and then another, and more, until he is completely surrounded by a growling and salivating crowd of Strange beasts.
"What an absolutely stunning audience just for me. Can I say that you all look just magnificent today? Shame you're all such arrogant little pricks who can't stop whining about their god though." If a lion could gasp, then a crowd of them would have just done that.
"GOD IS GOOD. GOD TELLS US TO EAT YOU FOR YOUR BLASPHEMY!" one of the screams into Mirage's mind. The circle of fanged mouths around him suddenly gets tighter.
"He better come out and do it himself, then. I'm seeking an audience with the Golden."
"IF YOU WANT TO SEE GOD, YOU MUST CONVINCE YOU NOT FOOD."
"Oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Would you fine gentlelions like to see a trick?" Mirage asks as he reaches for the crystal.
"WE LIKE TRICK!"
"ENTERTAINMENT!"
The lions watch intently, as Mirage grabs the stone and lifts it in the air, where it stays put, as if frozen time, even after he lets go. He lifts his hand and focuses, as his neurons alight. Becoming one with the crystal lattice, his mind shifts and molds to fit every curve, every edge and structure within the stone. He feels a fire he has not felt in a long time, as light enters the crystal. The movement of photons is mimicked in his head as they bounce around, like fireflies in a lantern. Like many times before, he attempts to align them, reigning them in his control, but they struggle against him. Damage and lack of practice has made them insolent.
Fuck it, let's just go with something simple then, he thinks as he arranges the photons in a single, thin line. A red dot appears on the ground a dozen feet away.
"Look! What's over there?" Mirage shouts, pointing towards the dot. Upon seeing it, the herd immediately bolts in the direction of the dot, nearly stumbling over each other. Mirage makes sure to keep it constantly moving, laughing as the dumb beasts chase after it. His laugh is short however, as a presence makes him choke on his own breath. Like a wave, it washes over him, causing the hairs and feathers on his back to rise and ruffle.
Mirage turns, as the center of the MGM Hotel begins to shift and change. In a cascade, each floor slides to the side, as a giant face emerges in the opening. It is that of a gigantic lion made of pure, glistening gold. Immaculate and polished, its skin is like a mirror and its eyes burn with an intense, emerald flame. As the last floor slides out of its way, it steps out. A paw the size of a van lands on the courtyard with an elegant graze, nevertheless sending ripples through the ground. The air around the lion distorts and flows in unnatural ways, pulling on its surroundings like a black hole, drawing rocks and cars and trash into an orbit around the creature. Mirage feels a force tuck at his very soul, as it looks at him. With nothing but a glance, it negates his enchantment, causing the crystal to drop on the ground. The lions, upon losing the dot, notice their god and lay prone on the ground. The god opens its mouth and a deep, rumbling voice booms out, resonating with power.
"Bro. Not cool," it says. "Why you gotta put my acolytes panties in a twist like that, man?"
"I don't feel like getting eaten today." The god shrugs.
"Eh, fair. At least it wasn't a cucumber. So, what do you want my dude?"
"I want to be able to paint. You're a god, so I figured you could help," Mirage shouts up, hoping to not get smitten down.
"Yoo you want to paint, bro? That's siiick. Totally radical. Love a good painting. I used to originally be a piece of art myself and all. Still am, if you catch my drift." It lets out a series of short rumbles that Mirage assumes to be an attempt at a chuckle.
"Anyway, that's not really my expertise. Think I can paint with these mitts? Nah, bro. Nah. Sorry. But you can like, totally learn how to paint at the Wanderer's Library. You just gotta find the nearest Way and give a little knock, right?"
"The Wanderer's Library?" Mirage asks. "That still exists?"
"Sure, bro. Can't feel the Serpent no more, but his crib should still be around."
"Huh."
"Yeah man. There you'll find all the information in the damn world, including how you's can learn how to paint, my dude."
"But how do I get there? All the Ways I'm aware of are dead. That's why I assumed the Library was too."
"Oh yeah, the whole apocalypse thing did a number on the Ways. A lot of them collapsed or changed places, but there's some that remain. The closest Way to the Library that your homeboy here is aware of is the one in the middle of Adelanto."
"What's the Knock?"
"I don't know, man. You're gonna have to figure that one out yourself." The Lions stretches its giant shoulders in what Mirage assumes to be a shrug.
"Well, as much as I enjoy chit chatting with an over-sized cat, it sounds like I should get going. It's a long way to Adelanto," Mirage says and turns to walk away.
"Good luck, my dude."
The black asphalt, heated by the beams of the hot July sun, burns Jeremy's feet with every step. In the horizon, air resembles water, as he realizes how clammy his mouth feels. He adjusts the straps of his giant backpack, the corner of a book pressing uncomfortably against his back.
His legs grow pained, and every step feels harder than the last, as if he's waddling knee-deep in the shifting sands of ancient dunes. All he wants to do is give up and sink. Allow his legs to buckle and let the sands swallow him whole. But he knows he must not, for salvation is only a few blocks away, and he must be home in time for dinner.
With sheer determination and force of will, he trudges along, putting one stubby foot in front of the other. His legs scream from exertion, and his clothes stick to his skin, as the sun sneers from above.
Jeremy makes his way through the winding suburban streets, until the cream white walls of his home finally become visible. Letting out a sigh of relief, he practically half-runs across the lawn to the door. The cold steel of the door handle brings the first relief to the heat, as the door clicks open.
Jeremy steps across the threshold, stepping into a hallway that leads further into the house. Dust, revealed by the sunlight coming through the door, hangs wearily in the air. Jeremy takes off his sneakers, setting them on the shoe rack, before closing the door.
"I'm hoooome!" he shouts, but there is no answer, aside from an uncomfortable mixture of clicks and hisses that echoes through the space. "Hello?"
The sound comes closer, as a figure emerges from behind a corner. At a quick glance you might mistake it for a hairless dog, until you see the milky orbs bulging from the sides of its elongated head, the wriggling tendrils of flesh squirming across its body, the third pair of limbs, grasping at the air, and the fanged maw that opens wide, too wide, as a long tongue lulls around, feeling the air.
Upon spotting Jeremy, it lets out an ear-piercing, primal scream, as it charges forward. Before Jeremy has any time to react, it pounces, pinning him to the ground with its sharp claws. Its three nostrils flare, as it brings its jaws down, and licks Jeremy's face excitedly, its little stub of a tail wagging wildly.
"Chompyyy! Stooop!" he laughs, gently pushing the creature aside and stroking its long snout, as it presses it against his hand. "Good to see you too buddy."
Chompy in tow, Jeremy walks into the joint living room and kitchen, where a woman in a green dress and a petticoat is busy chopping something. Hearing the boy come in, she turns, revealing her mutilated and fingerless hand and a bloody knife held in the other.
"Welcome back!" she says with a wide smile, tendrils of flesh extending from her hand as her fingers knit themselves back together.
"Ooh, are you making mince pie?" Jeremy asks, while peering into the fridge in search of lemonade.
"I sure am! Should be ready in just an hour," the woman says as she continues to chop on her own hand, humming a happy tune all the while. The boy pours himself a glass of lemonade, as the creature known as Chompy seats itself next to the woman's legs, hoping that a piece of her fingers would accidentally end up on the floor.
"You just ate, you're not getting anything," she says to the creature, which promptly decides to not listen. "How was your day at school?" she asks towards the boy.
"Okay, I guess."
"I can tell when you're lying. Did that Matherson boy pick on you again?"
"He said that we're freaks. He said Chompy is ugly and called Chloe a bad word."
"I see," she says in a blunt tone, clearly distraught with her brow furrowed. "Well, who would want to be normal anyway?" She takes the chopping board and pours her chopped fingers on a frying pan. The boy takes a sip of lemonade and walks to his room.
"Oh, Jeremy! Don't forget that the Smiths are coming for dinner tonight, so clean your room before then!" She calls out after him. Jeremy lets out a pained sigh as he droops his head backwards, suddenly feeling very tired.
"Fiiine," he groans as he walks into his room and begins to hide anything made out of flesh.
Later that evening, the Miller-Yahontov house is filled with chatter, as two families surround a dinner table that is covered in steaming pots and pans. Forks and knives scratch against plates and glasses jingle, as everyone is taking turns shoveling food on their plates with watering mouths. A strategically positioned Chompy lays under the table, snuggly in its new pink dog sweater that just so happens to hide its third pair of limbs.
"Don't! Stop it!" Jeremy whines as a young woman with auburn hair kicks him repeatedly under the table, preventing him from enjoying her mother's casserole.
"Chloe, stop bullying your brother," a burly man with a thick Russian accent says from the other side of the table, mouth full with vegan steak.
"I was just testing how well he works under pressure," she chuckles, but stops nevertheless, refocusing her attention to the plate in front of her.
"Mom, my stomach hurts…" a boy from the other family whines to a woman with frizzy hair.
"Oh no, honeyy. Braelynn, was there anything unusual in the meat pie you had in the fridge?" she asks, turning to Jeremy's mother.
"You- you fed your kids the leftover pie in the fridge?" she asks, her eyes wide.
"Well, Jacob was hungry, and you said the food would still take a while, so I gave him some to shut him up. Why? Why do you look so shocked? What was in it"
"Oh- no reason. It was just regular meat pie," she says, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. "It's just that… you really should have asked me first."
"I know, I'm sorry. Aren't you guys vegan though?" the other woman asks, furrowing her brow.
"Yes, but… Adrik's… brother has a farm, and he gave us some meat when he came to visit. Couldn't let it go to waste," she says, shrugging as she lies through her teeth.
"What's up with your dog?" asks a young girl from the other family, who has been curiously staring at Chompy for a few minutes now.
"Don't be rude!" says the woman with frizzy hair, scolding her daughter. "I'm sorry Braelynn, kids are always so forward."
"No it's fine," Braelynn says. "Chompy has a congenital skin condition. It doesn't affect his quality of life at all, it just makes him a unique and very handsome boy," she says as she pats the flesh beast's back with her foot, causing it to flop on its side and sigh contently.
Meanwhile. Jeremy hangs his head on the table, cool wood pressing against his forehead. He has already eaten, and the droning of the adults is causing his eyelids to feel like they are made of lead.
"Mom," he says, tugging on Braelynn's sleeve. "Can I go play outside?"
"Right after you've eaten? Don't you want to wait for Trish and Jacob so you can all go play together?"
"But I don't want to wait! You know my stomach won't get upset."
"Fine, go ahead."
Jeremy smiles and pumps his fist, as he scampers off the chair and hurries outside, grabbing a basketball on his way out. The sun has nearly set, and there is a pronounced chill in the air. The pleasant smell of frozen grass hits his nose, as his skin rises on goosebumps. Jeremy forces them down, closing his eyes for a second as he commands his heart to bump faster, increasing his blood circulation and keeping him warm. After he feels pleasant again, he walks over to the driveway and begins throwing his ball at the basketball hoop attached on top of the garage doors.
After only a few throws, Jeremy severely overestimates the amount of force necessary, and throws the ball over the hoop by a large margin. With a loud clonk, it impacts with the roof, and begins to roll down the shingles. Jeremy watches with anticipation, hoping that it will just roll of the side and not get stuck.
The ball rolls and rolls, until it impacts with the snow guard. The momentum of the ball makes it go partway up the snow guard, but it isn't enough, as it eventually rolls back and gets stuck behind it. Jeremy feels anxiety rise up in his throat, as he realizes the ball isn't going anywhere.
"Damn it," he says, fearing that his parents will get upset and that they won't let him play with the ball anymore.
But maybe they don't need to know, he thinks as a thought crosses his mind. Maybe he could get it down all by himself.
He reaches up towards the roof, as he recalls what he's learnt watching his parents and his sister. He closes his eyes, focusing on every sensation he can feel. Every breath, the movement of his diaphragm constricting his lungs, the beat of his heart, like a drum in his chest, the wind ruffling through his hair and the pressure of the earth pressing back against his feet.
"There is power in the Flesh. This is what Ion said to the people of blood and snow as he stood atop the spine of the world," he recites, as his mind expands to encompass every single cell in his body. He can feel the blood rushing through his veins, the neurons firing in his brain, the churning of his bowels and the filtration of water into his cells through osmosis. He is aware of every cell, every protein, every molecule within his system, and he can feel the power within.
"There is power in the Flesh. This is what Ion screamed as he showed the people of blood and snow the divinity within himself as he became a dragon of meat and bone that blot out the sun." His mind reaches out even further, now feeling the cells and chemical processes within the life around him. The grass and the insects within it, the people inside, a bird on the sky, he can feel them all as if they are a part of him. His arm begins to tingle and creak.
"There is power in the Flesh, Ion roared to those who understood…" Jeremy's eyes shoot open. "…and it is for you to harness. Consume divinity. Become God." Jeremy is nearly thrown off his feet due to his center of balance shifting, as his arm suddenly elongates. The filaments within his muscles elongate and their structure becomes more complex. The insides of his arm tickle, as new bones and ligaments and joints come into existence. The structure of his arm, now several feet long and wrinkly, muscles rippling and shifting under its skin, reminds him of a noodle, as it can bend and turn in angles that his normal arm could not. He had expected this to hurt, but instead it felt pleasant. Powerful. Like a part of him that he didn't knew existed was missing, but now he is whole. He grabs the ball on the roof, and lets his arm retract and shrink to its original form, just as the door opens.
"What on Earth are you doing?" Braelynn screams as she storms out. Jeremy drops the ball, as he feels the color drain from his face and his blood go cold. Braelynn kneels down and grabs tightly on the boys shoulders.
"What the hell we're you thinking? We've told you that we can never show our abilities outside! We have guests for crying out loud! What if they saw? What if…" she rants, but chokes on her words as she watches a car drive past with baited breath. After it disappears behind a corner, she turns back to Jeremy and continues, but her tone is no longer angry, but worried, almost pleading.
"Listen to me carefully Jeremy. There are people out there who hate who we are. They think what we do is a danger to society because they don't understand it. They will never understand it, and they have no mercy. If they found out what we can do, they would lock us up forever… or worse, and I can't lose you to them. Do you understand?" she says, looking her son straight in the eyes.
"Yes, mother," he says quietly.
"Promise me that you will never use your abilities in public like that again."
"I promise." She draws the boy into a hug, holding him for a few seconds, sniffling quietly.
The next day, Jeremy is sitting in the school hallway, a textbook in his lap. An exam is coming up, but he cannot concentrate on reading, when there is something way more interesting to study. He can hear the heartbeats of everyone in the school. No, not hear. Feel. As if they are his own. Since unlocking the power of the Flesh, he has felt more connected to the world, more present, and that makes him happy. A heartbeat approaches him. A heartbeat he does not like.
"What's up, nerd?" says the owner of the heartbeat, one Will Matherson, as he snatches Jeremy's book away from him, dangling it in the air in front of him. Yesterday Jeremy would have said nothing against Will who is bigger, stronger and tougher than him. But today he no longer feels inferior. He knows he is more powerful. He can feel Will's heart beat, and he knows that if he wanted to, he could stop it. He recalls something he's heard his sister say.
"Fuck off," he says with confidence. The other boy laughs.
"What did you say to me?" he says, smiling like a fool. Jeremy stands up and takes a step towards him.
"I said: fuck off." Will drops the book and takes a step back, cracking his knuckles.
"I'll show you how to fuck off." He leans back as he throws his fist in a wide arc towards Jeremy's face. Jeremy sees the fist, clenched so tight that the knuckles are white, approach rapidly. For a second his confidence wavers and panic kicks in, as he reaches with his mind into Will's body, wrapping it around his muscles and telling them to stop. The fist stops just a few inches of his face, as Will stands still, frozen mid-swing.
"Huat did you do to he?" he asks through paralyzed lips, slurring his speech. His eyes dart around wildly, and his muscles contract in a futile attempt to escape the arcane grasp they are in. Jeremy laughs, as any slightest hint of fear that he used to have towards Will fades away.
However, a panic from another source lifts its ugly head once again, as Jeremy hears the clanking of heels from an adjacent corridor. He releases Will as a teacher rounds the corner, just in time to see a confused and scared Will scamper away from Jeremy.
"He's a witch! He's a demon! Get him away from me!" he shouts as he runs past the teacher who is starting to look more and more pissed by the second.
"Jeremy Miller-Yahontov," she says sternly. "Principals office. Now."
Just a few moments later, Jeremy is sitting and staring at his lap again, but this time there is no book there. Instead, a middle-aged man sits behind a mahogany table, his stare burning a hole in Jeremy's forehead.
"Mr. Matherson says that you 'froze him in place'. Is this true?" he says.
"No," Jeremy responds, unable to make eye contact.
"We don't tolerate bullying in this school, and lying neither."
"He's the one who bullies me! He was about to hit me!"
"So you admit you're guilty."
"…No. What Will is saying isn't even possible!"
"Is it not?" The man cracks a half-smile, but it quickly fades. "Regardless, you clearly did something to him. The boy is terrified."
It is at this moment, that Jeremy realizes that he cannot feel the principals heartbeat. In fact, as he inspects deeper, he cannot sense a heart at all. No blood. No lungs. No… brain. Jeremy thinks he's sinking into his chair. The ticking off the clock becomes deafening, beating against the insides of his skull and scattering all of his thoughts.
But wait… this room doesn't have a clock.
Something moves behind the man's eyes. "Don't."
Does he know? White as a sheet, Jeremy draws his mind back, slithering his intangible tendrils back into his head. It feels confined now. Claustrophobic. He thinks he's suffocating.
"This is going on your permanent record, but you can go now. I have a few calls to make," the man says, a smile on his face, but not on his eyes.
Walking home, Jeremy's mind is infested with thoughts. Like mosquitoes in the night, they buzz around his head. You don't know where they are and you can't catch them, but you know they're there. However, like mosquitoes from bug repellent, all his thoughts scatter and flee as he sees the black, featureless van parked in his driveway. Dread takes the place of the mosquitoes.
With heavy steps, like waddling in water, he walks past the van as it towers over him. An alien monolith of obsidian dropped in the middle of everything he deems dear. He can hear the voice of his father from the inside.
"What's this about?" he asks in a polite tone, but it is clearly forced.
"We got an anonymous tip that you might have illegal contraband," says another deep voice that Jeremy does not recognize. I need to make a few calls echoes in his mind. "Don't worry, this is just a routine inspection. We need to check these things out, but it's usually nothing. There's no danger to your family." Jeremy senses the man's blood pump faster as he says those words. It had been a lie.
Jeremy steps inside as quietly as he can, trying to observe the scene before he becomes a part of it. The rest of his family is stood to the side of the living room, as several men and women rifle through their house. They are all dressed in black suits, and their jackets have a gun-sized bulge.
"Ah, little Mister Miller-Yahontov. Glad to meet you," says one of the men, offering a hand towards Jeremy. Begrudgingly, he takes it and lets the man shake it vigorously.
"Honey come here," his mother says, gesturing him to come closer. Jeremy complies, and his mother wraps her arm protectively around him. Pressed against her, Jeremy can feel his mother flinch as one the people in suits steps on a squeaky toy.
"Do you have a dog?"
"Yes, but he is currently… on a playdate with another dog," Braelynn says. Jeremy closes his eyes, trying to focus on Chompy. He senses him hiding in an air duct close by, his tendrils wriggling in barely contained anger.
Another intruder stops to look at an old picture framed on top of the fireplace.
"Where's your other son?" he asks, furrowing his brow.
"Daughter now, actually. And that's me," answers Chloe, shooting a cold look at the stranger.
"Oh, my apologies," he says and goes back to invading their privacy.
One of the intruders walks up to the family, trudging confidently like it's her house. She looks over the four, finally setting her eyes on the smallest. A smile spreads across her face as she kneels in front of Jeremy, bringing herself to his eye level. Her expression is warm, and for a moment he thinks it's genuine, but there's something else under the surface. Something dead. The eyes of a vulture.
"Hey there, kid," she says, her words dripping honey, sickly sweet. "What's your name?"
"J- Jeremy," he stutters. He tries to look her in the face, but her eyes, cold blue like the winter sky, pierce into his brain and Jeremy can't help but turn away.
"Jeremy. What a lovely name. Is there anything you'd like to tell me Jeremy? Any secrets?" she asks, play-whispering the word 'secrets'. Jeremy's lips suddenly feel like the trigger of a gun. He doesn't say anything.
"Any information you could give us would make this go a lot easier, you know."
"You're scaring him. He's just a kid for god's sake. Do you have no integrity?" his dad pipes up. Jeremy notices that he's nervously tugging down on his t-shirt sleeve, trying to hide a tattoo depicting a tusked skull with a single eye socket. The one he's always refused to talk about.
"As much as I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Yahontov, I suggest you just let me do my job," the woman says, getting up and refocusing her attention on the man.
"Do your job? You mean break into my home and terrorize my family? You expect me to just sit by as you traumatize my child?" he says, his voice rising as he steps forward. Jeremy sees a vein on his arm slither unnaturally beneath his skin like a snake in water. The woman does not seem to notice this, but takes a step back and puts a hand on her weapon nevertheless.
"Step back. Right now." All of the pretentiousness in her voice has faded. It is as cold as her eyes.
Jeremy feels a wave emanating from his father. Something powerful and old raising its head for the first time in ages. Quick snapshots of images flood his mind. Teeth, claws, chains, a giant eye staring back at him, its pupil constricting in recognition. His father cracks his neck, as more veins bulge and slither. He can feel his heart forcing itself to its limits, as he begins to huff like a bull seeing red. He goes to take another step.
Metal rattles against plastic as the woman draws her weapon. The bones in his fathers hand crack from sheer force as he curls it into a fist. Cloth shuffles as Jeremy is nearly thrown to the side by her mother, who surges forward. She places herself between the two, her other hand pushing her husband back, and the other placed defensively in front of them. The woman in a suit stops, her finger having pulled the trigger halfway through.
"Adrik. Don't," Braelynn whispers to her husband. Something that had been gone for a second, comes back to his eyes as he hears his name. Jeremy feels the power fall asleep once again. Adrik takes a step back, and the woman holsters her weapon, slowly. Keeping an eye on the man as she walks away, she goes back to rummaging the house. Jeremy lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding.
Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes feel like hours, but eventually, one of the intruders lifts up his arms defeatedly.
"Looks like it was a dead lead. Sorry for the trouble. Lets go folks," he says and walks out, the others in tow. The family waits for the van to start and drive off, before anyone says anything.
"We need to move," Jeremy's father says matter-of-factly, as they all embrace each other. Chompy slithers out of the air duct, and joins the hug.
Critters: UncertaintyCrossing,
Darth Phoenix ,
Ralliston,
Avelon21
Ambrose Pillars
The highly esteemed Ambrose Restaraunts has finally landed in the wondrous nexus of The Pillars! Seek solace from the chilling mists in our comfortable establishment, dead set on fulfilling all your culinary needs.
We provide a wide variety of dishes made with local ingredients, as well as a few exotic choices from across multiverse.
First Course
DIP PLATTER 5.00
Choose 5 out of 8 available snack varieties, and 2 out of 5 dips. Available snacks are; fried sea bishop, glider nuggets, infernal cucumbers, dried fog grasshopper, barbegazi carrots (be wary of frostbite), mandrake rings, Atlantean shrimp and nachos. Available dip sauces are; nacho cheese, BBQ-sauce, chili dip, dragon bile and the metaphysical concept of mayonnaise. Additional dips and snacks are available for 2.00 per each one requested.
STUFFED DEAD MAN'S LANTERN 7.20
The signature mushroom of The Pillars, the bioluminescent dead man's lantern is visible even if you are physically incapable of sight, so you can see your food no matter what! Stuffed with honey parmesan, garlic and thyme. Wrapped in Manannán bacon.
QUETZALCÓATL MEATBALLS 6.00
These spicy morsels are made from Amazonian quetzalcóatl and spiced with a variety of herbs and nuts, most notably dragon root. This powerful spice, which only grows in places where a dragon has let out its final breath, will cause your burps to ignite for the next hour.
Main Course
SCRAMBLER HOUND STEAK 20.00
Tender scrambler hound steak with potates, nirn root, and cranberry sauce. We are very proud of our scrambler hounds, which are grown locally and allowed to climb the pillars like they are supposed to.
SKITTERLING SKEWER 16.00
Unlike the pests plaguing the streets, our skitterlings have been raised in luxury, and bred to perfection. We find that their dense, flavorful flesh combined with the crunch of their insectoid parts makes for a unique culinary experience not found in any other animal. Along with an entire roasted skitterling, the skewers include potatoes, carrot, pork and cockatrice.
GRILLED FOG RAY 18.00
Local fog ray grilled to golden perfection and spiced with lemon and basil, which beautifully compliment the ray's fresh, cool taste. As an added bonus, consuming the ray will make you weigh half of what you normally would for a few hours, so you won't even feel full!
Desserts
ICE CREAM BOWL 12.00
Vanilla, fudge, or pig blood ice cream with strawberry jam and condensed eldritch fog. That's right, the infinite fog that permeates the air in The Pillars has been condensed with a revolutionary thaumaturgic method into an edible form for your enjoyment!
VAMPIRE PUMPKIN PIE 15.00
Necromancy has never been more delicious! Bite into this delicious pastry made of our favorite corrupted fruit, before it bites into you! Ambrose Restaurants is not liable for the contraction of vampirism.
MICHELIN GUIDE ONLINE
Powered by The Dark Web
★★★☆☆
The chefs at Ambrose Pillars have my sympathy. They're set on trying to use local ingredients in an innovative way while mixing them with exotic flavors, but the intrinsic properties of the nexus make this a difficult task. As another chef, I know how hard many of the foodstuffs are to deal with. The local animals don't have a lot of flavor, and are chewy and spongy in texture. Dead man's lantern is often dangerous to procure, and can't be preserved for very long. On top of that, this just isn't what the people of Pillars are looking for. We want homier foods to bring us solace from the mists, not gourmet.~ Lamas Diorn, owner of the Alcove
[[/span]]
[[/span]]
Pressure brings pain, as it tries to crush him. To crunch him up into an increasingly smaller space until there is nothing left. His bones crackle and creak under the weight of the earth, trying their best not to break, but that's not always enough. Sometimes they give out, splintering into a thousand pieces, piercing his flesh and organs with tiny fragments of calcium. He can feel them all, scraping against his insides with every move. He has lost count over the number of bones he has regenerated. He has lost count over the number of times that his stomach and lungs have burst, as he is forced to swallow heaps of wet dirt every time he opens his mouth to breathe, which he never can. His heart races and his lungs burn as his muscles tear themselves apart, trying to pull him up, one measly attempt at a time. This is all the one without a name has ever felt. Ever since he was born, left unnamed and then banished to a personal hell by his own mother, the Witch Queen of the North.
Ever since then he has done whatever little he can to pursue freedom, even though he cannot be certain of its possibility. For all he knows, he could just be descending further into his bane of an existence, but he must still try, for there is another thing he feels, and that thing is rage.
Like a roaring fire, it seethes within him, fueled by envy. Envy of his brothers, the nine that were named and released upon the world to freely spread their respective blights. Envy of the gods, those arrogant fools who bask in mortal worship and who have no concept of true struggle. They had not earned their power, and they did not deserve it.
It does not matter, he thinks. Let them have their luxury while they can. Soon they would all kneel.
Meanwhile, at a secret facility in Lapland, a man with snow white hair lays his head against a mahogany table, while holding a large cup of coffee in his cold, pale hands.
"I hate travel," he groans in an Irish accent. "Were there really no other changelings available?" he asks, turning his dark, nearly black irises towards the colorfully dressed woman sitting next to him.
"You're the only one working for the Department of External Affairs," she says and shrugs.
"And that was enough for the bureaucrats to fly me across the sea for one single discussion? I'm not even the same kind of fey! This is utterly-" he begins to rant, but gets cut off as, as a number of figures enter the room, grunting as they manage to barely squeeze their large, gray and green frames through the human-sized door.
Walking on all fours, the troll, sporting large tusks and long manes of hair that are braided into intricate knots and patterns, quickly fill the room.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, welcome!" greets the woman in a language that the man does not understand. "I am Dávdna Adell, the resident noaidi, and this is Winter McCormick, a representative of the Department of External Affairs."
The largest and oldest troll steps towards Winter. Her movements are stiff and awkward, as half of her body, including her right arm, has been petrified into solid stone. Winter can feel an air current brush his cheeks as the troll vigorously sniffs the air.
"The blood of nature courses through your veins, and the mirrors of your soul reflect the night sky." The words falling from her mouth sound simple, but they resonate with a power older than humanity. They flow through the air like a summer breeze, cascading with energy that smells like a forest after rain. It is an ancient tongue, and one that Winter has known since birth.
"This is a truth. I am a spawn of the Umbral Court, placed in the care and coil of the Ashen Children," he responds in the same tongue, before switching to English. "The DEA deemed it useful to have someone with a similar nature to yours be a part of this discussion."
"Similar, yes, but not the same," she says, moving her attention then to Dávdna. "An honor to meet you, noaidi. I am Matron Vuorta-Vahvempi, but you can call me Matron. These are my sons. Shall we begin?"
"Yes, certainly." The two humans return to one side of the table, as the trolls gather in line on the other. One of them, who is missing the top of its head, tries to sit on one of the chairs, which immediately gives up under the immense weight of the troll's body, splintering into pieces that clatter across the floor.
"Whoopsie," the troll exclaims in a hushed tone, before opting to just squat on the floor instead.
After waiting for everyone to be settled, Dávdna starts. "So, ladies and gentlemen. First of all, thank you for coming, I hope your transport here was comfortable." The warmth of her hospitality quickly simmers away, defeated by the trolls', sometimes literally, stone-faced demeanor.
"Okay, I'll just get to the point then," she sighs while reorganizing her papers. "The truth of the matter is, we can't let you stay in your current abode. The city near you is expanding, and your proximity is starting to threaten the Veil. We can't allow that, so we have called you here in order to discuss possible solutions to our little problem."
"Can't you stop the city from expanding?"
"We would, but unfortunately we don't have that kind of power. It's very unfortunate, and I sincerely wish this wasn't the case but I am afraid that you're uh… you're going to have to move," Dávdna explains, carefully considering and articulating each word, trying to bring the news as softly as possible. This proves to be somewhat unfruitful however, as Matron Vuorta-Vahvempi raises her large, healthy hand and sweeps it across the room, crumbling the sturdy table like toilet paper and sending its pieces careening to the side. Shards of wood explode outwards like fragments from a grenade, embedding themselves into the flesh of the two humans, who barely manage to duck out of the way.
"Unacceptable! We have lived in that mountain for thousands of years! It is our progenitor! We cannot leave it!" she screams, her sound amplified by a howling wind, as her onyx eyes alight with a green fire. Winter, who has plenty of experience in defusing altercations in diplomatic discussions, steps forward with his hands outstretched.
"Peace within your heart, friend!" he shouts through the arcane gale in the fey tongue. "I understand the embers within, but you must cease. There is no reason for this to end in tragedy."
"Will you-" the Matron begins, but stops as she gets distracted by a feeling in the back of her mind. An intelligible whisper carried by the wind. An intangible claw wrapping around the shoulder. The vibrations of a scream, but not the sound itself. Winter feels it too.
"What is that?" he asks, before realizing that his voice, as well as his body, is trembling like the window of a moving car. A chill crawls up his spine, as his heart attempts to escape his chest. "What is that!?"
"The tower…" the Matron mutters under her breath. "No, this isn't… We must return. Now," she says and attempts to move as quickly as possible, hindered by her petrified body dragging behind her.
"You mustn't. We still haven't…" Dávdna mutters after them.
"Mediator, despite your outrageous request, I respect your authority, but we no longer have time. We must return to our people. Something terrible has happened."
"What is it?"
"Fall to the crack and you will know."
"Oh, it's that serious then," she says, simultaneously registering the distressed look on Winters face. "Very well. But we will have to continue this discussion on a later date," she calls out as the Matrons forces herself through the door, her children in tow. Silence descends on the room, followed by a strange tenseness in the air.
Miles away, in a valley untouched by a humanity, a stone monolith stands, grazing the clouds. Since the dawn of civilization, it has remained static, completely unchanged. Every inch of its surface is perfect, just as it was when it was created, except for one, small detail. A crack has just appeared on it.
Small at first, the crack quickly spreads, creating a web of fissures across the structure. Small pieces of rubble begin peeling off, before the entire spire shakes and crumbles. Boulders impact with the ground below, causing clouds of dust to billow out. The shaking stops and the silence returns, as the silhouette of a hand, bursting through the ground, becomes visible through the haze. Another hand appears, clawing at the air before grasping the ground and pushing against it.
Soon, an entire figure crawls through. Falling on its knees, it turns its face towards the sky, as an exhausted, broken laugh echoes through the valley.
The third layer of the Pillar of Neclessus was once home to a man. An old man, his hair gray and thin and unkempt, his face carved by the trials of age, and his eyes covered in scars left by a lifetime of memories. An eccentric sort, he was known by all who resided in this otherwise unremarkable part of the Pillars, though they did not always remember him. He was one of those people who consistently behaved in an odd, albeit undisruptive manner, drawing unbeknownst attention towards himself. You know the type. Every city has one. A village idiot.
He used to dwell in a humdrum apartment building built into the Pillar itself. A quiet resident, his existence was not always an obvious fact even to those who shared the building with him.
"What's he like?" his neighbors were sometimes asked.
"Who?"
"You know, the odd man who lives next door to you."
"Oh, him. I… don't actually know. As far as I know, he's never spoken to anyone in the building. He just sleeps there, I think. I'm not entirely sure about that either," they would always say.
His apartment was owned by a thymómaste, a being that never forgets. But when asked if the man was a good lease and if he paid his rent on time, they would always respond with confusion.
"Yeah, he does. Or at least… I think he does. He's always been there, but I… don't actually remember leasing him. Maybe I should go pay him a visit. See that everything is in order." They never would.
Each and every day, the man would follow the exact same routine. He would emerge out of his apartment at 9 AM and head towards the nearby coffee shop. There, he would remain for exactly 37 minutes, eating breakfast, before tipping 2 dollars to the waitress, and heading out. Then, he would ascend the spiral staircase to the fourth level, where he would enter Oval Park to feed breadcrumbs to the gliders there. After 2 hours and 24 minutes passed, he would head to the nearest library, where he spent an arduously long amount of time inspecting and looking at books, but never reading any. When he was done, he would grab the newest edition of The Pillars Tribune on his way out. This he actually would read, though only specific parts of it, while consciously avoiding others.
After finishing, he'd wander. For hours upon hours, he would walk without rest or any sign of tiring despite his old age. He would travel, seemingly without a purpose, crossing layers and Pillars. Strolling through crowds and the mist, unbothered in both the Hangings and the Terraces. Walking through areas unprotected by warm lantern light, he was never turned back by the otherwise vigilant lantern bearers, or bothered by The-Shapes-In-The-Fog. Eventually he would circle back to Neclessus, where he would enter the local bar, The Purgatorium. There he would order a beer that he would have no intention of touching, and listen to whatever band was scheduled for that day.
At this point, it should be mentioned that his daily routine and his isolated nature were not the sole reason for his eclecticism. You see, throughout the entirety of his day, he was followed by… something. Humanoid shapes and figures, formed and twisted out of the mist in his immediate vicinity. The forms were distinct, with differences in height, stature, posture and body shape, but not clear enough that it'd be easy to determine who they were depicting, if anyone. The forms, ghosts, haunts, constructs… or whatever you wanted to call them, were always silent and unanimated, never interacting with their surroundings. Occasionally though, their expression would suddenly change, as if dictated by an outside force, or imbued with a fleeting spark of life for just a moment. Sometimes they laughed, a smile on their face and something of a glimmer in the space where their eyes would be. Other times they wept, drops of condensation dripping down their gaseous face, or raged, their expression twisting into a sneer of anger and hatred. At least once, one of them died.
As the band played their last song, he and his ghosts would silently slip away into the night, and head back down the sloping cobblestone street. At the door to the apartment building, he would face the figures for the first time that day, and shake each of their airy hands, individually saying goodbye to each and every one of them, every night. After letting go of the man, they'd dissipate, returning to the mist that had been birthed from, only to reappear the very next day. Then the man would go inside, and sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Throughout the day, he never talked to anyone, and no one ever talked to him. The mere presence of his entourage made sure that his routine remained undisturbed. People weren't rattled enough to talk about him, though. Sure, they'd have short, whispered conversations with each other while and right after seeing him, but other than that, he tended to slip everyone's mind.
On one occasion though, as I watched him feed the birds at the park, something overcame me and incentivized me to approach. Standing over him, seeing every piece of flint on his worn jacket, every groove on his face, every, ugly scar on his fingers, and the dark indentations on his eyelids, I felt a part of his world. And it was his world, specifically. Him, the mist, the bench, and the birds. Everything else felt… distant. Muffled. Nearly non-existent. He was its only inhabitant, but not its king.
"I'm… sorry to bother you, but can I ask why you do the same things every single day, and why you are followed by these figures?" I asked. The words seemed to simply pour out my mouth without any tact or premeditation. As if my tongue had gained a life of its own.
After a few, long seconds, he answered.
"We all have ghosts."
His tone was completely casual, as if he was stating what time the clock was. It wasn't what I was expecting but… I didn't know what I was expecting. That was all he said, before getting up and leaving me in a stunned silence, blanking on what I was originally supposed to do. All I could focus on, was that as the man walked away, one of his normally unresponsive ghosts turned to look at me. And it smiled.
Several years have passed since anyone last heard of him. Not that anyone really looked. There was speculation for a while. Maybe he walked off the edge, maybe a Shape snatched him, or maybe his time just ran out. After all, he was as worn as his coat, but there was never an obituary, never a funeral and never a grave.
But things that fall out don't always leave a hole. Someone else lives in his apartment now. Someone louder. The gliders no longer gather around his bench, looking for food. Life in the bar moves on, not minding the seat in the back that always stays empty. People stopped talking about him, and I seem to be the only one who even remembers that he existed. That's why I'm telling this story. In the hopes that he won't be totally forgotten, washed away by the waves of time. Sometimes, when I'm going about my day as usual, I think of him, and I wonder what happened to him.
Maybe he just left the city.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is contained within an airtight glass container filled with seawater. Outside of testing, access to SCP-XXXX is barred from personnel who do not fulfill either of the following requirements:
- Personnel was born after 1975.
- Personnel has not been within a 30-meter radius of an alligator snapping turtle (Macrochelys temminckii) within the last 60 days.
Description: SCP-XXXX is an empty, lidless can of mock turtle soup, manufactured by the Campbell Soup Company in the 1940s. SCP-XXXX's anomalous effect manifests whenever a live human being who doesn't fulfill the previously mentioned requirements, as determined by testing, enters its vicinity. The alligator snapping turtle they were in proximity to disappears, and SCP-XXXX is filled with turtle soup, the meat of which originates from the affected turtle. The origin of the other ingredients is unknown. The soup does not manifest any additional anomalies, and is safe for consumption. SCP-XXXX can not be activated by an individual born after 1975. This is suspected to be due to the popularity of turtle soup in the United States having considerably diminished at that point.
Submersion in water limits the trigger effect to physical contact only, unless the water originates from a lake inhabited by alligator snapping turtles, in which case contact between SCP-XXXX and the water will activate the effect, transmuting every turtle within the lake into soup.
Discovery: Prior to containment, SCP-XXXX was held at a soup museum in Washington DC. Its anomalous properties were discovered when a visitor accidentally activated its effect after standing near it during office hours. Foundation webcrawlers flagged a possible connection between the activation of SCP-XXXX and the simultaneous disappearance of a turtle held at the Smithsonian's National Zoo, leading to subsequent containment of the anomaly. The item was contained under the cover story of having been infested by a hazardous mold, and the witnesses of both events were amnesticized.
INTERVIEWER: Agent Winter McCormick
INTERVIEWEE: Donald Edison
FOREWORD: According to museum records, SCP-XXXX was donated to the exhibit by Donald Edison, a nonagenarian housed at a retirement house in Illinois. Mr. Edison was sought out for an interview in hopes of acquiring additional information about the anomaly.
[BEGIN LOG]
Agent McCormick: Hello, Mr. Edison. Sorry for bothering you, but I was wondering if you could spare me a minute of your time. I'm with National Geographic and I have some questions I'd like to ask you. I am making an article on the history of soups and the museum where your can of mock turtle soup is displayed at plays an important role.
Mr. Edison: (chuckles) You're a bad liar, son.
Agent McCormick: What makes you think I'm lying?
Mr. Edison: You're here because you found out that the can is magic. I figured that in a world with things like the can and people like the person who made it, there must be someone responsible for keeping it out of the public eye. Am I correct?
Agent McCormick: Sir, I assure you, I am just a journalist.
Mr. Edison: Whatever you say, son. Ask what you want.
Agent McCormick: Okay, thank you. How about we start with how you originally came to possess the item.
Mr. Edison: Fine by me. You might want to sit down though, this is a long story.
(Agent McCormick sits)
Mr. Edison: Good. To start this off, how much do you know about the prominence of turtle soup in the late 1800's and the early 1900's?
Agent McCormick: Nothing.
Mr. Edison: Well, it was all the rage back then, specifically when made with the meat of an alligator snapping turtle. Despite the relatively high price, it sold really well. Restaurants were literally better off serving mock turtle soup made from a calf's head, than no turtle soup at all. I have personal experience with that, because I was working as a cook in a small restaurant called Bogside House in Texas in the 1940's. We were struggling, to say the least. There was another restaurant within walking distance, that served genuine turtle soup, while we could only afford the canned fake stuff.
I realized that if we couldn't start serving the real stuff we would have gone under within weeks. I went to tell this to our owner, a fella named Redder, but he didn't seem at all worried. Instead, he just tells me that he knows someone who can help us.
Agent McCormick: And this someone created the can?
Mr. Edison: Yes. Let me preface this by saying that Redder was an odd fellow. He was… more versed in things like this, and he moved in even weirder company. Occultists, mystics, and individuals who I'm not sure were entirely human. The person who made the can was one of those. They arrived just as we were closing in for the night. They were dressed in a dark, ragged leather coat and a hood that I never saw under. I don't know if I would have wanted to. They also smelt like damp earth. I thought it was all very pretentious, but it was still very unnerving.
Agent McCormick: Did you ever learn what this character was called?
Mr. Edison: It did come up at some point, but this was a long time ago, and my memory isn't what it used to. I think it was Du… something. Anyway, they were carrying with them a big, cloth covered cage with a turtle inside. They took it to the kitchen and set it on a counter. Then they took a used Campbell's can, and set it next to the cage, before doing… something.
Agent McCormick: Uhh… could you elaborate?
Mr. Edison: Yeah, it's just… I'm trying to think how to put it into words. It was… kind of like looking at a corrupted film. Everything got all scrambled up and weird. The room expanded and twisted seemingly infinitely, and then in the next second everything was all tight and compressed. There were odd sounds and colors coming from… somewhere, and gravity felt like it was throwing a hissy fit. All the while the poor turtle was being turned inside-out and back again, aged to a skeleton and then reversed into a fetus. All of this took maybe ten to fifteen seconds, and the only thing that wasn't affected was the hooded fellow. Despite everything going on around them, they stayed completely unchanged and unmoving, like the eye of a storm. To me that was the scariest part.
When it was over, everything snapped back into place, like nothing had ever happened. I threw up immediately. I think Redder did too.
(pause)
Afterwards the unholy fellow explained to us how the can works, before going to leave. I tried to ask them if they wanted payment, but they told me that they already claimed it, before walking out the door. Just thinking about it sends shivers down my old spine.
Agent McCormick: And did the can help revive your business?
Mr. Edison: Oh, it most certainly did. Back then, that area of Texas used to be chock full of snapping turtles, so everyone that walked through our doors had been near one. So, due to that, we used to do this thing where I would take a huge pot, and I would just place the can on the bottom. Then, when orders of turtle soup started coming in, I would just walk through the restaurant and let the pot fill up on its own. Then I would just begin pouring fresh, hot turtle soup straight out of the pot. The customers loved it.
And soon enough, people heard that we were selling fresh turtle soup at a low price, and they began flooding in. We were ecstatic, of course. We were practically swimming in cash. Not long after, the other restaurant went under because our soup was better. One of the cooks from that establishment actually approached me and asked if he could come work for us instead. I had to turn the young chap down of course… I couldn't let anyone know the secret behind our success.
Word of our culinary delights spread like wildfire, and people from all across the country started turning up. Big names, even! I'm talking movie stars, singers, politicians. Hell, Humphrey Bogart himself visited us once!
Agent McCormick: Did you not think about how many turtles the can must have been killing for something like that?
Mr. Edison: Not at this point, no. Why would I have? I could finally afford to buy a fancier car, jewelry for my beloved, suits and better knives. None of that really matters to me anymore, but at the time there was no room in my mind for a bunch of reptiles, and I never stopped to think how many turtles we were killing every night, because I didn't really know. Because of the little spectacle we were doing, there was no real way to measure exactly how many times the can was activated. It must have been dozens. Per day.
It wasn't until nearly a decade in, that I finally realized what we were doing. I was hiking in a swampland with my wife at the time, may she rest in peace, collecting huckleberries, when it hit me. There was no hissing.
Agent McCormick: Hissing?
Mr. Edison: Yes, hissing! That's the sound that alligators snapping turtles make when they feel threatened. Up until that point, every time I had gone there, there had been turtles basking on the edges of a pond, hissing anytime we got close. Now, they were gone. I realized then what I had done, and how big of a mistake it had been.
Agent McCormick: What did you do about it?
Mr. Edison: Nothing at first! We had a good thing going, and there was no way we could have continued it without the can. However, I couldn't just forget about it. It kept bothering me, and eventually I felt like I had to go to Redder.
I told him how what we were doing was hurting the ecosystem. How it wasn't sustainable. I told him we would end up completely decimating the local turtle population, but he wouldn't listen. He said I was getting paranoid. Said he didn't care about no turtles. "What do you mean you don't care about no turtles?" I asked him. They were the source of our income! You are supposed to care about that! He just hand waved it aside, insisting that the population will hold.
Of course, it didn't. Soon after, I started noticing that the can didn't produce as much soup as it used to. The diminishing was small at first, but increased quickly. And then one day, it was just empty. I stood there, with a pot in my hands, in the middle of customers, staring at the can, but nothing came out. I was forced to make a fool of myself by telling them that there's no soup to serve. I swear to God, some people got up and left right there and then.
That was the beginning of the end. On each following night, there were less and less people, until eventually, nobody came. We had to close.
Agent McCormick: What did you do then?
Mr. Edison: My wife and I had to move to a cheaper city. I went on to work in several different restaurants until my retirement, but none of them ever saw the amount of success that Bogside House once did.
Agent McCormick: (nods) What about Redder?
Mr. Edison: Oh, I never saw him again. I think I overheard him say that he would return to some library… but other than that I have no idea what he did afterwards.
Agent McCormick: But why did he let you keep the can, when he was the one who got it made?
Mr. Edison: Redder didn't show a lot of interest in it, so I simply asked him if I could keep it and he said yes.
Agent McCormick: But why did you want it?
Mr. Edison: Well, I figured that Redder wouldn't care if it kept killing turtles, so I figured I would take it and move somewhere where there are none. And besides, who doesn't want to own a piece of magic?
Then I became old, and unable to care for myself, so I wanted to spend the last of my years here in Illinois, where I was born and raised. I couldn't take the can with me, because this place still has a few turtles left, so I donated it to the museum in hopes it would never activate again. But since you're here, I'm guessing it did.
Agent McCormick: I can neither deny or confirm that. But, thank you Mr. Edison, for telling me your story. I'm sure our readers will find it interesting.
Mr. Edison: I'm sure they will.
(Agent McCormick gets up to leave)
Mr. Edison: Son. Before you go, could you please tell me that the can is somewhere safe, where it can't activate it anymore?
(pause)
Agent McCormick: Don't worry, the can is secure.
Mr. Edison: Good, good.
[END LOG]
Critters: Doctor Dune does not match any existing user name, Its a Bad Idea,
Gamesofmax,
Elunerazim,
Avelon21,
caspian2,
JustBixby,
Bard Bard,
UncertaintyCrossing
The white clouds above the kingdom of Tyrrius have been replaced by thick, overshadowing smoke. Inhaled by crying civilians fleeing their burning homes, it burns their lungs, muffling their sobs as they struggle to breathe.
Explosions on the streets send pulses through the foundations of the city, causing buildings to shake and collapse, crushing passersby.
High up in one of the tall towers of the castle in the center of the city, one such pulse causes a man in a fancy, violet garb to lose his balance and stumble on to the cold, black floor of an otherwise empty corridor. Grunting, he regains his footing and continues towards the golden double doors.
Elyssius Marquise The 3rd, Conqueror King of Tyrrius, watches out of the window of his study, a grave expression on his worn face as the doors to the room burst open with a loud bang.
"My Highness! The enemy has broken through the final wall! It is only a matter of time until the Guard is overrun. What do we do?" asks Fressus, the exhausted royal servant of the Conqueror King.
The old man sighs, as he watches a clock tower on the side of the city collapse. "The only thing we can do." He turns towards his trusted friend. "We run."
Slack-jawed, Fressus looks as the king walks past him into the corridor, his cloak sliding across the marble floor. Shaken out of his stupor, he follows after him.
"What do you mean we run? You are the Conqueror King! You took this land from those… those creatures with your iron grasp and built an empire in their ashes!" Fressus froths, swinging his arms around wildly.
"And now they are taking it back," the king states casually. "A good commander knows when to admit defeat. Only a fool would stay and fight when he knows he will only get himself killed in doing so."
The servant opens his mouth in an attempt to say something, but decides against it. His head held down, he follows his leader and friend.
Silent, they descend long spiral staircases and cross corridors, that once teemed with life and people. Stepping on to the streets of Tyrrius, the dead silence of the castle is replaced by the cacophony of war. Explosions and screams echo through the streets, sending waves of panic down Fressus's spine.
"Where… where are we going, my lord?" he stammers.
"To the Main Cathedral," the king states matter-of-factly.
On the chaotic streets, no one pays them mind. In an emergency, when the only thought in anyone's head is survival, blinding them from the non-essential, a king is just a man among others, the crown on his head just an accessory. The king, although as vain as a person of his stature always is, does not mind. Now is not the time for comforting words, now is the time for action.
Stepping through the jagged steel gates to the courtyard of the Main Cathedral, its dark, sharp features splitting the horizon, Elyssius lifts his head, as something moves in his peripheral. Two figures with a bony, veined carapace are floating in the sky, descending slowly but steadily towards the ground. His trained hand goes to draw a sword from under his cloak, the light of the surrounding fires reflecting off of the blade as well as the metal of his hand, as he lifts it towards the sky.
The figures touch ground, surging forth with their weapons drawn in response. Metal clashes with metal as their intricate, jagged blades cross with the kings elegant sword. He parries a swing from one, while ducking from the way of another. With a swift motion he pushes away the first attacker, while turning towards the other, which blocks the strike, using the momentum to levitate behind the king. Meanwhile, the one pushed away regains balance and approaches. With no time to think, the old man un-clips his cloak and throws it in the three-eyed face of the one behind him, giving him a few moments to focus in on the obviously less experienced fighter, who swings too wide, giving the king a window to trip, disarm and decapitate.
By then, the remaining opponent manages to rip the cloak off, tossing it aside. Once again, they lock blades, but with the previous distraction out of the way, the old warrior manages to overpower the opponent, running them through.
"I give my Blood to the Monarch…" the warrior mutters, their voice trailing off into a pained sigh as they exhale their last breath.
"Is it safe now?" asks Fressus, who hid behind a bush for the duration of the fight.
"Yes, Fressus. You can come out now," says Elyssius, while sheathing his blade and proceeding towards the cathedral doors.
The doors to the cathedral open with a loud bang, flooding the wooden floor in front of it with dirty yellow light. Like a sickly aura it radiates from behind the imposing silhouette of the king, as he steps within.
"Your Highness!" shouts the robed man scurrying from another room.
"Glad to see that you are still alive, old friend," responds the king.
"I presume that you are here to see the City Mind, correct?" asks the robed man.
"That is correct, and we must act with haste. Lead the way, friend."
The robed man nods, and hurries towards the back of the space. He pulls at a hidden lever, causing a portion of the wall to fall away, revealing a staircase leading downwards, and letting brilliant blue light to flood out. The three men descend.
Below the cathedral, the staircase opens up into a large, ovoid room with metallic walls. Suspended in the middle of the room through steel wires and tubing, is a woman, connected to a large, cylindrical machine protruding from the roof. Her legs are missing, only cauterized stumps in their place. Her eyes are gone as well, the empty sockets filled with visions of distant, alien lands. Her mouth is stitched shut and her eight hands move constantly, in a organized, steady pattern, pulling and stringing on strands that only she can see. The lights on every surface of the room blink in rhythm with her hearth.
She does not acknowledge the entrees, but the feeling of ethereal tendrils pushing into their brains lets them know that she is aware of their presence.
"What- what is this?" the servants asks with a whisper, his eyes glued to the strange sight before him.
"This is the City Mind. It's what runs the entirety of Tyrrius, from plumbing to defenses. A true miracle of technology," Elyssius explains in an equally hushed tone, before stepping forward towards the woman. "City Mind, I-"
"Still, you insist on calling me by that silly moniker. Why is that, I wonder. A futile attempt at avoiding the true nature of who I am, perhaps?"
Fressus jumps at the feeling of his own skull resonating to create the words of the woman. The king, clearly startled, fumbles to find the right words, his mind numbed by the ringing in his ears.
"I-"
"What is it that you require, tyrant? Speak up!" the woman demands, the raising of her voice sending a jolt of pain through each of their temples.
"I… we need to leave. I want you to get us out of here," the king says, focusing on each and every word before saying it to avoid swallowing his tongue.
"You're going to have to be more specific than that. I can reach many places." A deep chuckle sends shivers down their spines.
"Far away. Somewhere safe."
"Safe? Nowhere in this cold and uncaring universe is it safe, my king."
"Stop playing games! You know what I mean," the king exclaims, his face turning a shade towards red, his metallic arm clutched into a fist.
The woman's stitched mouth stretches into a wicked smile. "There he is. The animal behind a mask of self-proclaimed nobility. Tell me king, how does it feel like? To have your control over everything pulled away? To realize you never had none at all?"
"Do as you are told," the king hisses through clenched teeth, hand now inching towards the blade.
"As you wish", the woman says, as one of her numerous hands lets go of whatever invisible wire it was pulling at, shooting forwards with an open palm. Immediately, the king is startled by a scream coming from behind him, as Fressus is doused in a brilliant, blue fire. A panicked eye looks at his leader and friend from behind the flames, before melting away. The scream turns shrill, and then silent, as his flesh is burned into nothing. In just a few seconds, the fire dissipates, leaving nothing but ash trailing through the air.
"What- what have you done?" the king cries out, falling on his knees next to the remains of his fallen comrade, his hands grasping at the grey, warm powder.
Grief gets replaced by anger, as Elyssius unsheathes his sword and rushed towards the woman, screaming bloody murder. He swings, but is met by a wall of force, which pulsates, sending the man sprawling on his back.
"You asked for this," the woman says with a voice feigning innocence. "Did you seriously think that such powerful magic would come without a cost? You of all people should know better, as you're the one who forced me to learn. Just be glad it wasn't you, though your time might not be as far away as you think, either."
The woman stretches her hands out and the pile of ash that used to be Ferrus shifts, as a blue snake made of blue light slithers out. Its intangible tongue licks the air, as it slides forward. The king recoils, as the snake looks at him, distant, incomprehensible echoes of his fallen friend ringing in his brains. The snake makes it way towards the woman, circling around her in an enclosing spiral, until it lifts its head and begins to wrap around her, until coming to rest, coiling, in a cup of her hands.
"A soul is a powerful thing." The woman brings his hands to a fist, crushing the serpent. It writhes for a second, before falling limp. Its form implodes, folding into itself until the only thing left is a tiny pinprick of blue radiance. The woman lowers her head, and the lights in the walls and the roof blink out, the faint soul of Fressus in her hands remaining as the only source of illumination. Elyssius and the priest hold their breaths, as the tension grows within the silent darkness.
A hum from somewhere within the machinery fills the space, as the light in the City Mind's hands grows. It expands slowly at first, like a ripple in water, but then that ripple grows ever brighter, the light mixing with the shadows and forcing the men to shield their eyes as their vision is distorted. The volume of the hum increases with the light, growing from a gentle background noise into a cacophony that thunders against the insides of their ears.
Outside the cathedral, every man, woman and child stops, as a tremor passes beneath their feet. They too, begin to hear the hum, as thousands upon thousands of previously unseen runes alight on the streets, the walls and the buildings. They cover their eyes from the droning and scream, scared and unknowing of what will happen next.
Meanwhile, the City Mind's vision flicks through universe upon universe, looking for a location that fits will serve her end goals. There, she thinks to herself in her infinite, but chained mind, as she sees a world, and on that world, a power that calls itself: The Foundation.
She throws her hands up, transforming the blue ball of light into a ray, which shoots through the cylinder above her. The cathedral shatters from its way, as the ray pierces the sky, dispersing the clouds above. Then, the cone of light spreads, soon covering the entire city. In equal amounts of awe and fear, the citizens look at the blue haze which surrounds them in all directions.
"Tell me, king," the City Mind purrs. "Can you feel the threads of fate tightening around your neck?"
And then they were gone.
Shortly after, in another universe, thirteen people are gathered around a table in a dark room. They have met like this for countless times, deciding on the fates of men, but none of them know each others names, or even faces. On the sides of the room stand people, equally nameless, their histories dead and buried. They haven't seen the faces of the people they serve either, as none of them have eyes. They were removed right before their right hands were replaced with a red, carapaced appendage. One of them hears a voice in their earpiece, prompting them to step forward and whisper what the voice said to one of the thirteen.
"I have been informed that we have a more pressing matter," O5-6 says, their voice masked by a modulator. "It appears that an unknown city has just materialized in the Atlantic Ocean."
**Critters: Malvarik1, TrustyOlValet2 does not match any existing user name
An undead dreg scrambles across an abandoned street, attracted by the smell of burning flesh. It finds its way to a freshly mown lawn surrounded by a white picket fence, which it easily clambers over. Its primal mind gets ecstatic, as a seemingly abandoned grill stands in the middle of the lawn, a mouthwatering beacon of enthralling odors.
Rapidly, it hurries towards the feast, its drooling mouth hanging unnaturally wide in preparation for-
Pop.
A portion of the green grass behind the zombie is colored red as a small lump of metal shatters its skull and splatters its brains across the greenery. Motionless, it lays, the expression on its rotting face still hopeful for a blissful meal.
“Those ain’t your sausages, son.” A middle-aged man in a white, grease stained t-shirt steps out of the door of the suburban house, a sidearm in one hand and an assortment of condiments wrapped in the other. Carefully watching his balance as to not drop any of the precious foodstuffs, he walks over to the grill, and sets them on the side table.
He wipes his forehead, sweaty of the apocalyptic heat, and cracks open a can of coke, as a tower explodes and topples in the distance. Setting the can back on the table, he lets out a sigh of contentedness as the cool drink brings solace to the unbearable warmth.
“C’mon, we have to get out of here!” says another man to their family, as they hurriedly pack their things
in their car.
“Y’all want any burgers?” the man behind the grill shouts, but the family does not listen, as they enter their car and drive away, leaving the suburban neighborhood empty aside from the man and his grill.
“All anyone ever does these days is scream, die and reanimate,” he ponders as he flips a juicy steak.
“I just wanna grill for God’s sake.”
Containment Class: Euclid
Containment Procedures: XXXX is kept in a Standard Humanoid Containment Chamber at Site-17.
XXXX is not to directly interact with any personnel. Feeding is automated.
Description: XXXX is a white male interconnected with a probabilistic anomaly that negatively affects individuals associated with it.
Anyone who perceives themselves to have any kind of connection with XXXX will have an increased likelihood of developing interpersonal conflicts, being severely injured, or forced to relocate. Amnestics appear to be enough to mitigate this effect.
Discovery: XXXX was discovered when Foundation probability probes discovered an unlikely amount of natural deaths and tenancy terminations in an apartment complex in Tampere, Finland. By analyzing habitation history, XXXX was identified as the likely source of the anomaly. Agent Hukka was tasked to move in to the apartment complex and familiarize themselves with XXXX to confirm the anomaly.
Foreword: For the duration of the mission, in order to counteract any possible probabilistic effects, Agent Hukka was equipped with an anomalous object that possesses a minor positive probabilistic effect. The following are audio logs detailing Agent Hukka's progress.
18.5.2020 Hukka here. I have succesfully moved in to an apartment right next to the target, but I haven't had time to meet it yet. Will see about establishing contact tomorrow.
19.5.2020 Contact has been established. I think. I bought a swiss roll from the supermarket and went to gift it to the target under the guise of getting to know the neighbours. It, uh, didn't take up on the offer though. Said something about allergies and closed the door on me. I'm gonna try to catch it outside of its apartment and attempt to get in proper contact through that.
21.5.2020 Okay, so it seems that the target doesn't really leave its apartment for anything other than work. It gets home at the same time every night and doesn't leave again until the next morning. I'm guessing that if it is the source of the anomaly, it's aware of it, and trying to minimize contact with others because of it.
Note: Due to Agent Hukka having previous experience working in IT, he was tasked to infiltrate XXXX's workplace as well in order to facilitate contact.
23.5.2020 First day at work. Already making some progress. Approached the target in the cafeteria. Tried to make smalltalk, which didn't really work, but at least I got closer.
24.5.2020 Okay! I'm making some progress. Finally got it to open up a bit. Met up with the target in the cafeteria again, asked him some questions about his life. Hobbies, interests, that kinda stuff. Turns out we both play League of Legends, so we talked about that for a while. I propositioned that we could play together some time, but that made him put up his defenses again. He's finally opening up to me, though.
Afterword: On 25.5.2020, Agent Hukka was severely injured when a loose rooftile fell on his head on his way to work. This was seen as a likely indication of XXXX's anomalous quality, prompting its retrieval and containment.
Foreword: In an attempt to mitigate XXXX's effects, this interview was conducted through a computer terminal, which was pre-programmed with a set of questions. Answers given by XXXX were recorded and transcribed by the terminal. Personnel, aside from a security detail responsible for transportation, involved in this interview never saw XXXX or heard its voice.
ARE YOU AWARE OF YOUR ANOMALOUS CAPABILITIES?
XXXX: You mean the fact that everyone I have ever known has either died or left? Yeah, I've noticed.
DO YOU KNOW THE SOURCE OF THIS EFFECT? WERE YOU BORN WITH IT?
XXXX: (sigh) Nope to both. It started when I was in high school. I realized that, nobody really needs me. Like, I had friends who liked me and spent time with me, but their lives wouldn't have been any different if they had never met me. I was just kind of there. Easy to forget. If I went a month without interacting with anyone, nobody would notice. Nobody would send me a text asking where and how I've been.
WHEN DID YOU NOTICE YOUR EFFECT FOR THE FIRST TIME?
XXXX: It started with my parents. After 30 years of being happily married, my father threw it all down the drain by cheating on my mom. She found out, they broke up and now he has a new family. Only a few months later, my mom gets sick and dies. My friends show up to say their condolences but then they start dropping out too. Some moved away, one ended up in a coma, but most just… forgot. That's when I realized I was cursed.
(pause)
How did you guys even find me?
(pause)
Oh. Niilo was one of you, wasn't he? Figures.
END OF INTERVIEW
As of 7.9.2020, standard statistical analysis showcased that the number of containment breaches had increased by 37% after XXXX was contained.
It was concluded, that as XXXX was directly affiliated with the Foundation due to its containment, its anomaly had encompassed to affect the entire organization.
To mitigate this effect, XXXX was transferred to a remote, undisclosed location with no direct connection to the Foundation, and the first section of its designation has been redacted from all records to further distance the anomaly from the Foundation.
Item №: XXXX
Containment Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: Due to its immobile nature, SCP-XXXX is contained at its original place of discovery. Individuals affected by SCP-XXXX are to be allowed access to it. In order to determine whether affected individuals belong in Category A or B, the following phrase is to be recited to them upon re-emergence:
"What lies beyond?"
Individuals who respond with Answer A are to be amnesticized and returned to the public. Individuals who respond with Answer B are to be detained and questioned about the nature of SCP-XXXX. Personnel are advised to restrict interaction with Category B subjects to no more than 40 minutes in order to prevent prolonged exposure to their voice. Upon the cessation of anomalous effects, B subjects are to be likewise amnesticized and returned to the public.
Unaffected individuals are not allowed to enter SCP-XXXX.
Critters: Its a Bad Idea, Doctor Saffron does not match any existing user name,
Elunerazim,
Avelon21,
Lt Flops
SCP-XXXX-A in its enclosure.
Containment Procedures: Containers of SCP-XXXX are to be stored in the cold storage section of Site-66, and authorization from the Lead Researcher is required for access. SCP-XXXX is not to be fed to reptiles other than SCP-XXXX-1.
SCP-XXXX-1 instances are contained in a 3600m2 containment habitat, which is refurbished with soil and plant life to simulate a temperate forest. 6 remotely activated beacons, capable of producing a sound exceeding 25,000 Hz in frequency are placed in a square inside the habitat, adjacent to the door. If one or more of these beacons break, the rest are to be activated and a maintenance engineer is to enter the habitat and replace the broken beacon(s). Three armed guards must be positioned outside the containment area at all times, and the number of SCP-XXXX-1 instances is not allowed to exceed 20. Each of the SCP-XXXX-1 instances are to be fed 5 kg of meat per week. 10 litres of SCP-XXXX per each SCP-XXXX-1 instance is pumped into a recess in the middle of the habitat everyday. SCP-XXXX-1 are not allowed anywhere within 60 meters of SCP-XXXX-A. Further SCP-XXXX-1 instances, if discovered, are to be terminated.
SCP-XXXX-A is contained in a 4km2 containment area outside Site-66, with a 50 meter tall wire fence set around it. SCP-XXXX-A is to be fed 300 kg of grass every day and it is to have constant access to water. It is to be milked daily by hand, and the resulting SCP-XXXX is stored in metal containers. SCP-XXXX-A's maintenance is carried out by a group of specially trained handlers. Handlers are equipped with stun guns in case of containment breach, but are not allowed to wear these visibly. While within the containment area, handlers are required to wear a special mask which covers their mouth and nose, and is built in such a way that it can not be removed by the individual wearing it. Weapons and complex machinery are not allowed within SCP-XXXX-A's visual range.
Description: SCP-XXXX is the designation given to the milk produced by SCP-XXXX-A. It is light green in coloration and contains more lipids, protein and vitamins than the milk of any non-anomalous animal, but despite its anomalous properties, does not contain ingredients foreign to non-anomalous milk.
SCP-XXXX contains a cognitohazard, as any mammal that smells it will perceive SCP-XXXX as an essential part of their dietary needs. Animals will usually act on this urge without hesitation, but most humans are capable of easily resisting it if exposed for only a brief period of time.
If consumed in low amounts, SCP-XXXX has highly beneficial health benefits, even to the point of a minor regenerative effect. Consuming it will accelerate the healing process of minor wounds and inflammations, instantly cure most minor illnesses, as well as destroy accumulated toxins in the body, slightly prolonging lifespan.
However, if consumed in excess of 5 litres within a 7-day period, SCP-XXXX has a transformative effect, overwriting the subjects genetic code and turning them into an SCP-XXXX-1 instance in 5 stages;
- The subject develops a physical addiction to SCP-XXXX.
- After consuming another liter, the coloration of the subject's irises will turn yellow and their pupil will become slitted. At this stage, reversal is still possible, however, the withdrawal symptoms are lethal in roughly half of observed cases.
- After consuming another 5 liters, the subject, now considered an instance of SCP-XXXX-1, will experience an increase in muscle density and their teeth and nails will sharpen. Additionally, human instances will begin to experience degradation in their prefrontal cortex, parietal cortex and hippocampus, impairing their cognitive skills and memory.
- The SCP-XXXX-1 instance will begin to shed their hair, losing all of it in a span of a few days.
- After all hair has fallen out, the SCP-XXXX-1 instance will begin to molt, shedding their skin and developing scales, which turn greener in coloration with each molting. Additionally, they begin to grow a tail if they do not already have one, which lengthens with each molting until it is fully developed. At this point, the mental degradation of human instances has advanced to an extent where all semblance of their former personality and mental acuity has been lost, reducing them to an instinct-driven, animalistic state.
An SCP-XXXX-1 instance in the later stages of transformation.
Any mammal can be turned into an SCP-XXXX-1 instance, and they will usually retain the general shape of their previous form, making ascertaining their original species easy through observation alone. They are carnivorous and extremely hostile, and will frequently disregard self-preservation while hunting. However, SCP-XXXX-1 instances originating from humans seem to be an exception. They retain at least some of their intellect, for they are extremely cunning and prefer to eliminate their prey through planning and ambushing rather than attacking directly. Additionally, if put in the same space, they will quickly form a pack.
SCP-XXXX-1 are notably stronger and more durable than the originating species, capable of easily severing limbs. However, they have a very sensitive hearing, and high-pitched sounds are usually enough to repel or paralyze them.
Additionally, all SCP-XXXX-1 instances seem to be constantly aware of the whereabouts of SCP-XXXX-A, likely through anomalous means. If an SCP-XXXX-1 instance gets in close proximity with SCP-XXXX-A, it will lay down and molt, turning into a juvenile specimen of SCP-XXXX-A.
SCP-XXXX-A is a herbivorous reptilian belonging to the clade Dinosauria. Its outwards appearance greatly resembles a member of the family brachiosaurus, aside from two horns that curve from the sides of its head to the front, and a large udder on its underside. Its scales are purple, and it has golden brown stripes running between the three ridges that run down its neck and back. Its body has been heavily scarred in various places due to its former living conditions, and it has a deep phobia of weapons and heavy machinery. A panic attack in the beginning of its containment due to these phobias resulted in the death of two and the injury of five personnel.
SCP-XXXX-A produces approximately 40 liters of SCP-XXXX every day. It seems to share the cognitohazardous quality of SCP-XXXX, meaning that mammals near SCP-XXXX-A feel an urge to suckle from its udders. SCP-XXXX-A does not appear to have a womb or any sort of reproductive organs, which would suggest that SCP-XXXX is its natural way of reproduction.
SCP-XXXX-A possesses approximately the same level of intelligence as an elephant, and has proven to be highly empathetic towards all animal life, especially SCP-XXXX-1 instances, which it seems to regard as its offspring.
Discovery: On 19/12/2019, the Foundation carried out a raid on a Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd. auction house in Bath, England. Among the auctioned products were 67 bottles of SCP-XXXX, sold for 1000 GBP each, as well as six instances of SCP-XXXX-1, sold as slaves for 5000 GBP each, but some are believed to have been sold before the raid took place. SCP-XXXX-A, the origin of these anomalies, was not yet discovered.
The following documents cataloging the anomalies for sale were found at the auction house;
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |
|---|---|
| Status | Selling |
| Demand | High |
| Value | 1000 GBP per bottle |
| Availability | Unlimited |
| Identifier | Dinosaur Milk |
| Description | Who doesn't enjoy an exotic beverage from time to time? And what would be more exotic than the milk of a creature that has been extinct for over 100 million years? And bragging rights are not the only thing you'll be getting out of a glass of this stuff. In addition, it will cure you of any ailments that might be plaguing you, seal up wounds like they never existed, and lengthen your lifespan! Just be sure not to drink too much. |
| TR65/B4V7/CR63 | |
|---|---|
| Status | Selling |
| Demand | Medium |
| Value | 5000 GBP per instance |
| Availability | Current inventory, 56 specimens. Additional specimens can be acquired according to demand |
| Identifier | Scale Servant |
| Description | Short on workers or in need of protection? Don't want to pay your employees? Or do you just want an exotic pet, excellent for hunting or for flourishing in front of your friends? Fear not, because MC&D has you covered. These creatures are strong, hardy and capable of doing all manners of manual labor. They are smart and independent enough that they don't require constant care, but they are not intelligent enough to outsmart you. Scale Servants are addicted to Dinosaur Milk and sensitive to high-pitched sounds, so with our special beverage and a special sound device, they are ensured to remain loyal to you. The device is already included in the price. |
Incident Report XXXX.8: During a site-wide containment breach, all of the SCP-XXXX-1 instances were accidentally released from containment, resulting in 27 casualties. 7 of the 8 instances were terminated within the site, but one was successful in evading capture.
3 weeks later, reports of a reptilian humanoid roaming in New Hampshire reached Foundation channels, and a search was conducted. The SCP-XXXX-1 was promptly discovered in the vicinity of an abandoned factory, which upon closer inspection was discovered to be a secret storage facility of MC&D. After the SCP-XXXX-1 instance was re-contained, a raid on the storage facility was planned.
DATE: 2015/17/02
MISSION LEAD: Commander Trevor Taverkin
SUBJECT: SCP-XXXX
FOREWORD: Following the recontainment of the SCP-XXXX-1 instance, MTF Mu-33 ("Highest Bidders") began to plan a raid on the MC&D storage facility in New Hampshire, which was carried out on 2/17/2015. They were equipped with standard combat equipment, as well as sonic weaponry due to the possibility of SCP-XXXX-1 instances being held inside. The following is a transcript of a mission report given by Commander Taverkin.
A few days before the actual mission, my team and I get word of an MC&D storage facility, and we get flown to Site-66, because it was the closest. We do a few scouting trips in advance, just to see what kind of terrain we're working with. Large, dilapidated building, tall wire fence, a few guards outside, nothing special. We're thinking this is gonna be a piece of cake. That's when the researchers are like "hey guys, come look at this" and take us to see a large containment unit built for SCP-XXXX-1. "Oh yeah, there's a large chance that there might be some of these things inside that building. They are resistant to bullets and can tear you apart with their bare hands," they tell us. What? Are you shitting me? You couldn't have told us about this before? Suddenly the mission doesn't seem like child's play anymore.
Anyway, mission rolls around. We're given these weird, megaphone looking things. Some sort of sound weapons, in case there are any -1's inside.
We arrive at the location and there are two guards at the door. No problem, easily dealt with without causing a fuzz. We move in, kick in the door to some sort of lounge area. A few guards, a couple of workers, easy.
We move in deeper, and start coming across some weird stuff. Large storage rooms with big crates full of SCP-XXXX, white flesh, strange eggs, sheets of scaled skin, weird feathers, you name it. Looked like they were preparing to move that stuff somewhere else, probably to sell it.
Then, when we move even further in, we enter this large industrial hall. This room was huge, and there were a lot of people there. Workers next to assembly lines doing all sorts of stuff. Bottling SCP-XXXX, making pillows, handbags, packaging meat, all that. There are a bunch of guards patrolling the area, and they have humanoid -1's with them. They've been equipped with collars of some sort, and the guards seemed to be controlling them with some sort of small device. It doesn't take long for someone to notice we're there. Yeah, not a great situation.
There's a beat, as everyone is just kind of processing, and then we start shooting, and they start shooting back. The workers freak out, and either run away or hide behind their machinery. It was… freaky. Some of them were normal, but some… weren't. First I noticed that some of their screams didn't sound human. It sounded more like hissing. And as one of the terrified workers looked at me before running away, I saw that her eyes were yellow and her skin had hard, green patches. They had been feeding XXXX to their workers and turning them into those… things.
A firefight breaks out. But the worst part isn't the guards, it's the -1's. The handlers tell them to attack and they come rushing towards us and those things are fast. So, let me paint a mental picture for you of the situation we're in. There are armed guards on the other side of this hall, shooting at you, while a bunch of reptilian brutes are coming towards you. You have to, simultaneously, shoot at the guards, while also keeping this weird megaphone thing that you're not used to pointed at the lizards. Shit wasn't easy.
I got jumped by one of those things at some point. It pinned me to the ground with its claws while it tried to bite at my throat. I was able to jam the side of my rifle in its mouth, kick the thing in the stomach to get it off of me, paralyze it with a sonic blast from point blank range and then shoot it in the stomach, which is softer than the rest of it.
We were able to deal with the guards relatively quickly. Thankfully they had terrible aim, and the only one to get hit by a bullet was Royale, and even that was just a bad graze more than anything. The lizards did a number on us, though. Their claws can tear apart kevlar like it's nothing, and a bunch of us got some pretty deep wounds from them. One of them broke Master's arm. After some struggle though, we got rid of all of them… or so we thought.
One of the bastards had climbed up to the machinery above the assembly lines, and waited until we let our guard down. It jumped down on Elliot and ripped his head clean off of his shoulders while screaming like a madman. You can bet your ass that we pumped that fucker full of lead.
Yeah, no, I'm fine. Just let me finish so I can get out of here, okay?
Anyway, so with the guards and the creatures dealt with, we try our best at covering Elliot up to give the man at least some sort of dignity, before continuing. So, the big hall is connected to bunch of rooms on the sides. We start systematically going through them, and we find where they had been getting all of this stuff. Some of the doors connected to other halls, which had pens like a barn, except instead of cows, these pens had dinosaurs in them. Velociraptors, triceratopses, others that I don't even pretend to know the names of. They were all locked up and secured so that they could barely move, with automated feeding and cleaning and all that. The room had been constructed so that the animals could be easily taken out of their pens and led straight to another room to be slaughtered, and from there the carcasses could be easily, well, probably not easily, those things probably weigh tons, taken to a third room, which was a cold storage. There were goddamn dinosaur carcasses hanging off the ceiling! That ain't something you'll see everyday, let me tell you.
On the other side of the hall, there was another pen room, but this one didn't have dinos. This had -1's. Dozens of them behind heavily barred doors, in various stages of transformation, chained to the walls. Some of them were still sapient enough to speak. To plead for help. They had burn marks all over their hide, probably marks of being disciplined.
I'm guessing you terminated them all.
(Pause)
Yeah, thought so.
The next thing we found was a lab of some sort. They had this… contraption in the middle of the room. Imagine a large glass cube, right? There's a glass corridor, that leads to the room with the dinosaurs, connected to the cube. The cube and the corridor are lined with rods that are connected to wires outside of the… thing. Then there's what looked like a really old spear made of wood and stone, connected to the roof of the cube. When we came in, there was a dude in the process of breaking the spear. He was dressed in a jacket almost identical to yours so I guessed he was the one leading the operation. He reached for a gun though, so I had to gun him down. Inside the cube, there was a creature of some sort. We couldn't tell what it was supposed to be, it was all fucked up. It looked like a grey mass of flesh, with bones sticking out. There was a half-formed snout sticking out of the mass, and organs that were visible through the skin, and it was screeching its fucking lungs off. I'm guessing that the spear was the one bringing these prehistoric creatures back to life, and when the dude broke it he disrupted the process and left it in an in-between state. We promptly put the poor animal out of its misery.
Then there's the big thing. On the back of the room, was a doorway to another large hall. That's where they were keeping SCP-XXXX-A. Poor thing, it was put into like a metallic frame with spikes that bore into its flesh, keeping it upright and preventing it from moving whatsoever. It was constantly making this desperate, low mewling sound. It looked at us pleadingly and I swear I could see intelligence in those eyes. There was also some sort of automated system connected to its udders that kept extracting XXXX from it.
After we detained the guards and other personnel in that room we called for back up, which arrived in a couple of hours. I wasn't there for the whole operation, we left when we were no longer needed, but I hear that it took 16 hours to free -A from that torture device. Is that true?
(Pause)
Jesus.
Now, if you have no further questions for me, I'd like to be excused. I want to go see a certain someone.
| Memo 01 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Good news, Mr. Marshall. The artifact you have sent me works magnificently! I am currently looking at a living, breathing Aquilops specimen, reanimated from its previous fossilized state. I have purchased a great number of fossils from around the world, which are being transferred here as I write this. I will soon be able to start the mass production of extinct animals, which will surely go like water in the desert to those of your clients with an affinity towards exotic pets, not to mention the meat and egg produce. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 02 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| I have made the most exciting scientific discovery! Production has been going smoothly for the most part, and we already have a wide range of critters for your clients to choose from. The most recent creation, however, is the most interesting one. It was reanimated from an unidentified fossil of a tailbone, and what a creature it turned out to originate from. Believe it or not, this dinosaur has udders! We fed it some grass and it has begun to produce milk! I suggest we leave this one not-for-sale, as the capitalization of dinosaur milk will surely turn out more profitable in the long run. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 03 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| Robert, this is is a wondrous development indeed. The marketing possibilities of dinosaur milk surely are great, but first we need to figure out whether or not it is even drinkable. Begin testing as swiftly as possible and inform me of any further developments. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 04 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Mr. Marshall, there has been an development. We began testing this morning, as you ordered, by feeding some of the milk to one of the velociraptors in our possession. After all, the dinosaur, which I have taken the liberty of naming Brachiosaurus maternus, is a reptile, so it would make sense to begin testing with another member of the same class. Turns out, that this train of thought was faulty. The velociraptor reacted poorly to the substance. First, it began throwing up and convulsing. Then, it began to… change. I can only assume that the milk caused some sort wretched multiplication process within its genome to begin, causing it to mutate. First, it began to grow in size. Its flesh looked like it was bubbling, as the chicken-sized creature expanded to fill the majority of the lab. All the while, it was sprouting new appendages. Legs, tails, and mouths, all over its body as it began advancing on us. The security personnel tried to keep it at bay, but it was for naught, as it overpowered us easily. I swear to MEKHANE it swallowed one of our guards whole. We are currently locked up in the hall where we are keeping B. maternus, and the mutated raptor is right outside, clawing at the door and trying to get inside. Please send reinforcements. |
|||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 05 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| I see. Seems you have found yourself in quite the predicament. Do not worry, my friend. Help is on the way. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 06 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Where the hell are those reinforcements? We have been stuck here with this stinking creature for several days! Anyway, this dinosaur appears to possess a compulsory effect of some sort, as ever since we got holed up with it, we have felt an ever-growing need to drink from its udder. Today, the compulsion got too strong for some of us to resist, and a few of my personnel have acted on it. So far, they have not experienced the same transformation as the velociraptor. In fact, we think it might have some sort of regenerative effect on us, as it seemingly healed up a wound on one of my people. I'll keep you posted, but please hurry up with the reinforcements. |
|||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 07 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| The situation complicates further. Those individuals who gave in to the compulsion have now begun to transform as well, though not as drastically as the raptor. First, they became gravely addicted to the substance to such an extent that we had to physically force them to stop suckling. Now, their eyes have turned yellow, their skin has started to turn into scales, and their mind seems to be fading. For the time being, we have locked them up in one of the adjacent storage rooms, in case they become feral. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 08 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP |
|---|
| Memo 09 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| Don't you worry, doctor. You won't have to eat hay much longer. Help is on its way right now. Apologies for the delay, our security personnel were, at the time, preoccupied elsewhere. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 10 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Thank you greatly for finally sending assistance. The monstrosity has been dealt with, and we are currently in the process of rebuilding and regrouping in order to resume our usual means of operation. Being stuck with the B. maternus for 10 days has caused me to despise its stupid face, but I do recognize the scientific and commercial possibilities, so I am willing to continue working with it. I would like to request a raise, though, if you do not perceive such a request as unconceivable. |
|||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 11 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| Dear Robert, I am glad that things are moving forward there. Now that the issue has been dealt with, I expect you to resume your research as swiftly as possible. I am very interested in this milk's effect on humans, and I have a hunch that finding ways to capitalize on it would be most lucrative. My hunches are rarely wrong. If you do a good job, you might be receiving that raise as well. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
Despite the containment of SCP-XXXX-A, SCP-XXXX has continued to surface within anomalous black markets, from an unknown source. The location and containment of these sources, and the suppression of SCP-XXXX sales is imperative.
Critters: Dr Moned,
Avelon21,
Popsioak,
Its a Bad Idea,
K_Solari,
H0dari
Free Port 05, more commonly known as The Pillars, sports several unique and peculiar jobs. Scrambler hound riders are responsible for neurally interfacing with large, multi-limbed creatures that are used as a mode of public transportation. Even construction work isn't boring in The Pillars, because as the city expands, construction workers are required to go to uninhabited heights of a pillar, with simple climbing equipment as the only thing separating safety from free-fall into the smoky abyss, to build more room for the city to expand.
However, of all the peculiar jobs in The Pillars, the most essential of all is that of the lantern bearers. The light of the lanterns you see, doesn't just provide well-appreciated visibility in the foggy streets of The Pillars, but it also keeps at bay The-Shapes-In-The-Fog. Every citizen of The Pillars knows about the large, indistinct beings lurking nearby, silently swimming through the gaseous expanse.
Henrick, a lantern bearer on duty, watches one of the blurry beasts swim past in the distance, as he leans against the railing of one of the numerous streets built into the sides of the humongous pillars of black stone, lantern in hand. He sighs and moves on, as the thorny tentacles recede back into the thick fog.
Lantern bearing is tough work, because it means that you have to sleep during the day in order to gather the energy required to walk for miles during the night. Granted, there is not much difference between day and night in The Pillars, as there are no celestial bodies on the sky, since there is no sky at all. The fog seems to have an illuminating quality to it, ensuring that there is always light. Day and night are simply arbitrary terms used to indicate the time periods during which people are out and about and when they are sleeping. It is also just convenient for the people to be tucked inside when the lanterns go out, allowing the bearers to relight them in peace, without fear that someone would be caught in an unprotected area and end up getting snatched by A-Shape-In-The-Fog. This still happens from time to time, as there are still always people out and about, Pillars has a nightlife just as any other city, but it is rare.
Regardless, this kind of schedule means that lantern bearers rarely see or interact with people, aside from other lantern bearers. For outsiders, this facet of their nature brings an air of mystery around the profession. Henrick, however, prefers the silence. The serenity that looms over the usually hectic streets of the The Pillars during these nights is peaceful for him, comforting, even, as long as he forgets why the torches need to be lit in the first place. This is why he feels almost annoyed when he is approached by another lantern bearer, while standing on Callifer Bridge and watching motes of light jump out of his lantern and dance through the air into the torches on the sides, breathing brilliant life into the previously snuffed sources of warm, orange light.
"How's the route going?" he shouts from across the bridge. Henrick has met the man before, though briefly. His name is Kieran, but that's all Henrick knows.
"Same as every night," he responds.
"Seen a lot Shapes?" Kieran asks. Henrick doesn't know why.
"One, just a few minutes ago. It swam away though."
"Got it. I myself saw a big one. You do the upper layers of this pillar right?" he asks and points back at the pillar he just came from. Henrick comfirms.
"Yeah, might wanna be careful then. I saw it drifting upwards. Seemed pretty ballsy too, it came unusually close." Henricks interest is peaked.
"Oh yeah? How close?" he asks.
"Like, maybe 30-40 feet off the side. Close enough that I could make out some details on its hide. Scary shit." Kierans face goes paler as he recalls his experience. Henrick decides to make a mental note of the story. He nods.
"Thanks for letting me know. I'll keep it in mind," he says as he walks past the man to break free from the unsolicited small talk.
"Yeah, no problem. Stay safe out there!" Kieran shouts from behind.
"Yeah, you too!" Henrick responds, picking up the pace.
Henrick exits Callifer Bridge and enters the streets of Arwen's Pillar, which has already been lit on this level. He looks up at the upper layers, their bottoms slightly obscured by fog, and sighs as he begins to ascend the winding, wide staircase around the mysterious monolith.
There are a lot of things one could hate about The Pillars. The air is always humid and chilly, eldritch horrors lurk just out of sight, and the bottomless void that surrounds everything is a nightmare for acrophobes. However, one of the things that most often comes up when discussing the cons of the city, is the amount of stairs it has. These are a necessity, as the city has been segmented into multiple vertical layers, and people frequently travel from one layer to another within the same pillar. Of course. there are other methods of vertical movement, but not everyone can afford continuous rides on a scrambler hound, and on a busy day a long line can easily form in front of the elevators. Those who are magically inclined also have the choice of using teleportation, but lantern bearers don't have the permission to use any of these methods while on duty. They are required to use stairs, as any more direct way of travelling from one layer to another could mean missing an unlit lantern. At least it's a good leg exercise, Henrick figures.
After too many steps, Henrick's legs land on the cobblestone street of Arwen's Pillar, Fifth Layer. He takes a moment to steady his breath, as he looks around. The buildings here are larger, their details more intricate, than the ones down below. That is usually how it goes in The Pillars. The higher you are, the better your living conditions are. Those on the highest layers, from the 8th to the 9th, live in abundance and luxury. Those on the 1st and 2nd layers can't afford more than a dingy apartment, if even that. The only exception to this system is The Three, the largest layer, which is built around and within three pillars. A sort of city central, though big enough to be a small city all on its own. Henrick wishes his pay was high enough that he could afford a house on the Fifth or Sixth Layer, but alas, lantern bearers are criminally underpaid for providing such an essential service.
Henrick goes to move on, but something catches his eye. The light of another lantern pierces the fog, but it isn't bright enough to belong to a bearer. Behind the dim point of light, the silhouette of a lumbering form shifts.
"Ey! Who goes there?" Henrick shouts as he approaches.
"Oh, don't mind me, bearer," a voice calls out. "My old girl couldn't sleep so I decided to take her on a little midnight stroll."
Henrick comes closer, the light of his lantern revealing a stout old man, and the scrambler hound stomping next to it. The dozens of powerful hands sticking out of its grey back twitch warily, as it senses the scent of a stranger, its four-segmented snout sniffing the air.
"Be careful if you come any closer. Her sight isn't what it used to be back in her working days. You don't want to spook her," the man chuckles. Henrick looks at the 300-pound animal's six legs, each as thick as a tree trunk and tipped with five sharp claws, and comes to the same conclusion.
"Well, don't stay out for too long. This area is unlit, and I've heard that there's a large Shape lurking somewhere nearby," he says. The old man gulps. The scrambler hound senses its handler get nervous, and shifts uncomfortably.
"Noted. C'mon Gretchen, let's go back home," he says and pats the animal on the shoulder. "You have a good night young man!"
"You as well," Henrick says and lifts his lantern to bring safety to the streets.
A good while passes by uninterestingly, with Henrick fulfilling his duties and slowly forgetting about his colleagues warnings, sinking back into that comforting silence of inaction. That's when he feels the fog around him suddenly move, as he notices something approaching him fast from the corner of his eye.
Henrick goes to dodge, but he's too late, as a wooden cart is launched out of the fog, colliding with him and sending him sprawling and his lantern flying.
As he crawls out of the pile of wooden wreckage, dry heaving due to the sensation of something twisting and pushing against his lungs, a series of thick appendages slither out of the white, snaking their way through the air towards Henrick. He lifts his face and his eyes lock with three brilliant points of white light in the middle of a large, dark mass, and above a jagged, slowly opening maw. He screams, but The-Shape-In-The-Fog is silent.
One of the tentacles shoots out, wrapping itself around his leg, its thorns puncturing his skin. He chokes on his own scream as he frantically attempts to take a hold of something, but his fingers find no purchase in the slick stones that line the street. His eyes roll wildly in their sockets, trying to locate the only thing he knows can save him from an unknown end, the lantern.
A beautiful ray of hope glimmers from behind pieces of twisted wood and metal, but the light dims and Henrick's stomach drops, as he realizes that there is no way he can reach it. Another tentacle grabs at him, as he is dragged closer to the edge, the ground pushing something deeper into his lung. Henrick's lashes stick together, as he closes his eyes and prepares for the end.
The darkness behind his lids brightens, as he gets pulled out of the stony safety into the white infinity… except, he can still feel the ground beneath him. In confusion, Henrick opens his eyes and there above him, stands the old man from before, with a lantern in hand. The Shape recoils, letting go of Henrick. It pulls its appendages back to shield its skin and eyes from the searing light, as it retreats back into the fog.
Henrick attempts to get up, but his body disagrees, as the pain in his side makes him press back against the ground. "How did you…" he stammers.
"I dropped my pocket watch on my walk before, and came back to look for it. That's when I heard your screams and came to see what the fuss was about. I noticed the lantern in that pile over there and snatched before the beast even noticed I was there!"
"That was… very brave of you," Henrick says, pushing through the pain. "I owe my life to you."
The old man waves his hand dismissively. "Don't mention it. C'mon, lets get you to a healer," he says and goes to help Henrick get up.
Off the side, obscured by the unending cloud, a tentacled being looks at the limping pair.
One day, the lights will be quenched and then, we take back what's ours.
Critters: KaraKatt, Alces_alces does not match any existing user name
Special Containment Procedures: Due to its immobile nature, SCP-XXXX is contained at its site of discovery. The building containing SCP-XXXX has been acquired by the Foundation, designated as Containment Site-XXXX and repurposed for research and containment of SCP-XXXX. Two guards are posted at Containment Site-XXXX at all times to monitor the anomaly and log any discrepancies. A remote surveillance camera has been placed within SCP-XXXX to record DOLOR Events.
SCP-XXXX is not to be entered for purposes outside of research. While within SCP-XXXX, explicit care must be taken to ensure that it or anything within are not damaged. If such an incident does occur, SCP-XXXX is not to be entered until the carcass has been consumed.
Description: SCP-XXXX is the bathroom of single-family home located in Arlington, Texas. SCP-XXXX is perpetually infested by various species of insects, including silverfish, fruit flies, cockroaches, moths, ants and millipedes, here-on referred to as SCP-XXXX-1.
While within SCP-XXXX, SCP-XXXX-1 possess several anomalous properties. Firstly, they do not appear to require nutrition or rest, and do not experience senescence. Secondly, SCP-XXXX-1 will completely ignore humans within SCP-XXXX, unless they damage the room or anything within. If this occurs, they will spontaneously develop defensive features, such as powerful jaws, stingers, or sharp legs, which they will then use to swarm and kill or repel the offender. Following this, SCP-XXXX-1 will consume the carcass. Upon completion, the swarm will revert to their previous forms and resume normal behavior.
At seemingly random intervals, SCP-XXXX-1 will begin to emit a sound identical to a crying prepubescent, despite not being physically capable of this. These vocalizations will continue for an un-specific amount of time ranging from 5 seconds to as long as 4.5 hours.
Most notably, SCP-XXXX-1 will experience DOLOR events at approximately 30 hour intervals. During a DOLOR event, SCP-XXXX-1 will swarm on top of each other in order to form humanoid shapes. These shapes will then begin to emulate human behavior, acting out predetermined scenes. See Addendum XXXX.1.
| Description of DOLOR event | Amount of times observed |
|---|---|
| Three figures are present. One adult male, one adult female and one child. The male figure is gesturing violently and holding a single instance of SCP-XXXX-1 in front of the female figure, who appears distressed. The child figure sits in a corner with its head pressed against its knees. It is rocking back and forth. | 19 |
| The male figure is standing in the middle of the room. The child figure approaches it from behind, apparently holding a jar of some sort. It taps the back of the male figure to gain its attention. The male figure turns around and appears to get agitated. The child figure attempts to back away, but is attacked by the male figure. The female figure is not present. | 58 |
| Only the male figure is present. It appears to be digging in the middle of the room. After 6 minutes, it suddenly stands upright and turns towards the door. | 126 |
| Only the female figure is present. It is walking backwards with its arms stretched outwards in front of it. After 40 seconds, it is pushed to the ground by an unseen force. | 7 |
| Only the male figure is present. It is sitting on the toilet, with its head in its hands. Its shoulders are slightly trembling. After 17 minutes, it begins to look around the room, appearing frantic. It tries to get up, but instead falls on the floor, where it twitches in pain for approximately 13 minutes, during which the SCP-XXXX-1 comprising the figure gradually depart from the mass. | 346 |
Update: On 29/3/2004, a concrete scan was performed on SCP-XXXX in case the source of the anomaly is within the construction. The scan revealed what appear to be two human skeletons under the floor. One adult, one prepubescent.
Critters: not_a_seagull does not match any existing user name, TrustyOlValet2 does not match any existing user name,
Fredrick Tannenberg will never forget the look in his fathers eyes when he came back from work, later than usual that one Monday evening. Bloodshot scleras, pupils the size of pinpoints and the dark rings around them, as if he hadn't slept in a week. He will never forget that dry, shrill chuckle let out from a mouth stretched into a strained smile as his mother asked if he was okay. "Just dandy," he had said in a tone oozing with hidden anger and manic amusement.
He will never forget the way an additional set of teeth erupted out of his esophagus, stretching into a wicked smile. He will never forget the way his head slumped back as the new mouth opened into an maniacal laugh, three long tongues whipping at the air from within his throat. He ran as the tongues grabbed his mother and never looked back.
I remember the farm. I built it with my very own hands when they still belonged to me. We had cows, chickens and a horse. I took pride in keeping them all healthy and productive. We had a field of wheat, golden and wavy as it swayed in the warm breeze that came from the ocean.
I remember my family. My lovely Marcella and our sweet daughter Galla, whom Marcella gave birth to in the shed that I had also built. Galla was such a lively girl, always chasing the chickens and hiding in the hay, waiting for me or her mother to find her and catch her. They both had long, wavy, golden hair, just like the hay, or the sun that gave life to all, while mine was earthen brown and shaggy. Marcella loved to play with it, roughing it until rogue strands stuck to every cardinal direction. I miss my hair.
I remember the explosion in the sky. A loud boom, unlike any sound I had ever heard, accompanied by a flash of blue light. It woke us up in the middle of the night. We thought that the gods had gotten angry and decided to deliver divine justice from the peak of Olympos, but no godly retribution came. The house shook as a shock wave, caused by something enormous impacting with the ground, passed through the Earth.
The next morning, I wanted to take the horse, I think its name was Quintus, and ride towards the direction of the shock wave, to see what its source was.
Special Containment Procedures: A roughly 150 km2 area around SCP-5137 has been designated as Surveillance Site-587 and cordoned off from the public under the guise of a military base in order to research SCP-5137 and monitor the development of seismological activity in the area.
SCP-5137-1 is kept in a standard humanoid containment cell in Site-17. A Foundation engineer is to inspect it weekly and prevent its mechanical components from degrading further.
Description: SCP-5137 is an underground facility of unknown origin, located near Nizhnevartovsk, Russia. It can be accessed through a cave system, and descends approximately 2 kilometers below ground. The structure has two stories and it has been constructed of an unknown, black metal with an appearance similar to chitin.
The first floor appears to have been intended to function as barracks of some sort, with living quarters and what appears to have been a infirmary. The second floor contains several rooms intended for research of unknown subjects.
Several items of interest have been found within the facility, including technology that exceeds current human advancement, anomalous items, some of which seem to be components in thaumaturgical rituals of some sort, and a heavily decayed humanoid corpse, which doesn't appear to be human in origin. DNA testing of this corpse has been inconclusive, as it appears to lack a genome altogether.
SCP-5137-1 is a human corpse, reanimated through both mechanical and thaumaturgical means, with the majority of its body having been removed and replaced with a variety of mechanical augmentations. Notable mentions include:
- The left eye has been replaced with an ocular implant capable of several additions to visual acuity, including thermal imaging and AI-assisted added reality computing.
- The entire skeletal structure has been constructed of metal.
- The left arm is completely mechanical, in contrast to the other which still retains its original flesh and skin. Wrists of both arms have been equipped with extendable blades.
- The heart has been replaced with a thaumaturgic engine, which circulates necromansic energy through the body via thaumic conduits.
- A binding sigil has been carved into the forehead.
Carbon dating has placed SCP-5137-1 as approximately 3000 years old. Several of its mechanical components have experienced advanced degradation due to being exposed to the elements for prolonged periods of time. SCP-5137-1 is sapient, but the degradation of the mechanical augmentations in its brain seem to have caused damage to several of its internal subroutines, resulting in slowed response time and retrograde amnesia.
Despite the extensive damage in several of its components, SCP-5137-1 has demonstrated inhumane levels of strength and endurance.
SCP-5137-1 seems to lack a sense of identity, instead referring to itself in the third person as "Unit".
On 13/3/2020, there was a localized earthquake, 5.1 on the Richter scale, near Nizhnevartovsk, Russia. This earthquake, the cause of which is unknown, apparently collapsed part of an underground cavern, revealing SCP-5137 and, according to the subject itself, awoke SCP-5137-1 out of its stasis. The Foundation was alerted when reports of a mechanical man began to be received by the local police. SCP-5137-1 was promptly contained and the event was covered up as a promotional event for an upcoming science fiction movie.
Quickly afterwards, SCP-5137-1 was discovered and searched. Surveillance Site-587 was built to restrict public access and to research the nature and origin of SCP-5137.
Interviewer: Dr. Stefan
Interviewee: SCP-5137-1
Details: After SCP-5137-1 was contained, an interview was conducted in order to determine the exact nature and origin of the anomaly.
(Dr. Stefan enters the room and sits opposite to SCP-5137-1. A pane of bulletproof glass separates the room into two parts, and two guards are posted on both sides of the glass.)
Dr. Stefan: Hello, SCP-5137-1. Mind if I ask you some questions?
SCP-5137-1: Pro- proceed3.
Dr. Stefan: Why were you in that cavern?
SCP-5137-1: Corruption of me- memory files detected.
Dr. Stefan: I see. Were you created by someone else?
SCP-5137-1: Yes.
Dr. Stefan: By who?
(SCP-5137-1 looks to the side and remains silent for 3 seconds.)
SCP-5137-1: Corruption of memory files detected.
(Dr. Stefan sighs.)
Dr. Stefan: For what purpose were you created?
SCP-5137-1: Corruption of memory files detected.
(Rest of the interview follows the same pattern. A portion has been subtracted due to lack of useful information and to reserve space.)
Dr. Stefan: Okay, I think we're done here. We're not getting anything useful out of this guy.
(Dr. Stefan leaves. Interview is terminated.)
On 20/3/2020, three consecutive earthquakes occurred beneath SCP-5137. Personnel within SCP-5137 witnessed previously inoperative machinery to activate. Displays within the facility powered up and began to display text in an unknown language and alphabet. Cause of the earthquakes is currently unknown. Research continues.
Interviewer: Dr. Stefan
Interviewee: SCP-5137-1
Details: On 27/3/2020, SCP-5137-1 began to repeatedly strike the wall of its containment chamber while repeating the word "talk". It ceased when it was told that Dr. Stefan would come to conduct another interview with it.
Dr. Stefan: So, SCP-5137-1, why did you wish to speak to me again?
SCP-5137-1: There has been de- deceiving.
Dr. Stefan: Oh?
SCP-5137-1: Units memory files are intact. Units ro- programming has corru- rupted.
Dr. Stefan: Why did you lie to me before?
SCP-5137-1: A tactical decision.
Dr. Stefan: I understand. Well in that case, who created you?
SCP-5137-1: Unit was created by the High Magineers of the Dzenzarian Empire.
Dr. Stefan: Ah huh. Never heard of that before. Why did they build you?
SCP-5137-1: Unit was built for war.
Dr. Stefan: War? War with who?
(SCP-5137-1 points a finger at Dr. Stefan.)
SCP-5137-1: You.
Dr. Stefan: I'm afraid you're gonna have to be more specific than that.
SCP-5137-1: Yo- your species.
(SCP-5137-1 looks briefly to the side and then back to Dr. Stefan.)
SCP-5137-1: Our species.
Dr. Stefan: Why were you in stasis in that cavern then?
SCP-5137-1: Wa- waiting for the ma- masters to return- turn. It is evident now that they will not.
Dr. Stefan: But that doesn't make sense. Why would they have put you in that cavern alone?
SCP-5137-1: Unit was not alone.
Dr. Stefan: Uhh- excuse me?
SCP-5137-1: An entire battalion was set to wait.
Dr. Stefan: Why didn't we find them when we searched the cavern?
SCP-5137-1: Deep. Inside stone. Unit had been brought up for maintenance when masters left.
(Dr. Stefan removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.)
Dr. Stefan: Oh my god. SCP-5137-1, please tell me you know something about those tremors?
SCP-5137-1: The machines have reactivated. The battalion will activate. The war will commence.
(Dr. Stefan hurriedly gets up and begins to head towards the door.)
Dr. Stefan: The higher ups need to hear this. Oh-
(Dr. Stefan pauses and turns back towards SCP-5137-1.)
Dr. Stefan: One last thing, SCP-5137-1. Why are you telling me this?
SCP-5137-1: Units memory files are intact. Units programming has corrupted. Unit remembers everything now.
(SCP-5137-1 looks down.)
SCP-5137-1: Unit saw a small girl in the city. U- unit used to have one. Killed by- by- by the Dzenzarian Empire.
(SCP-5137-1 looks back at Dr. Stefan.)
SCP-5137-1: Unit used to look like you. Not anymore. Changed now.
(Silence for 5 seconds.)
SCP-5137-1: Unit does not- negative. Livius does- negative. I do not want war anymore.
(Interview terminated.)
SCP-5137-1 was provided with a transcript of the unknown text witnessed on monitors within SCP-5137 in case it could be capable of translating it. The following is a recreation of the screen with the text translated into English:
…
connection established/
initiating status update/
perform/
/
quantum mind:
disconnected/
/
auxiliary power:
operational/
/
analyzing primary functions:
archway:
damage to primary components detected: inoperational/
defense systems:
power directory severed: inoperational/
stasis pods:
Level 2 power matrix damaged: inoperational/
/
analyzing unit status:
units 0001-0791: inactive
unit 0792: active
units 0793-4000: inactive/
/
status update: performed/
/
checking life signs: 32 unprocessed humans detected, 1 operator detected
activating defense systems: activation failed/
/
/
receiving override code: accepted
/
activation of units 0001-0791, 0793-4000 initiated: in progress
/
Due to the contents of this Addendum and the statements made by SCP-5137-1 in Interview 5137.2, the amount of security personnel present at Surveillance Site-587 was considerably increased.
On 29/3/2020, SCP-5137-1 suddenly extended the blade embedded into its left arm and plunged it into the back of it its head, carving out one of its mechanical components. Closer inspection of the component revealed it to have begun transmitting a signal of some sort. Upon questioning SCP-5137-1 for the intentions of its actions, it stated that it "cannot answer the call if it doesn't hear it".
Upon attempting to inform Surveillance Site-587 of the incident, it was discovered that connection with the site was not possible. An MTF was sent to check the status of the site. Upon arrival, they discovered that all personnel on-site had been terminated.
The following timeline has been constructed through recorded security footage:
07.03: Three researchers and two security personnel enter SCP-5137.
09.27: Entered personnel have not come out yet, despite their shift having ended. The guard posted at the security checkpoint appears to get worried and reports to the site.
09.30: The guard walks back to their post, as what appears to be a small wave of ionized energy is sent through the entrance to SCP-5137. It hits the guard and instantly vaporizes a portion of his torso. Entities similar to SCP-5137-1 in appearance, hereby referred to as SCP-5137-A, begin to emerge out of the entrance en masse.
09.34: Security personnel posted on the yard notice the entities and move in for confrontation. SCP-5137-A appear mostly unfazed by gunfire and swiftly terminate personnel.
09.40: SCP-5137-A breach into Surveillance Site-587. Personnel they come across are either terminated or incapacitated and implanted with a device of some sort.
09.47: Dr. Ceznikov is cornered by an SCP-5137-A, which is then terminated by Agent Rellick by a shotgun blast to the back and the neck. Dr. Ceznikov and Agent Rellick begin making their way towards the Command Center.
09.53: They reach the corridor leading to the Command Center, followed by numerous SCP-5137-A instances. Agent Rellick stays behind in an attempt to slow the entities down, while Dr. Ceznikov enters the Command Center and begins activating the detonation failsafe of the Site.
09.55: Dr. Ceznikov appears to freeze in place, as an unknown entity enters the frame. It is roughly humanoid in shape, but is covered in a smooth, black carapace of some sort, that appears to fuse with its apparent clothing, a long jacket of some sort. Its face has no features aside from a mouth. The jaw is tri-segmented, and its parts continuously twitch. The inside of the mouth appears to glow blue, and the entities body is covered in blue, glowing patterns, possibly decorative in nature. Of note is that this entity has not been seen in any other recording.
09.57: The entity walks behind Dr. Ceznikov and turns him towards itself, before lifting him off the ground and vocalizing in an unknown language. At this point, all of the cameras malfunction for 5 seconds. When the feed returns, the entity, Dr. Ceznikov and all SCP-5137-A instances have dissapeared.
Special Containment Procedures: Foundation webcrawlers are set to flag any mentions of Toadstool Catering. Events attended to by SCP-XXXX are to be inspected by members of MTF Delta-13 "Undead Bread Redemption" who are disguised as food inspectors and armed with iron bullets. Such events are to be cancelled on the guise of a food safety violation. Civilians who have attended to an event where SCP-XXXX was present are put on a watchlist and covertly monitored by members of MTF Alpha-5 "Honor Guard" in case anomalous features develop.
New catering firms are to be inspected in case of any affiliation with SCP-XXXX. If such affiliations are found, the firm is to be shut down immediately. If this fails, the previously described Containment Procedures will be implemented on the new firm as well.
Description: SCP-XXXX is Toadstool Catering, a catering firm located and operating in Ireland. Trade Register records indicate that it was founded in 2010 and that it belongs to an individual named Sidhe Gallagher, though personal records of an individual by that name having ownership of such a firm do not exist. Property supposedly owned by SCP-XXXX has proven to be abandoned upon closer inspection.
SCP-XXXX can be hired to an event through their website, or by phone. Attempts to close the website or the phone number have repeatedly failed.
When SCP-XXXX is hired to an event, they operate much like a non-anomalous catering firm and most of their food bears no unusual characteristics. However, SCP-XXXX typically serves one dish (labeled SCP-XXXX-1) in each event, which has various anomalous traits.
The dish exhibiting features of SCP-XXXX-1 varies in each event, but every iteration has the same traits. SCP-XXXX-1 does not spoil or become stale and subjects who have consumed SCP-XXXX-1 consistently report it to be the best thing they have ever eaten, despite the fact that chemical analysis hasn't revealed anything unusual in the ingredients of the food.
Most notably, however, 24 hours after the consumption of SCP-XXXX-1, the subject (hereby labeled as SCP-XXXX-2) becomes unable to consume non-anomalous food. All attempts to do so will invariably result in severe nausea, which typically results in SCP-XXXX-2 regurgitating the contents of their stomach. In severe cases, consumption of non-anomalous food by SCP-XXXX-2 has even led to severe food poisoning, even when the food in question was not spoiled. Soon after, SCP-XXXX-2 instances will develop a severe allergy to iron.
After the development of this allergy, the SCP-XXXX-2 instance will be approached by individuals working for SCP-XXXX. These individuals, (hereby referred to as SCP-XXXX-3) will attempt to coerce the SCP-XXXX-2 instance into following them. If the instance goes with SCP-XXXX-3, all of the individuals will disappear immediately after becoming unobserved. If no such opportunity presents itself naturally, instances of SCP-XXXX-3 will create it through anomalous means. Cameras and other recording devices will cease to function and some distraction will cause observers to break line of sight with the individuals4. In cases where SCP-XXXX-2 have refused to follow, SCP-XXXX-3 have demonstrated inhumane levels of physical strength. Vanished SCP-XXXX-2 instances have never been recovered.
Test Details: D-13367 was instructed to consume an instance of SCP-XXXX-1, which was obtained from a funeral wake catered to by SCP-XXXX. Following the onset of anomalous characteristics, D-13367 was equipped with covert recording equipment and released in a nearby city, where she was instructed to sit on a park bench and wait.
Test Goal: To observe the interaction between SCP-XXXX-2 and -3 and to obtain more information about the nature and motives of the anomaly.
(D-13367 sits on a bench, set next to a gravel road through the park. She accidentally makes contact with her hand against the iron armrest of the bench. She flinches in a reaction to pain and moves closer to the center of the bench.)
D-13367: So, what exactly is supposed to happen with me sitting here?
Command: Be patient, D-13367.
(Nothing out of the ordinary happens for 24 minutes, when two people, a man and a woman, designated as SCP-XXXX-3.1 and SCP-XXXX-3.2 respectively, approach D-13367.)
SCP-XXXX-3.1: Hello, child.
D-13367: Hello?
(SCP-XXXX-3.2 sits next to D-13367 and lets out a sigh.)
SCP-XXXX-3.2: The trees are beautiful here, don't you think? What's your name, dear?
D-13367: Stacy. I'm sorry, what do you want from me?
(5 second pause.)
SCP-XXXX-3.1: My partner and I have a proposition for you.
(D-13367 gets up and takes a step further from the SCP-XXXX-3 instances.)
D-13367: I'm not taking part in anything creepy!
SCP-XXXX-3.1: Oh no, we weren't gonna suggest anything of the sort! No, we have something that will surely be of great interest to you. It might even save your life.
SCP-XXXX-3.2: We are aware of the changes you have recently begun to experience.
SCP-XXXX-3.1: Normal food disgusts you, iron burns you.
SCP-XXXX-3.2: Maybe you've visited a church and found that walking on consecrated ground makes you nauseous.
D-13367: Yeah, how do you-
(SCP-XXXX-3.2 takes out a FEZ dispenser.)
SCP-XXXX-3.1: Want one?
D-13367: I don't-
SCP-XXXX-3.1: I think you want one, Stacy.
(D-13367 slowly accepts a candy.)
D-13367: It's- it's delicious.
SCP-XXXX-3.1: I know. And there's more where we're coming from.
D-13367: Where your coming from?
SCP-XXXX-3.2: We come from somewhere else. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere pure.
SCP-XXXX-3.1: There, you can eat and dance as much as you want.
SCP-XXXX-3.2: You can live forever.
D-13367: That sounds… nice.
SCP-XXXX-3.1: Take my hand, would you? We can take you there.
((SCP-XXXX-3.1 offers their hand, which D-13367 which takes hold of. The SCP-XXXX-3 instances lead her behind a tree, at which point the Foundation agents placed nearby lose line of sight. The recording equipment on D-13367 cut to a few seconds of static, after which a single frame is recorded, before connection is lost. D-13367 is found to have vanished.)
Attached File
Incident Details: On 12/03/2020, SCP-XXXX's website was edited to contain nothing but the following text.
Hello, children. Unfortunately, Toadstool Catering is no longer operational. We have what we need now, and our economy seems to be stable for the foreseeable future. If and when the need arises, though, we will back to business to fulfill all your catering needs.
We apologize for any mischief we might have caused ;)
Sincerely, Toadstool Catering
Afterword: No SCP-XXXX activity has been recorded since this message appeared. Change of Containment Class from Keter to Neutralized pending.
Special Containment Procedures: Instances of SCP-XXXX are to be
Special Containment Procedures: As direct containment of SCP-XXXX instances is not currently feasible.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a phenomena, in which children aged 4-12 spontaneously develop anomalous capabilities. These abilities vary, and specimens usually portray only a single ability, which they have full control over. Recorded abilities include; flight, teleportation, spacial distortion, telekinesis, telepathy and phasing through matter. Usage of the abilities is often accompanied by substance seemingly identical to stardust leaking from the pores of SCP-XXXX instances.
There appears to be a repeating trend between instances, all of which appear to be orphans, terminally ill or victims of parental abuse or child neglect. All instances report encountering an entity by the name of 'Lady Starlight', who they claim to have thought them their ability.
Dinosaur = https://unsplash.com/photos/eDFKxCMN5cg
Person = https://unsplash.com/photos/rzBYUKmLl8M
Lizard = https://unsplash.com/photos/ynyyT4VV71k
Cow = https://unsplash.com/photos/HbnjOoe0ueE
| Memo 04 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| HP8Y/GFE4/VGO2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Per your request, I have begun testing the milk on some of our workers and the initial results are extremely promising. First of all, it tastes very similar to regular cow milk, so nothing special there. However, the effects of this stuff are very special indeed. It seems to have some sort of regenerative effect, as it completely healed a bite wound on one of my workers which they had received from a velociraptor earlier in the day. Blood tests would also seem to indicate that it has purged all toxins from their system, meaning a possible increase in lifespan. I will continue testing to determine the exact limits of this effect. I have sent you a sample of the substance so you can witness its power with your own eyes. I propose that we give this substance its own designation. |
|||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 05 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| Seems you have been busy, dear Robert. If I were you, I would expect a significant raise in the near future. I have received the sample you sent me and confirmed the effects, though let it be known that I do not lack the means to lengthen my own life. This indeed calls for its own designation, you'll find it in the beginning of this memo. I would suggest pushing the pet business to the side for the moment, as I expect this to be a much more lucrative business venture. We must also ensure that the source of this wonderful beverage is secured. Keep it stationary, and preferably sedated as well. We can't have it trashing around the place, injuring itself and other assets. |
|||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 06 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Mr. Marshall, there has been a rather unexpected development. First, one of the workers we have been testing on became gravely addicted to the substance. Now, it seems that they have begun a metamorphosis of some sort. They are slowly turning into a…. lizard. This seems to happen to anyone who drinks too much of the milk too quickly. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 07 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| Well, this is indeed surprising. Potentially disappointing as well. However, let's not give up yet. See where this transformation leads. An opportunity might yet present itself from this predicament. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 08 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| It seems you were right, as always Mr. Marshall. A few of my workers have gone through full metamorphosis, and are now fully reptilian. They are nothing but beasts, it would seem. Feral ones as well, as the death of a couple of workers proves. However, this is not necessarily a setback, as you said. These creatures are very strong and it seems that they despise high-pitched noises, and can be easily conditioned to follow orders through this weakness. I'm sure your clients would appreciate tireless, strong workers that follow orders without. |
|||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 09 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Robert Maritius | Recipient | Thaddeus Marshall |
| Another exciting development! The creatures have been trying to get near the dinosaur ever since they turned. We've locked them all up and developed a sonic device to control them, but today one of them managed to break free from its cage and reach it before we could kill it. It laid down in a fetal position and went through a secondary metamorphosis, turning into a juvenile instance of the dinosaur. This means that we can potentially use the milk to create several of these creatures and produce even greater amounts of the substance! | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 10 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| Interesting. I will have to discuss this development with the other shareholders. For now, terminate the new specimen. The upkeep of these creatures is costly, and I don't want your facility wasting resources on something we're not yet sure of. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
| Memo 10 | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| F6EF/J4T9/FRT2 | |||
| Sender | Thaddeus Marshall | Recipient | Robert Maritius |
| A conclusion has been reached. Take five of the healthiest scale servants you have, and allow them to reach their final form. I will be sending an entourage to escort the new specimens to another facility, to be raised and incorporated into production. | |||
| Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP | |||
