Tufto's Snowbox

<Tufto>: yo.
<taylor_iOStkin>: Yo yo
<Tufto>: so what was your idea?
<taylor_iOStkin>: So my idea was similar
<taylor_iOStkin>: That SRA’s are placebo effect devices for personnel
<taylor_iOStkin>: The higher ups use them to keep lower class personnel feeling safe and at peace with contained anomalies and such
<taylor_iOStkin>: Meanwhile shit is just haywire and they’re struggling to actually contain anything that uses them
<taylor_iOStkin>: But
<taylor_iOStkin>: Your idea gave me an idea
<taylor_iOStkin>: Perhaps the distorted reality anomalies that rely on an anchor being placed there is how they /discovered/ SRAs
<taylor_iOStkin>: And it made everyone assume they could just help contain reality benders and such
<taylor_iOStkin>: And because it helped everyone feel safer or whatever the higher ups went with it, but it’s all a charade
<Tufto>: mmmm, I like that a lot.
<taylor_iOStkin>:
<taylor_iOStkin>: That idea came to me in a rant on SRAs the other day lol
<Tufto>: so they'd just discover the SRAs at the sites of reality anomalies?
<Tufto>: heh fair they're easily rantable-about.
<taylor_iOStkin>: Possibly discovered there? Or like. It somewhat fucks with time a bit and they’re like, walling off the reality anomalies and then one stops and they discover this thing there
<Tufto>: hmm.
<taylor_iOStkin>: And perhaps it’s simply a missing part of the reality in that area - something as simple as a rock being there but also not at the same time (think like a graphical glitch maybe?)
<taylor_iOStkin>: But they perpetuate the lie
<Tufto>: oooh yes.
<Tufto>: what if
<Tufto>: hang on, lemme just work smth out here.
<taylor_iOStkin>: Take your time
<Tufto>: ok, how about this:
<Tufto>: everything happens as you describe it above: one day the reality benders they're struggling with suddenly have SRAs appear. High-ups are mystified and act like they have always been there.
<Tufto>: BUT THEN
<Tufto>: let's say this happens in the 1950s. and gradually, over the decades, people forget this.
<Tufto>: the foundation staff en masse develops memories of the SRAs always being there. everyone, from high-ups to low-downs, knows the history of the SRA: invented in the 19th century by robert scranton. their actual appearance is pasted over by implanted memories.
<Tufto>: then mnestics are invented.
<Tufto>: and members of the antimemetics crew start remembering that SRAs just appeared one night.
<Tufto>: so they investigate what the fuck is going on.
<Tufto>: (stop me if this is getting too wacky ).
<taylor_iOStkin>: I’m with you so far
<Tufto>: so they look into the original scranton who supposedly invented them. they realise this guy looks exactly the same as the guy who disappeared in 3001. then they look further and find that these photos are all doctored. this guy didn't exist, and just took the name of a dude who disappeared.
<Tufto>: and then, well, something .
<Tufto>: that's as far as I've got. not sure how it would end.
<Tufto>: does that sound decent? .
<taylor_iOStkin>: Yeah I’m liking this
<taylor_iOStkin>: Maybe
<taylor_iOStkin>: They were created by a reality bender and the memories created by the same one
<taylor_iOStkin>: To make the foundation think that it’s contained but it’s just
<taylor_iOStkin>: Roaming free
<Tufto>: oooooh yes I like that.
<Tufto>: we could really get a creepy time-mystery-vibe going on here .
taylor_iOStkin nod nod
<taylor_iOStkin>: This is good
<Tufto>: and as an ending
<Tufto>: we just have your original idea- the high-ups, after the investigation has revealed what was going on, decide to cover it up, because at least they aren't breaking normalcy entirely and act as a placebo.
<taylor_iOStkin>: Exactly
<taylor_iOStkin>: Shit this is good
<Tufto>: right, we need to make this happen .
<Tufto>: I've never co-authored anything before, how do people normally do it?
<taylor_iOStkin>: Well
<taylor_iOStkin>: Collab sandbox is the first step I believe
<taylor_iOStkin>: We’ll read zyn’s guide - but first I must shower for work
<Tufto>: mm, and I probably have to be away until, well, the evening got a lot to do today.
<Tufto>: let's reconvene in the evening sometime, whenever we're both around.
<taylor_iOStkin>: Gotcha
<taylor_iOStkin>: I’m around all day after work, so that’ll work out
*** taylor_iOStkin is now known as shower_itkin
<Tufto>: cool.
<Tufto>: I'll copy this convo over to my sandbox for the time being so we don't lose it.
<Tufto>: see you later .

ARCHIVE OF THIS IS NOT SCP-XXXX

NOTE: These tabs will be replaced by iterations later, when I look into how to do that :p.

It is February, and the snowdrops are in bloom. You can see them outside the station, waving slightly in the breeze. Their heads sway, to and fro, lifting themselves to stare at the sun and falling to droop at the ground.

We say they are in bloom because this is the height of their existence. To be in bloom, to be in a golden age, to be at a peak of life implies that times will come or have been that were not like this, times of painful growth or bitter decay. The snowdrops will die; others may come again next year but the forms you see today will die.

You are standing in the train station. A steam train is coming in. It is 1907, and you are an agent of the SCP Foundation. This is the only life you can remember. The correct SCP-001 instance is Wrong's Proposal "The Consensus"; you survived the Fifth Occult War but with no clear recollection, like so many. A great many things have not happened yet that will happen. The Foundation is still in its infancy, despite the confusion and proliferation of innumerable official stories and rumours and obfuscations designed to hide this fact.

You are an Englishman. You wear clothes typical for the era, and look like a man of business. Your name is John Cutter, and you are 34. These are facts, immutable facts, enshrined in a single narrative of existence. Like most of your countrymen, you belong to the Church of England, and thus you believe the narrative is that of God's creation, Christ's sacrifice, and the wait for an eventual judgement day. But others, both in England and across the world, disagree; and thus to many, the world seems to be a multiplicity, with no fixed meaning. It is a place where a cacophony with no clear harmony ringing true, where some melody might exist but in a form unknown to the musicians.

Essentially, this is reality, where there is no singular purpose and each person is untethered in a freewheeling, nonsensical world. At least, that is what you thought. Now you are not so sure.

There is a train pulling away from the station. It is black, the steam pouring from its chimneys like greying hair. It rushes around you, and as it clears, you find yourself staring at the station cafe. Somebody is sitting at a table in front of it, reading a paper, with a steaming cup of tea. A girl- young- maybe in her early 20s.

You feel as if you know this girl. You do not understand why she is here. She looks up, sees you, and smiles slightly- as if she knows you, but without any real surprise.

You know that things are going wrong in the world. You are an agent of the Foundation, and you've been smelling something in the air all day.

You approach her table, and sit opposite her. Her smile is back, at once more amused and more cruel. She puts down the paper. She stares at you. Her eyes have no irises and no whites. They are entirely black.

"Yes, they are", she says. You do not understand what she means. "Well, of course you don't. You can't read this, after all; only the reader can do that. Do you like my eyes? It's a rather cheap description that is so ambiguous in its meaning; does it mean evil, or mystery, or both?"

You do not understand the words she is saying. Because of course you don't; you're not reading this in what is supposed to be an SCP document, you're sitting at a table in 1907 England and talking to this woman you do not know, but who seems familiar to you. You look at her newspaper. It is wrong. There is no "King Edward VII". Who is that? You do not know who that is. You remember that she enjoys writing stories.

"Do I know you?" you ask.

She smiles. "No", she says. "You have never met me in your life, John Cutter. Because this is not your life any more. You're not my brother, you're whatever I want you to be."

Beyond the station, beyond your line of vision, there is a world, with trees and grass and empires, Scarlet Kings and Black Queens, dusty bricks and stone idols. It is getting smaller. It is contracting, its substance altering, its form being transmuted from one thing to the other. And a girl with black eyes sits and waves her hand, conducting a timeless orchestra.

The table disappears. Your not-a-sister disappears. You fall through the dark, into the interview log.