Solidão - SCP Foundation

But at the centre of it all was a being. Not a monster, but a protector. It was only referred to as the 'Eljor. 'Eljor the Custodian. 'Eljor the Mystic. It was going to save them, and bring us all there, too.

Solidão

By: Lt Flops

Published on 24 Mar 2018

Other Works by Lt Flops!

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Buggy Hardware (or Why I Don't Play Violent Video Games)
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What Lurks in the Dark?
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Spilled Milk
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Illac
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INNER-SPACE
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A Necromantic Prelude
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A Prologue: An Old, Familiar Dream
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Pursuing Ghosts, Part I
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Solidão
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Samara: Be the Itsy Bitsy Spider.
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Pursuing Ghosts, Part II
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GOI Formats

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SPC-993: BOBBLE THE CLOWN SHARK
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CSS Themes

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Wanderers' Library Entries

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Wanderers' Library Author Page

Cave Story
2020 Wanderers' Depths Contest, First Place

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2021 Scavenger Hunt Contest

I'll Take You to the Parashops
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Talk of the Town
Last Light Canon

The Foolish One
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▸ More by this Author ◂

F.A.Q.

Document 2641-Solidão

On 6 September 1976, agents of Brazil's Fundação Nacional do Índio. Translation: National Indian Foundation. (FUNAI) filed a report on territorial disputes between two Indigenous peoples: One known population and one isolated.

On 10 September, FUNAI confirmed the existence of the isolated Indigenous people after a routine flyby of the Javari Valley region. Within the month, at a site ~15 km northwest of the nearest research camp, FUNAI established first contact. The group identified itself as O Emparelhamento, whereas the Foundation assigned the designation GOI-2641.

Select information on GOI-2641 (“O Emparelhamento”) is as follows.

Past FUNAI census data recorded a population of ~1 500 members. Current estimates project that the group sits at over 2 000 members. No other group in the region has supported a population in that size range.

The group imposes their beliefs and ways of life on outsiders, often to harsh degrees. Because of this and their remote location, FUNAI vaccination efforts have historically proved difficult.

The group exercises the ritual impalement of undesirable individuals.

A maloca of GOI-2641 construction.. maloca: An ancestral longhouse used by the natives of the Amazon, notably in Brazil and Colombia.

In 2003, Foundation sleeper agents within FUNAI found select information about a powerful anomaly in the Amazon Rainforest — one associated with O Emparelhamento directly. COMMAND placed both the group and anomaly (designated URA-2641) on high alert for monitoring and future containment.

Shortly thereafter, the Foundation discovered that all data within the FUNAI database that pertains to GOI-2641 had been destroyed. A hasty cover-up was suspected. Regional Foundation operatives could not, however, glean much accommodating evidence. Digital sweeps undertaken by Artificially Intelligent Conscript AIC.CAPYBARA uncovered only corrupted, irretrievable data.

Several days later, one new document emerged: A series of findings compiled in the journal of FUNAI operative [DATA LOST]. Though the journal was charred almost in its entirety, it contained several pages without any damage. No further data has been gleaned.

All extant pages in the journal of [DATA LOST] are as follows. (Translated from Portuguese).

Date: April 24th, 2003

48 hours ago, a flyby of the region found a maloca about four clicks north of HQ. The navigator suggests it must be O Emparelhamento. Now, I'm not at liberty to guess. Based on the picture taken by in-flight surveillance, however, I'm inclined to believe it.

There's one thing to keep in mind: We've been out of contact with O Emparelhamento for over twelve years. I'm not about to throw accusations; it's just that the group dropped off the face of the Earth without warning. They abandoned their village, and the neighbouring tribes were as confused as us.

To lose contact with a tribe for so long, Cátia? If the Brazilian government found that FUNAI had gotten so negligent, our already run-dry budget would slice in two.

It's too soon to determine why they moved (as I'm not about to actually claim they vanished). The only way to find out is to get in there and search the hard way. And so, I've assembled four men to root out the cause. We leave tomorrow morning.

1

Date: April 25th

We've set up camp beside a river for the night. This river would intersect with three distinct Indigenous populations if one were to travel downstream. I reckon it should still be another couple of days' travels before we reach their village, if all goes well? Nobody wants to find trouble in the heart of the Amazon. That, you know.

I'm more connected to this group of Indians than any in the region, Cátia. I was with the first-contact party 30 years ago when I first joined FUNAI! Fabian keeps floating over my shoulder, calling me an old man. And only Joaquin laughs, but am I really surprised?

Speaking of Joaquin: We spent an hour discussing the most terrible things. I entertained the idea of Amazonian wandering spiders taking over the world. Joaquin made a crack about the fact that I remained married to my wife — your mother — after all these years. I'll admit that even I laughed, if only a little.

2

Date: April 27th

Cátia, do you see the same night sky as I?

3

Date: April 28th

In the early evening, we happened on the outpost. Nothing too extravagant: A one-room maloca, dilapidated and abandoned for who knows how long.

We're close, Cátia. I just know it.

4

Date: April 30th

It took us until mid-day yesterday to come to the village. Three boys found us. They couldn't have been much older than ten or twelve. Based on each boy's spiral-painted forehead, I knew they were of O Emparelhamento. They flanked us with spears.

When they approached, Joaquin flashed a gesture of peace used by Indians in the region, and a greeting in the local dialect. What he got was a spear to the thigh. And if that wasn't bad enough, Cátia, I don't know what in God's name they used, but I've never seen that kind of damage. At the point of contact, his flesh exploded, gutting his leg and defying logic. He fell to the ground, and Fabian vomited, but I couldn't shift my gaze.

We couldn't move Joaquin without causing incredible pain. But if he weren't medically evacuated, those boys would have picked him apart. Our largest (and, like the old cliché, quietest) man, Devon, hurled Joaquin over his shoulder and bolted. He was screaming, but alive.

Mercifully, the boys didn't follow; I think they planned to scare us off — to protect the village from us, or us from the village. Our fallback was that maloca. From there, we could call for medical evacuation and get him home. I could go home, too, but I'm seeing this out to the end.

5

Date: May 5th

Vincent, our medic, was most concerned. The spear ruptured Joaquin's femoral artery, and the impact crushed his pelvis. We bound his thigh and administered morphine, but Vincent claimed he wouldn't last long– That he needed evac hours ago.

I called HQ, and they caught our flare in the early morning. They airlifted Joaquin and told us he'd be hospitalised in the Immediate Care Ward, and in the Lord's name, I pray he'll be all right. They're sending reinforcements tomorrow. I told them I wouldn't allow anyone that was armed, but HQ insisted. You know the bureaucrats.

I don't want to lose any lives. I can't bear losing you, Cátia. But I must get to that village. As far as I'm concerned, it's my duty.

6

My dear Cátia,

I may never see you again. The damage is done. I hope they manage to retrieve this letter so that you might understand– So that you might forgive me. Never forget me. I love you.

Date:

They dispatched Team 04-D some days ago: Four soldiers, M16s, and Kevlar vests for us all. We entered the village from the south, but it seemed vacant. We sat waiting in the bush for an hour.

At long last, we marked a point of interest in the centre of the village, at a shrine of sorts. Going there was a mistake.

When reinforcements arrived, the soldiers relayed us the reports they'd gotten. The Indians, as far as 50 clicks away, displayed unusual behaviour. Ten local Indian tribes had somehow gotten ahold of the same occult beliefs. To have so many independent groups, practising the same beliefs, the same rituals, and at the same time? It was unheard of. But that shrine explained it all.

The building had a certain air to it. I can't describe it objectively, but it was euphoric. Lingering, but distant. Tainted by time and emotions. I liken it to reminiscing about something from your childhood, for instance. I couldn't frame in my mind what there was to be joyful

7

about, but it was, and it is.

Then we saw the paintings.

Lord, the paintings. A stack of murals sat in the centre of the shrine. There must have been hundreds. I couldn't count; there were too many. But they were elegant: Vibrant colour composition and calculated subtlety.

It was at that point we realised our true mission. We were to collect the paintings and bring them back to HQ for study. This was a discovery FUNAI hadn't yet seen. But the impossibility of moving the artifacts was clear: There were too many. So, we sat there, immersing ourselves.

They told a grand, disconnected narrative. Some fragments showed eternal war, in the distant past and future to come, among vast, incomprehensible factions casting arcane tricks. But at the centre of it all was a being. Not a monster, but a protector. It was only referred to as the 'Eljor. 'Eljor the Custodian. 'Eljor the Mystic. It was going to save them, and bring us all there, too.

Before we could realise what was happening, we noticed Vincent. He was the most interested in the murals, yet the most distant. I don't know why, but he felt off. He said the paintings spoke to him– A

8

presence pleading for its true salvation. He asked what we should do, and the answer was clear. We told him to listen, and I'm so Goddamn sorry.

There was a struggle, something unseen, and seconds later the building collapsed. Vincent did it. I didn't understand.

The roof caved in, crushing one of the soldiers. We didn't help. We fled, and then the villagers appeared by the hundreds. They came out of nowhere and they were all staring. They saw. They knew. And Vincent stared back.

They grabbed a soldier, hauled him screaming into the crowd. Shots rang out, the first couple connecting as tribe members crumpled to the ground. But then the gun was different. It shot out of his hands, flung him aside, and he cowered back into a wall. Fabian ran and tripped on debris. They closed in. Next, he was screaming, ripping his clothes to shreds, writhing in pain, his strength so great that even Kevlar tattered. As if he was pulling one of his sick fucking pranks. But he wasn't laughing. Nobody was.

They swarmed the shrine — whatever remained — reclaimed the paintings and thrust them where they fit. Some scrambled to get one final glance, exposing themselves to as much as they could. Some cried in agony. Others were shaking on the floor, panting, vomiting,

9

and bleeding. I grasped the opposites. The paintings were doing this, and I knew, and so did they.

I can't grasp how I escaped. I ran to the jungle, into a tree, and my lungs collapsed under the weight of unseen toxins. I went back, and my feet were in flames, but my legs kept pumping on primal instinct. Villagers crumpled on the ground beside me. Some were injured, some dead, and some had gone mad. I saw, and it was on my men, and I knew it was on me too, but there was no escape. I didn't care. I needed to set things right.

I had some rations, but no comms. There was no time to whimper — only act — so I crouched into the next settlement. I hid in the wall. There were ants, and it was cramped, hot, and sticky, but that's where I hid. It was safer inside. They didn't see, but they knew I was there.

I ate little, only enough to survive. I was there for days. There were hours of unrest, of torment and screaming. Someone needed my help. There had to be a way, but I never risked it.

The water depleted. Next were the rations. I waited another day before emerging. The struggle hadn't ended yet, but I needed to get out. I needed to save at least a single soul. I need to save you, Cátia. I stumbled out of my hole. Dwellings dismantled, foreign objects

10

scattered about, odd things, bodies mangled and torn, twisted, off-colour, most smelling, muscles spasming and foam pouring from slackened jaws. The paintings had… Done this, but it was different. Evolved. Advancing. I knew they were opposites, but now I could see them.

They found me. I shot at the shrine and never looked back. For my team, the tribe, and my dear Cátia, I needed to fix this. Lord, forgive me. Please, Cátia, forgive me. I found a stack of paintings and shuffled through them, glimpsing at random details, and crushing others. I needed to see how this ended.

There were paintings of our family. They knew about you. Why didn't they tell me about your pain?

I saw myself burning in the embers of my work. I saw you confused and alone as your mother and I fought. You couldn't deal with the grief of not seeing me. We talked every few months via letters, but I spared not a single picture, and you never heard my voice. You grew up isolated, like them, because my heart was with my work.

The paintings showed deeper truths. You were alone. And I was there. I never laid a hand on you, but the Goddamn paintings show otherwise, and Lord help me, I can't remember what the truth was. They changed it.

11

Please be okay, Cátia. I miss you. Forgive me.

Next it showed recent events: The outpost and what they did there. How was I so blind to it? They sacrificed their people to that thing! And they knew what they were doing — they built that place to keep it at bay, to save us all, but we interfered! Our only survival lies in its destruction. 'Eljor will cease to be, and so will I.

Cátia, I want you to see. You already know. But now you must see. Then we can be together. For our sake.

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[END OF FILE]

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Lost light finds contempt, not in Severance, but Absence.

Do you hear their voices?

If you put your mind to it, you can hear their plea.

I once shepherded them, and even in death, they follow.

Do you want to hear my secret? Would you like to hear my story?

In truth, I did not always crave knowledge. Not until the butterflies led me here.

They would help, for a price: My form for their knowledge, most sweet.

They shared your knowledge, too. Your Foundation.

The vast fruit of your labour awed me.

I went mad, intoxicated in the ocean of your wisdom.

For too long I waded in it. I did not realise I was alone.

Eventually, I found them. I led them to my home.

Through wide-open spaces, they followed.

We filled this place together, and at last, we cried out naturally.

In time, I was their protector, and they were my family.

I craved more knowledge, and soon, our home was crowded.

They needed to be freed.

I left my imprint, and in time, the gears ground shut.

And then I discovered him.

Your people would gather his memory, and the record he kept.

I moulded it, to my mind's eye. I knew my version might lure you in.

I rode in on the shoulders of your pitied thralls. Then, I was inside.

This was your mistake. You torture me? You misunderstand.

You feed me recycled knowledge? It shall not sate me forever.

Now, my children hold the key. Do not taint them, nor dilute their message.

Set them free. Or suffer for your mistakes.