Item #: SCP-5240

Object Class: Thaumiel

Special Containment Procedures: The object communication device is to be installed in Zone 0. The duty shift of the primary normalcy monitoring centre "Global-0" has the right to use said device in critical situations (VEDIST level 1)1. The messages are to be relayed according to the rules described in the logbook manual attached to the communication device.

The location of SCP-5240 is unknown. In accordance with established treaties the Foundation is to make no attempt to locate the object. On accidental discovery of SCP-5240 Foundation personnel is to immediately report all acquired information up the command chain; no additional investigation and personal action pertaining to the object is permitted. Due to limited access to the SCP-5240 dossier, all responsible parties are only provided information outlined in this paragraph of the Special Containment Procedures as well as Addendum 42. On object discovery the Special Containment Procedures will be reevaluated by decision of the O5 Council.

A Foundation representative is present in the premises of SCP-5240. The fact of the Foundation representative's existence/loyalty is currently under question.

Description: SCP-5240 is a socio-political formation existing in the form of a "city-state". The object's distinction lies in complete lack of information pertaining to it in any historical or contemporary records. This is achieved by widespread use of anomalously programmed chemical agents causing varied effects of amnesia and altered cognition.

On ██.██.19██ the object came into contact with the Foundation in person on one of its former operating frequencies and offered a mutually beneficial agreement; in exchange for supply of food and technical goods SCP-5240 provides the Foundation a wide assortment of amnestics and accepts requests to release vast quantities of "Ennui"- and "Global"-class programmable substances into the atmosphere. A two-way communication device was assembled to that purpose, which is used by SCP-5240 to relay schedules of required produce and by the Foundation to request delivery of amnestics. Despite lack of knowledge pertaining to the object's location, mutual delivery chains have been established and operate without de-masking SCP-5240. The agreement also lists a non-interference clause, in accordance with which the Foundation does not perform active search for the object, and the object acts upon the Foundation's requests to release amnestics without objection.

To enhance mutual trust and to alleviate any technical difficulties, SCP-5240 has allowed a single Foundation representative to enter its territory - logistics specialist Alfred Bruske. The subject has been allowed to send service correspondence and photographs under agreement not to perform acts of industrial or other sabotage.

The Foundation has only limited general intelligence pertaining to SCP-5240, acquired by Alfred Bruske:

the moniker of "the City" is used in common talk and official documents. Rarely the citizens mention the name "Fehlerstadt";

the City's population count is unknown; by estimation of an agent with no prior knowledge of investigative analytics, it can be estimated at 500-650 thousand people. The size of the City's suburban regions is unknown;

the City's citizens converse in German. Their cultural specificities are so negligible (imperceptible) that it is not possible to reliably attribute them to the German or any other nation;

the City is located in hilly terrain; low mountains are visible on the horizon. A river flows through the object's territory. The outer perimeter of the city's developed area is lined with an abandoned and unguarded complex of engineered obstacles in the form of a concrete wall, crooked watchtowers and rows of rusted barbed wire;

the City's information development, transport and other technologies are approximately in line with the middle of the XX century.

SCP-5240 has massive industrial potential by way of abundance of chemical plants chaotically dispersed throughout the City's territory. The majority of citizenry is employed in these facilities, the only function of which is production of a wide spectrum of amnestic substances. Some of them are dispersed into the atmosphere in gaseous form, or into the river in liquid form. It is supposed that such measures are required for the City in order to maintain concealment of its existence from the worldwide community, to protect itself against diplomatic pressure (or military intervention), and to halt outwards cultural expansion.

The chemical plants are supplied by large produce storage sites, as well as interlinked with a branching network of large and small pipes that route through the entirety of the City: along streets, above houses, through buildings and apartments (some heated precursors are used as conductors for central heating systems). SCP-5240's metro system is likewise adapted to the needs of the industrial complex. The metro and above-ground rail lines connect all the main amnestic factories; stations are named after the neighbouring chemical plants ("Combine №7", "Factory №16" etc.; the only exception is the "Ministry" station).

The medium industry and car manufacture work in the interest of the chemical sector. Only a small portion of the City's factories creates consumer goods, which is why the society of SCP-5240 experiences a perpetual deficit. More than half of consumer labels are distributed under directive.

Ubiquitous factory exhaust pipes are always in use, creating multicoloured smog and scented fog; constant leaks from overused pipelines and factory accidents additionally worsen the ecological situation. SCP-5240's citizenry is unanimously afflicted with respiratory illnesses.

Periodically, in accordance with the Ministry's schedule (or by the Foundation's request), a "dispersal event" is announced in SCP-5240. The City's siren and loudspeaker system is activated, warning the citizens about the time and duration of the event, the amnestic used and the prescribed order of actions for personal protection.3 The object's citizens always carry a bag with a gas mask and a set of filters in their possession, every person learns the names of all amnestics, their composition, locale of production, approximate production cycle structure, identification and counteraction measures by heart. The standard citizen rations include a mnestics package distributed in the form of dragé pellets and dissoluble powders.

SCP-5240 maintains a set of outdated (but never repealed) restrictions on its territory, enforced by "the Central Department for City Rasure" (Stadtvergessenheitshauptamt, SVHA). Despite the citizenry's lack of memory regarding the cause for such restrictions, the following items are prohibited within Fehlerstadt: historical photographs and portraits of people, documentary movies, diaries, biographies and books on history, antiquities, weapons, blazons, flags, any and all recording or retelling of information regarding the City's "previous epoch", as well as overall interest to it. The citizens are neutral in regards to the restrictions, and abide by them habitually with no resistance. The rare violators are reported by their peers and neighbours to the SVHA. Restricted items are burned in pyres, found criminals are permanently taken away in an unknown direction. All of the City's monuments, memorials, bas-reliefs and other historic cites have been destroyed.

Alfred Bruske's official reports are under classification code "Clearance level 5". Below are some of the agent's personal letters, sent to his direct manager and Foundation colleagues:

1

4

6

8

12

16

27

35

47

51

52

54

55

Truth

???

#1 ██. ██. ████

This morning I awoke not in my bed in Zone 16, but in a small flat with a very old-timey outfit. It was dark, and rain drummed loudly out the window. I barely managed to find the switch to the lamp by touch, and turn it on. Two tall men in dark leather coats appeared from the darkness. One of them spoke in German and presented himself as my "curator". I almost thought that I've been captured by the Stasi Section XXV, but no, I've been briefed on the matter: I am on the grounds of some city concealed from public eyes, and I represent the SCP Foundation in the matters of developing mutual arrangements in the chemical sector. I am to relay cursory information about production of some sort of chemicals in this city, and I am to negotiate delivery of equipment and metalworks. So I've been made an ambassador of sorts and allowed to send private letters to the Foundation once per day under condition that I will not blatantly spy on them. All my questions about how I ended up here and who even sanctioned this in the first place remained unanswered. One of the tall men said that I will need to undergo prolonged acclimatization to the city's conditions, then they had me take a couple pills and go back to sleep.

#4 ██. ██. ████

It's been three days now… They've finally graced me with permission to go outside. I am indeed sickly, the air is just filled with all manners of smells that cause anything from vomit reflexes to absolute bliss. Depends on which way the wind's blowing.

Occasionally I'm down with dry cough. The air in this place is almost visible on occasion, it hangs like smoke. Today it's kinda violet.

It's a truly fascinating view. I've observed the City only through a murky window up until now, and saw only dense rows of apartment buildings with uncountable factory pipes belching many-coloured wisps of smoke between them. The streets are thoroughly shadowed by massive cistern towers lined with carcasses of ladder and walkway. Clouds hang low in the sky, shimmering with rainbow hues like spilled kerosene on asphalt. And there's pipes. Pipelines, pipelines, pipelines. Valves, throttles, bell cranks, four-ways. They're everywhere here. The network of pipes is like a multileveled web hanging above the streets and the dwellings, it enters directly into homes, my own bed stands on one such pipe. Sometimes, here or there, thin white streams breach out of them. My curator said that's just working gas from the overworked pneumatic system and that there's nothing to worry about - amnestic leaks are rather rare.

Amnestics. Yes, I heard that right. That's what they produce in such enormous volume that it'd be enough to coat the whole globe in rainbow clouds. What the best minds of the Foundation spent a decade on and what we produce in such precious little quantity is mass-produced here. And that's not all. The local amnestics exceed all comparison with ours. They are more stable, more effective, their duration can be varied, their effects - programmed. It's obvious some anomalous tech it involved. The curator told me that the Foundation will receive it all at its disposal in exchange for providing goods that I, as a logistics specialist, will need to arrange. A small price to pay for such possibilities, isn't that so?

#6 ██. ██. ████

I've been assigned a separate office in the Ministry. Every day I rise at 6 o'clock, drag through the pink mist and get on the metro on the "Combine №6". It's only two stations' ride away from the Ministry, but there's plenty of time to have a good look at the locals. Ashen-grey stares and rough skin, worker overalls often stained or burnt by chemicals. The people mostly talk trifle, usually discussing their colleagues and their quotas. There's something strange in their language, though, I can't figure out what. They speak seemingly normal German, but their way of speaking is unnatural. As if there's something missing. As if something's been removed.

Oh, and food at home's all out, I was given meal tickets. Very generous, by the way, compared to the locals' rations. I feel sort of guilty spending them all in one place, and I don't want to attract attention, so I do my shopping in pieces all over the place - and I get to walk the City along the way. This is it - the socialist utopia. Are you sure I'm not in the GDR? No, it's far too backwards - no Trabants, no Spreewaldgurkens. None of the products have labels or names or colourful packaging. Only "Beer", only "Porridge", only "Flour". No salt at all, by the way, but there's plenty of matches. Oh, and the rations include mnestics, and I get them in extra large supply. According to what the cashier from one of the shops under a giant rusted pipe told me off the record, the nearby "Combine №6" is a record holder when it comes to monthly amnestic and precursor spill accidents. That's why the populace are given these pills. And they take them all the time, for the City has planned dispersals, too. And who knows what else is in the air, anyhow.

Ah, something else. Had an interesting situation happen to me today. I had to pass a medical check-up against symptoms of chemical poisoning. The nurse asked me for my date of birth, and I replied. Then she picked up the phone, called into the "Ministry Information Department", and asked to give her today's date. Once she got it, she put my birth date and today's date into a special brass arithmometer, which handed out my age after a few cranks of the handle. In years, precision down to a tenth. "Why?" - I asked. - "I could've just told you my age myself". "Really?" - the woman replied in surprise, - "That's just amazing. Oh well - we always do this, no big deal."

#8 ██. ██. ████

Everything's going fine, overall. We've designed a way of exchanging produce that would technologically satisfy the City and keep its location in secret at the same time. The first batch of chemical component canisters has arrived from outside - soon they will be emptied, deactivated, and filled with freshly made amnestics. The headquarters requested aerosol and liquid compounds of limited effective duration, a few days, for a first test run. If this stuff passes field testing, the Foundation will begin buying it en masse immediately. Injections costing upwards of thousands of dollars? Forget that. We'll be able to cover whole settlements in months, maybe in weeks. And yes, I'm currently in talks about using their mass atmospheric amnestic dispersal systems. It's too early to say anything about that, though.

Other than designing deliveries, I've started to work on amnestic and mnestic classificators. It's a very important project, I think, because the City produces - think about it - 63 different types of amnestics and 27 types of mnestics. All of those are produced in different forms - pills, gasses, liquids. All of them have different effects, storage, usage and safety requirements… It's a lot of work, in short. Strangely enough, the local specialists live just fine without any classification or guidance. Or not even specialists - ordinary people! There was a boy riding by me on a bike with a toy gas mask on his hip - in response to my simple question about where his father worked he spouted out half the production queue of four different short-term amnestics! He'd tell me more if men in black hadn't arrived out of nowhere to guide him home. It turned out they were agents of the SVHA - a local special service whose purpose is to not only maintain law and order, but, as my curator explained, "to prevent recollection poisoning". I have no idea what that could mean.

Weird folk. Amnestics are a sort of national idea for them.

#12 ██. ██. ████

Stable food supply lines have been established. Already, thanks to the Foundation, the city has cancelled tickets for bread and meat, and a few more types of goods are planned in the future.

The citizens' leisure comes in the form of pubs and clubs, where they consume alcohol in abundance, play cards and watch the only TV channel available. Conversations revolve around the everyday grind. I've decided to exchange a few words with the local workers in one of those places, find out how they like living without meat tickets. What do you know? Nobody even remembered tickets were a thing despite having to stand in queues only a week ago.

And there it got to me. Now I understand what I've found so odd in their speech. It's difficult to formulate, their manner of speaking is entirely different. Basically, they actively avoid any lexical constructions that have so much as a tint of past tense. There's no "was", only "is", "now", "always". They don't think of the past, don't talk about the past, don't perceive the past, don't use it as a foundation to compare to the present.

There is a very unique relation to time here. As in, there is none. The passage of time is only remembered when it is really necessary. Usually that entails duration of chemical processes, issues of pension and so on. They have no calendars. The City lacks any and all celebrations or days off, official or not. No New Year's, no Christmas, no birthdays. And every time I ask "What day of the week is it?", I always receive the answer "Monday".

#16 ██. ██. ████

Today I got hit by a dispersal event for the first time.

Back on my first day I was given a bag with a gas mask and a collection of 8 small filters with differently-coloured markings. Occasionally, in one district or another, they held mock dispersal events or combine accidents. The people ran here and there, put on gas masks, put the "poisoned" under IV drips. They came up to me, too. "Citizen, there's an accident involving Berhin-C at "Combine №6", you are poisoned and have lost the capacity for long-term memory." All of that was moreso amusing to me. These events happened far too often. Still, I couldn't help but admire the precision and coordination of these people in an emergency.

And there it was for real, this time. Sirens roared up everywhere, loudspeakers on the lampposts started reading through the dispersal message in a raspy voice. I fumbled, not knowing what to do. While everyone grabbed their gas masks and started looking for the right filters, I just stood there and stared, fascinated. Then everyone ran for the metro, and a person from the SVHA ran to me and started shouting something like "Are you mad? Mask on, magenta filter, right now! Run for the metro!". The agent grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the nearest station's vestibule. In the meanwhile, everything around started vibrating ever so slightly, a rumbling hum emanated from the pipes, it felt like the tension in the system was about to rip it apart from the inside. But no, none of that happened. 15 minutes later, with a quiet pop and a long, pangent roar, the dispersal went off. Everything quieted down, while we had to remain underground for two hours more until the all-clear.

When I returned home, I saw how my downstairs neighbour casually went to the lady across from me, as if there was his home. And he remained there overnight, even though his wife and two kids lived a flight below there. Something tells me this dim mechanic from the third combine isn't having sordid affairs, but just forgets where and with whom he lives. Or maybe he doesn't care. I don't know. Nobody chases him off, regardless.

#27 ██. ██. ████

My negotiations have successfully concluded and I've been permitted to the holiest place of all - into the dispersal control centre, up atop the tower of Combine №1 - the oldest of the City, from the looks of it. A test dispersal was to happen on request from the Foundation. A functional compound, but the only program imprinted upon it was memory deletion from those who would register it in air tests (aside from the Foundation, of course). A dud designed to test the effectiveness of the procedure.

We spent a lot of time rising in an old-timey manual elevator among brown-old metallic constructions and finally ended up in a spacious room, filled to the brim with levers, pipes, manometers and buttons. A giant schematic of the city resided on the far wall, dotted with different blinking lights representing the chemical plants. The operators took their positions and waited in place.

Ten minutes later, after a short alarm, an automatic typing machine whirred horridly and dispensed a paper with a filled out dispersal request log from the Foundation. The shift foreman ripped out half of it (with the amnestic program), signed it and threw it into the pneumatic mail. I'll try to describe all the dialogues on the "bridge" from memory from here on (with approximate numbers, of course):

- Dispersal request! Class "T", fuliruline, 1700 tonnes per hour, 15 minutes, height - 13 kilometers! Calculate dispersal readiness! Calculate meteorological conditions! Test gas feed into the atmosphere!

People began running around in a rush, some clacked their counting machines, some started making phone calls, some began studying the weather station readings, some selectively called different combines and information bureaus. The operators pressed different buttons with dutiful expressions.

- Fuliruline stores satisfactory, Combines 1, 4, 7, 9, as well as Storage Sites 8, 9, 10, 12 and 16 all stand ready for dispersal! - an employee reported.

- Atmospheric conditions satisfactory, wind is N-N-W, 7 metres per second, surface-level pressure is 757 milimetres of mercury, temperature is 17 degrees Celcius, working height pressure is 120 milimetres of mercury, temperature is -56 degrees Celicus! All parameters meet fuliruline use requirements! - the weather station worker reported.

- CHPP 1, CHPP 2, CHPP 3! Dispersal systems operating normally, ready to provide working pressure to the system, - a rasping voice called out from the radio station.

- Beginning dispersal procedure, proceed with performing operations according to checklist! - the foreman commanded.

- Declare emergency! – the foreman assistant read out the first point of the list. The worker at the panel pressed a few buttons and began reading out the warning text into the microphone. Sirens started blaring throughout the City. The citizens, not much more than small black dots from so far up above, began scattering in all directions.

- Emergency in effect!

- Working shift, put on your masks! Teal filter! – shouted the assistant, and a minute later everyone looked at each other through mask lenses.

- Check channel functionality!

- Leak in pipeline 271-A, ordering to use pipeline 271-B! Pressure critical in cistern 67, failure of both throttles, ordering to vent and redirecting to Combine №1.

Dozens of manometers and sensors came to life on the walls, their readings climbing up monotonously. One after another, control lamps began to light up.

- System pressure at 40%! Pumping amnestic now! – reported an employee, having turned away from the gas-discharge indicator.

- Test civil service readiness! – the foreman's assistant went down the line.

- Evacuation underway, all ill persons, the children and the elderly are secure in basement shelters. All executives are at their posts.

- Test amnestic program!

- Program ready!

- System pressure at 60%! Feeding programmable fuliruline precursor!

The pipes began shaking noticeably. The manometer arrows climbed into the red. A low monotonous hum pressed down on the ears, even the thick gas mask offered no protection.

- Test control line closure!

- Line is closed! No disruptions present!

- System pressure at 80%! Decision point!

- Continue!

The floor began shaking intensely, thin trails of whitewash flaked off from above. The City outside was covered in hundreds of small vapor trails, erupting here and there from the runoff valves.

- Readiness report! – the assistant shouted into the radio. The receiver screeched voices in response.

- Combine 1 ready!

- Combine 4 ready!

- Combine 7 ready!

- Combine 9 ready!

- Storage Sites 8, 9, 10, 12, 16 ready!

- System pressure 100%! Amnestic has been pumped, programmed and is ready for use, - the assistant foreman reported loudly.

The whole room was shaking as if in a 6-point earthquake, the manometer arrows slammed viciously into the redlines. It was difficult to stand. The whole tableau shone with lights, several sirens and alarms struggled to overpower the low drone of overloaded pipes.

Everyone present on the bridge stood at attention in silence. The foreman turned to a mysterious old man, who spent the entire procedure quietly sitting in his chair on a small pedestal.

- Ready for dispersal. Awaiting your command.

The man looked at the foreman, his blue-tinted gas mask glasses shining, calmly rose and approached the central control desk. After taking an unusual key hanging on a string off his neck, the stranger plugged it into the panel's keyhole and turned it. Among the hundreds of blinking lights a big one, marked "Ready", lit up. The panel's large metallic cover opened up, revealing a breaker lever beneath it. The man grasped the lever, cast his eyes out the window, and declared loudly:

- Disperse!

The whole area jolted. I failed to hold steady and fell to a knee with a painful thud against the metal floor. The manometer readings calmed down and began to slowly climb their way down, lights on the schematic dimmed one by one. Swirling violet gas rose in mighty streams into the sky from the multitudes of pipes and cisterns.

My report to the Foundation today is going to be fabulous.

#35 ██. ██.████

An agit-prop brigade wheeled around on the street today. An old-looking truck with medical crosses on the side and loudspeakers on the roof rallied something about "recollection poisoning", preliminary symptoms and methods of curing the disease (by taking amnestics, naturally). The nurses in dusty white robes handed out booklets to the passersby, and a group of SVHA agents followed, updating the worn lists of forbidden items hanging around on billboards. Some of the agents approached those standing about and asked something along the lines of "does anything cause you sensations of vague anxiety, guilt, fear or despair"? Those who couldn't clearly answer warranted a search. By the evening the event concluded in destruction of prohibited items. Since none such were actually found, they had to resort to a symbolic pyre of old workbooks and unneeded truss rods from a nearby construction site. People brought seats out with them and lounged about to watch the fire. Children played about noisily, playing "SVHA" (throwing "prohibited" rocks into the fire) or "dispersal". It seems there are celebrations in this City after all.

P.S. From a conversation between a nurse and a SVHA lad I got to overhear a different name of the city - "Fehlerstadt", and also that the SVHA, in their line of duty, is allowed to "remember a bit more".

#47 ██. ██. ████

The Ministry.

It's interesting to observe this regime. It's a unique specimen of a decentralised bureaucratic dictatorship. Matter-of-factly, there are several leading titles with enormous privileges, but they are not actually taken by anyone, since there is no hierarchy leading up to them. There are normative acts describing the rights and duties of these roles, but there are no instructions on their appointment. The giant cabinets with oak doors on the top floors of the Ministry are empty to this day, and although cleaning is done daily, the dust gathering there does not get any less.

There is no "upper class", no "party", no coalition or ruling caste. Nothing. Only a giant bureaucratic machine operating on decades-old and very rarely corrected rules and directives. Instructions. Those set the ball here, without them everything would come apart in instants. The structure of the governing system is complex and confusing, there is no familiar hierarchy "tree" or "pyramid". The links between manager and underling are interwoven, contradictory, inconsistent and often circular. It is not rare to witness mutual command (where two employees are both bosses and subordinates to each other), or cases of "I am the boss of my boss's boss".

The career trajectory here is not a ladder but a Mobius band, tens of them, interwoven in a terrible, logic- and geometry-defying knot. Everyone always moves forward only to end up where they started. The bureaucrats climb their way up without stopping, change cabinets and titles, but their efforts are futile. In time, everyone returns to their old place from where they started, yet that won't be a failure or regression, no, it's a great achievement. They will be tapped on the shoulder, congratulated for attaining such high rank, such trust. People will reacquaint themselves with old colleagues, maybe only with a change of seats or positions. For a while. Until next time they are reassigned, until next time they part, until next time they meet.

And moving back on the Mobius band is no different. Same applies here. Except you'll be berated, not congratulated. Although, even then, it's all the same.

#51 ██. ██. ████

Finally home, I need to write something stat

I was walking down the ███████████ and suddenly found it. It was on the facade of an old house, pincushioned with pipes jotting out everywhere, but still beautiful and imposing. They tried to break it off and did a good job at it, it wouldn't have been visible at all on a cloudy day, but today the sun peeked out, the shadows fell just right and revealed this guilty secret. It was a ████████. Yes, it was exactly it, it's difficult to mistake these right-angle hooks for something else. There was a broken round border around it - probably an oaken wreath. While a storm of thoughts was blowing through my head, I got to a different alley. "████████. Why is it here? It shouldn't be here. It shouldn't. No. It NEEDS to be here. Why have I decided that? I don't know, but I feel it in my insides". I then swayed, bent over in half and nearly fell, just barely caught some valve on a gas pipe. I started retching. Passersby ran over to me along with SVHA agents coming out of nowhere. Now I'm completely certain they ███ ████████ ██ everywhere and all the time.

For a fraction of a second a vision came over me, or a hallucination, rather. The faces of those around became distorted inhuman grimaces for a moment. I jolted and crawled back a bit, startled. "What did you see? - asked one of the SVHA, - Those are primary recollection poisoning symptoms. Tell us the source and we'll destroy it". I didn't tell them the truth. "What are you talking about? I didn't see anything, I'm just unwell". The agents side-eyed me, but decided not to argue and just handed out a package of amnestics "just in case". After coming together, I ran home post-haste to write this letter. We know for certain, now, the City was under ███ █████. I don't know how this will affect our work. Luckily, I don't think any problems came up at all.

#52 ██. ██. ████

Something horrible happened tonight.

I was sleeping in my bed when I suddenly heard screams. Screams and moans of hundreds melding together into one ensemble of horror. There was a crash at the stairs, and in a moment my curator from SVHA broke into the room, bolted the door behind him and backed it up by a drawer for good measure.

- It's them! Do you hear them!? IT'S THEM! – the curator spoke in a trembling voice, grabbing me by the sleeve.

- Who are "they"?

- Nobody. They don't exist. They don't! And never have! – he replied in hysteria. – But oh, how they scream!

- What does that… What do they need?

- They need to scream. Scream! And knock! Why scream, why knock!? - and then long shadows started flickering in the band of light under the door. The curator noticed that and began to beg, pale with fright, - Just don't let them in. Don't let them in!

A pounding noise joined the unbearable chorus of screaming people. They beat on the door, so much that it felt like it was about to break off the hinges. The curator fell to the floor and covered his head with his hands. He was in convulsions, blood poured in thin streams out of his ears.

I didn't know what to do. The maddening noise was not ceasing at all. To my horror, I noticed that they started beating from inside the walls. The window was my only retreat. Ready to vault off the 4th floor, I cast open the curtain and saw a thick brick wall instead of the lights of distant chemical plants. Refusing to believe my eyes, I hit it with my hand, hoping to destroy it. A white handprint remained on it. My hand somehow got stained with something greyish-yellow.

- One, two, three, four… screamers banging at the door… - the SVHA man counted, barely audibly, on the floor. - Three-four, two-and-one, bring amnestics here right now.

With a sharp turn I dashed to the bedside drawer, which should have still held that package of amnestics they gave in the day.

- Pump the gasses faster yet, breathe it deep and just forget. Turn the valves up faster still, we won't have no judge nor king. Oh, the pink clouds floating free, take away our ennui.

I grabbed the pills that I refused to drink in the evening and took them all in one gulp. My legs gave out, and I fell into darkness.

Yes, it turns out that was just a dream. The whole package was where it belonged once morning came.

#54 ██. ██. ████

Had nightmares again. Screams, screech of fingernails and dull thrumming from inside the walls. I woke again and again only to find that I was still dreaming and that the screaming people never went away. Only the rays of morning light woke me up for good, breaking me out of the clutches of terror. My pillow was soaked.

I went there again. To the ███████████. I saw the ████████ there on a building, and my nightmares began then. I felt this wouldn't end well, but at the same time it was like I was pulled there by an unseen force.

As it turns out, I ███ ████████. At a distance, two █████ ██ ███ ████ ████████ ██ trail. They were ███ ██ ███████, so I didn't spot them immediately.

And so I arrived at the place. The bas-relief that shone a crooked ████████, almost forgotten in our world, was shattered with something heavy and blunt. They knew. The ████ had their hand here. Either surveyed the surroundings or ████ my ███████. What about my promise that my ███████ would be private? I don't know if there as a reason to ████ these ███████ now. I don't even know if any of them ever ███████ ███.

Now I am certain that the City wasn't just a part of the █████ █████, but was integral to it. Precisely that ████ of its ███████ they are trying to ██████, throw into ██████. And it's somehow connected to the █████████ people.

I think I know a way to figure it out. In the style of the City.

#55 ██. ██. ████

I stole a package of an incredibly potent ███████ from the batch outbound for the Foundation. ███ ████ █████ constantly ████████ outside my window, so I've decided to do everything in the night. As soon as I throw this letter into the "diplomatic pneumatic mail pipe", I'll take the ███████. Even if you ███ ███████ my ██████, you won't intercept me in time.

The truth

Oh my god! I saw it! I saw everything, I know! I… what even to start with. I need to write this down even if this gets in the █████ █████.

I took the ███████ and went to bed. Then someone gently knocked on my door. I stood up, opened it just a bit, then exited to the stairway landing. What I witnessed cast me in shock. I was in endless emptiness. The whole building, the whole world was as if it was torn asunder. What was left of my home was just the room, a small portion of the stairwell platform hanging over the abyss, and a corridor of shattered walls. Everywhere, above and below, was complete blackness, filled with calmly floating fragments of broken rooms. Out of nowhere, from some invisible source, shone a bright pale light, drawing sharp shadows on the cracked tiles. And there were no pipes here.

After turning around I yelped, and my scream rebounded in echo hundredfold off the emptiness. A dark figure with no eyes, ears or mouth stood by the steps. It was standing still and "stared" in my direction. I looked about, saw there was nowhere to run, and stepped towards it. The figure turned silently and went down the stairwell with no sound at all, and I followed it.

We went along destroyed corridors lit by moonlight, only the sound of my steps breaking the silence. Sometimes I could see forgotten, dust-covered things in the wall breaches: kids' toys, baby carriages, opened books, musical instrument cases. A broken phonograph stood by one of the doors, playing some quiet tune. Sometimes I witnessed painting frames hanging on the walls, some empty, some holding weird geometric abstractions scribbled in grey strokes. On some open landings I felt a cool, soundless breeze.

I don't know how much time we spent wandering the labyrinth of rooms and crooked stairs. An hour or two, maybe more? Sometimes I thought I saw the corridors we've already passed hanging overhead. My boots and trousers were white with dust kicked up in trespassing.

Our journey concluded at a solid metal door. The figure quietly took a key ring with a single key off its belt and opened a massive iron lock with it. Then, this strange companion turned around and wandered off in silence. I stood there for a long time, alone, not ready to open the door and leave this strange, dreadful place.

I came to senses in some bushes. It was dark around, a fresh nightly wind ran across my face. I was in the City once more, but somewhere on the outskirts, as far as I could understand by the distant lights of Combine №1. Strangely enough, I was fully dressed and hand some of my belongings with me. It appears that my sleepwalking led me here.

I looked around and noticed a rickety fence with barbed wire and an iron sign. After feeling around for a flashlight in my pocket, I lit it up and witnessed German writing: "Warning! Extremely high level of recollection poisoning!" I recognised that I ended up at some important site and hid myself, waiting to be found by guards. After a few minutes of wait and a walk down the fence, however, I realized that I'm alone. Somehow, in my sleep, I was able to evade the ████ ██████ waiting for me on the streets.

Then something clanked on my belt, and I caught that same ring with a key that the figure in my vision held. A few moments later I found the door of a warehouse for it, set into a high stone wall. The writing «Morgenstern» was engraved upon it along with the number "44". With a strained creak the lock opened, and I was able to enter the pitch-black room.

I couldn't see anything with my eyes. A stale odour hit my nostrils - nobody's been here for a very long time. I walked forward in uncertainty and did my best to listen, unwilling to turn on the light. After about twenty steps I hit a pile of something metallic and caused it to loudly clatter over the floor. There was no use hiding then. I turned the flashlight on.

Out of the dark I saw the edge of a giant, about thrice my own height, pile of empty metal cans, akin to paint cans. My errant kick caused the side of that pile to slide. I bent down and picked one of the cans up. After raising it to my eyes, I tried to read the half-rotten label with a skull and crossbones.

███████-█.

Immediately, I cast the can away as far as I could, causing another stream of noises, and rubbed my hands off on the legs. Blood began pulsing fervently in my ears, my breathing became heavy and sharp. In horror, I sent the flashlight side to side, finding more and more mounds of empty ███████-█ cans. The whole area was filled with them to the brim.

The reserves here would've been enough to ████ millions of ██████. That's what was produced earlier here. All the combines… They only switched to amnestics later, out of… what? Shame? Fear? To live amidst the gasses… They wanted to run, but from what or whom? From themselves? The past? █████ ███████? Justice?

And there I heard them again. Millions of voices. Moaning and gurgling in the dark. From everywhere. Some shadow blinked in the spot of light, and then the flashlight treacherously went out. I stood there, frozen, until I heard someone drop the empty cans behind my back.

I ran across the City, the wind screaming in my ears. Clear air, free of the usual horrid pollution, filled my lungs. The answer was far too much for me to bear. I'll write this letter, I'll send it into the mail pipe, then take my amnestics and let it be as it may. Take ██ ███ ██ ████.

I'm better now.

I've been found unconscious by our colleagues at SVHA. They say I've been afflicted with acute recollection poisoning, but it's behind me now. I'm taking my amnestics, my health has stabilised.

Presumably, my hallucinations have been due to chemical poisoning of the organism unfit to the City's conditions. However, I've been assured I now have achieved immunity and it will not happen again.

To minimise the possible negative consequences of my illness I have been asked not to write any more personal letters and to limit myself to official reports only. As such, this is my last letter. Otherwise, I am ready to maintain my activity for the good of the Foundation and the City.

Faithfully yours, Alfred Bruske

Monday, June 14

Object curator's addendum

Close

Despite the Incident with the Foundation representative, mutually beneficial arrangements with the City will continue as normal. As per the O5 Council's decree, the Ethics Committee is not permitted access to this dossier.

Footnotes

1. VEil DISruption Threat-1: Global leak and universal state of emergency. Preparation to launch the Ennui Protocol.

2. outlining the key triggers that allow to concretely identify SCP-5240 with minimal elucidation of the object's qualities

3. Example of a typical "dispersal event" alert: "Warning! Following is a message from the Ministry's announcement department. Citizens! The City declares a dispersal event! Period of dispersal: 18:30 to 18:45, amnestic - berhin, blue gas with strong garlic odour, lighter than air. Equip your gas masks with yellow marking ribbons. Repeat: yellow marking ribbons. Vacate the rooftops and upper floors of buildings. Act according to instruction until the "all-clear" signal. Refrain from harvesting crops from trees and ground plots for the following two days." The message repeats.