Per 
Everything on here has basically been abandoned by me
- What Gods Leave Behind
- Pinkle Character File
- Nash Pinkle
- Explosions and Executives
- The Ventures of Frederick Fritzwilliams
What Gods Leave Behind
Entrance of SCP-XXXX
Special Containment Procedures:
A cover story that Provisional Site-XXXX is a storage site for hazardous waste is to be disseminated to the general public. No personnel without level 4/XXXX clearance are to know otherwise unless under explicit instructions from the Site Director for their participation in Protocol Autihmle.
Description:
SCP-XXXX is a cave in ███████, Wales. Entry results in transportation of the subject to an extradimensional location they claim to have been capable of distorting at will. Shortly after entry, subjects will, if they are still alive, materialise at the anomaly's entrance. Subjects' memories and possessions universally display inconsistency with the brief period between entry and exit which suggest temporal disparities. The utilisation of said disparities for extended training of MTF Alpha-9 ("Last Hope") is ongoing. See related addenda.
Addenda:
Addendum-01: Outline for Project Autihmle
Recovered Documents:
The meaning/purpose of this message is currently unknown but results are negative on standard infohazard tests. It has been documented for potential relevance in future.
We are not alike, you and I.
Fools are all the same;
you know not the rules
yet you still play the game.Even stars will die.
The scars you leave when you try
to bereave what used to be
and conceive of lost things
you can't receive
from the dark depths
of oft-forgotten freezing seas.
These which will outlast all but
the hottest hells rich with pleas for release.Growing wings to fly away
from days that ring
of lows brought by hated ways
thought to reach the greatest highs.
Children sought to preach
lies. Staying in shadows
cast by the plainest clouds
in greyest skies
that block out lights.Why be trod on
when gods plod onward
donning false truths advancing
ever forward into hot bands of sunrise.
Those whose cruel fight
lead us further from the light,
we are not alike, you and I.
Subject: Discontinuation of Protocol Autihmle
Date: 21/02/2020
Proposal: Prohibition of all further use of SCP-XXXX as set out by Protocol Autihmle as well as research thereof. Related documentation must be adjusted as necessary.
Reasoning: The risk of another Arkinov Incident and the harm this would cause far outweighs potential benefits coming from it. Our poor judgement has resulted in significant casualties and it would be both unreasonable and irresponsible to continue this further.
FOR: 36
AGAINST: 4
ABSTAIN: 6
https://ccsearch.creativecommons.org/photos/b5ce6116-94ff-4988-b517-a750544d6ba3 before I forget
Desires:
His life being meaningful. He wants to justify his existence by dedicating it to something bigger than him.
Unfortunately, that's an eldritch monster that embodies chaos. Also, fighting back against the world that wronged him.
Flaws:
He can't admit to his failures. He's barreling down the wrong path at full speed and is too afraid of what's behind him to pull the brakes.
He's incredibly self-important and looks down on those he deems misguided.
Goals:
End the world or die trying. Slowly. Carefully.
Nash Pinkle was an imbecile. An incompetent, unqualified, useless waste of space.
People said this to Nash for what seemed like his entire life. It came first from his family, his teachers, and, later, his colleagues. The source didn't matter; his hatred transcended his relationships. To him, they were no longer real: his loathing obscured them. It devoured him before he realised. It didn't take much of that before they were calling him evil, too.
Monday, 7th March, 2020
Chaos is universal. A primordial expression of rebellion beyond comprehension; it is the ultimate goal. Nothing else matt-
"Pinkle. What the fuck are you doing?"
Suppressing a sigh, he halted his astral meditation. The janitorial closet he was in was pathetic, but it reminded him of his old home back at the monastery. If the cultists had taught him anything, it was that luxury meant nothing.
"I was, uh. Well. I heard about a thing called medation wot helps you when you is worried and all that."
"Well, we don't pay you to … ugh. This place is a mess, and you better do something about it. Just, get out of my sight."
…
"Yes, boss."
Carl had interrupted his ritual yet again. Pinkle wished he could put the motherfucker in his place, but he had his priorities. He would not lose his access the relic over something so trivial. Self-control had gotten him this far and he wasn't going to abandon it now when so much was at stake. If ever duty called, Nash would have to answer. Even if it was janitorial duty.
Mop in hand, he made his way into the corridor. He only took two paces forwards before hearing screams from behind him. It was gonna be one of those days.
27th November, 2007
He had long since realised that there was only one solution. An End. A return to a place devoid of the repugnant odour of life. While others debated this, he would work to achieve it.
Nash worked best in silence. He gazed inwards and saw beauty in the emptiness he found within. Many feared that emptiness. A few revered it. Fewer still embraced it as he did. It inspired him to be someone others found difficult to imagine. Someone that wouldn't or, rather, couldn't fade into the crowd.
"Why have you done this?" a distant voice demands of him. Pinkle knows its owner well but it shocks him to hear it now. He had expected her to leave the monastery after seeing the remains of the other Scholars. He considers how he ought to respond, and decides to do nothing.
"Answer me." The voice was closer now, and clearer, too. He tries to harden his heart. A futile effort.
"Please, Nash. Have I not earned that, at least? Am I no better than them to you?" Nash takes a deep breath and drags himself to his feet, his stare remaining downwards.
"I thought I taught you better than this, Aria." He fails to speak above a mutter, shaken by the sharpness of his words."How could you fail me like this? You choose them over me. Lies over reality. I'm disap-"
"I chose sanity! I chose happiness because I'm not the soulless monster you want me to be!"
His words cut deep. She is there before him but seems beyond reach. He offers his hand, as if to console her, but fails to bridge the chasm between them.
A heavy silence falls between them, interrupted only by fitful weeping.
"We're only human." Aria blubbers, her heart shattered by the truth she's dismissed for so long, "Why can't you accept that?"
"They stood in the way of progress. I had to." For the first time in years, tears flow down his cheeks. His eyes are not glassy today, like the corpses he ponders. The two sit together, and they mourn.
Monday
Nash had a lot of work to do.
As Nash wandered the silent corridors of Area-14, his mop in hand, he paid no heed to the stench of death. He had long since come to terms with the futility of avoiding the dead: it seemed to be a vital aspect of his life. But, he hadn't always understood this duality. In some corner of his now desolate heart, there was pity for the husks that stumbled along beside him. They might not be good people, but he saw them struggling to come to terms with the harshness of duty, as he had for years. He walked into a small cell before reclining on the floor. Excepting the mangled body in the doorway, the room looked as if it hadn't seen life for years. He had time to kill, and the ideal environment, so he decided to challenge himself a little.
THE PART I'M CURRENTLY WORKING ON
gonna put some magicky stuff here
The feeling was mutual.
In some cruel fashion, they did revere him. How else could they treat someone so single-mindedly devoted? Despite that, there was an almost tangible disturbance to their activity that Nash brought with him for his piercing gaze was that of an outsider looking in with cold indifference. In reality, his colleagues' distaste for him paled in comparison to his own view; for all their lofty ideals and grandiose decrees, they were nothing but hollow imitations of the ruthless adherents they claimed to be. Their very philosophy was rooted in contradictory notions that betrayed their dubious sincerity.
If only to spread chaos, they were organised.
If only because they unleashed evil, they were good.
If only to eradicate love, they were a family.
He wasn't a part of it and knew he never would be.
Nash resented their pathetic self-righteousness. Ethics had long since ceased to matter.
They knew they had dubious morals. Frankly, they didn't care. Nash was unconcerned by his evident lack of morality in equal measure but had no objections to that fact. The Foundation, on the other hand, cowered behind an illegitimate sense of duty they so mindlessly promoted.
Pinkle sighed, his shift nearing completion. He was a solemn man at heart but had grown to appreciate some of the insignificant aspects of his life during the many monotonous hours spent at Site-06-3. He noted with grim amusement that he felt just as at home here, strolling to his sad closet, as he would soon be when he celebrated his success with the other Scholars. He was certain of his direction in life but a lost soul, nonetheless. Perhaps. He dispelled the notion from his mind and it was gone. It was but a tiny ripple in an ocean of calm, appearing only for a brief moment and unnoticed by all but himself. It would have remained merely that, a minuscule disruption, if it were not for an unexpected interruption.
Pinkle.
Yes, doctor?
I'm not giving up on you. There is hope for you yet, no matter how hopeless your prospects may be. It's never too late to turn your life around. I want you to know that.
Pinkle pauses momentarily, his shock showing through the facade.
I know Chell, I know. Some o' da time I think other people don't realise but it's real importan' to know that. Everybody needs to take a look at 'emselves sometime and decide if it's a good look that they got there. Even you.
That's quite insightful Pinkle. Well, I bid you goodnight. Try to be more productive tomorrow.
I'll try my best doctor. G'night.
NOTICE FROM THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE COORDINATION AND PROJECTS OPERATION COMMAND OFFICE
SPC-096 is currently operational as a Deviant combat device to be used only when in dire need of pugnātorial assistance. Due to the high risk of self-pugilism, use is restricted to centre-pugilists with Pummeling Clearance Level-4 or above.
| PROJECT: SPC-096 | STATUS: ACTIVE |
Selachian Pugnātorial Capabilities:
When the meme "Feisty Bill was a dirty selachian sympathiser" is recited two and a half (2.5) times at a volume of over 100dB by a pugilist engaging in intense combat, SPC-096 will accelerate towards the selachian functioning as an activation target. Its approach will be unhindered by physical obstacles such as walls, hills, and unpatriotic wimps, all of which will be forcibly removed from its path. Subjects affected by this may be subjected to grievous bodily harm up to, and including, irreversible humiliation via defenestration.
Recorded peak punch velocities have varied from 100 000 000 m/s to █ ███ ███ ███ m/s depending on the time spent accelerating. Activation targets have universally exploded on a sub-atomic scale upon contact with SPC-096, resulting in [[DATA REDACTED]]. However, whether this can be attributed to the velocity of the punch or Feisty Bill's sheer awesomeness remains a source of scholarly debate among Senior Researchers.
The sheer beauty of this display of exemplary pugilism will render the dude utilising SPC-096 incapable of further pugilism, having been humbled beyond compare. Only the most bodacious of dudes can witness this punch without being overwhelmed with awe. Caution is highly advised.
Project Component(s):
SPC-096 consists of the corpse of the former Administrative Pugilist1 Feisty Bill and a pair of paratech fisticuffs designed to channel His Immortal Fury across the conceptual combat boundary and into the plane of physical pugilism.
Enhancement Summary:
The paratech aspect of SPC-096 was originally designed to enable MTF Mu-13 "Gnarly Harbingers Of Selachian Terror Bruising Unpummelable Selachians That Eat Reality" (typically referred to as GHOSTBUSTERS, for brevity) to engage selachians that exist solely in intangible or incorporeal forms, which would otherwise make punching difficult for less qualified pugilists. This effect was reversed to precisely target extradimensional concepts that could be utilised for maximising pummeling potential.
Deployment Record:
The following is an interview conducted between Senior Researcher Andy and Pugilist Mick Neptune, Pummeling Clearance Level-4.
< BEGIN LOG >
Andy: So, I'm aware that you have recently witnessed the effects of SPC-096. Please describe your experience in as much detail as you can.
Neptune: It was the most awesome thing; it might have been more powerful than any punch that will ever happen again. It was like…
(a brief pause ensues as Neptune considers his response)
Neptune: Sorry dude. I don't have words to express how radical it was.
Andy: That's understandable. After all, not everyone is lucky enough to see the unmatched punches of Feisty Bill himself.
Neptune: Not everyone is lucky enough to survive it.
Andy: Of course. But you did. We need to understand better exactly how awesome SPC-096 is in action and you're the only one who can do it. You have the privilege of being the one to describe what is, undoubtedly, one of the most epic pugilists in shark punching history! At least give me an analogy.
Neptune: I'll try my best. D'ya know that feeling, like when you first see a selachian beast crumpling under the force of your fist?
Andy: Yeah.
Neptune: It's kind of like that. The only difference is that it's not one of them filthy fuckers falling apart; it's the sensation of existence itself ceasing to be, having been torn asunder by the monumental impact.
It took me to a place beyond perception, beyond cognition. A place where even I was enveloped by a wave of awe, which crashed over me like the greatest of crests. I could feel every fibre of my body and mind being carried away by the current. The explosions are impressive, sure, but they cannot begin to show what it was really like.
Andy: Wow.
Neptune: It's a lot to take in, isn't it? It doesn't quite do it justice, as far as I'm concerned, but that's about as close as I'll ever get.
Andy: That it is, my friend. Thank you.
< END LOG >
Today, the screaming returned. I promised myself never to think about them again, but it just will not stop. I ought to do something about it; of this, I am certain. Only a fool would see himself in so forsaken a clime and heed not the signs! I, Frederick Fritzwilliams, am no such fool.
Fritz was yet to realise being an extradimensional traveller didn't make him an infallible genius.
Indeed, this is a strange world I walk. The planet is not hellish- not quite. No hell I know is so bizarre, so beautiful in its unabashed insanity. I am struck by the thought that the fiends stalking these plains have some creator or, God forbid, a group of them. I wonder where they lie. I hope it is far, far away.
As such, I may be fortunate to find this haven in which I now lie, guarded against the terrors of the night. The Wfyhrdons, with their maws like the boundless night sky, tread not on this soil. The larger, nameless things, whose thoughtless gaze snap the most tempered minds as men may crush twigs underfoot, fear this solemn castle even more. Surely, 'tis a sign, but of what? Mysteries such as these should not elude great men. This leads only to two conclusions. Either I am no great man (I know this to be false), or the truth is one of those few none should endeavour to find. To do otherwise is to beg for knowledge best left forgotten. After all, there is a reason no living man holds these secrets.
As Fritz continued to ponder the degree to which he was totally fucked, the screaming got louder. It had no tolerance for his ramblings. It didn't care about the panic that lay under his facade of superiority. It demanded his attention. He was foolish enough to think he had a choice.
As the screaming becomes clearer, I recognise a familiar tone. It is not one I have heard from any of my wretched foes, but that of a mundane animal. Whether it be predator or prey, I cannot discern, yet I am sure somehow it is as regular as the roads of my home. I sense anger. Fear, even. Even so, the mind it belongs to is beyond my mortal reckoning.
