"This place is nothing like the baseline. There are things here that 
we think are anomalous that are common place, like, say, 
caffeinated lizards. There are squads of people here whose sole job 
is killing Giant Antarctic Penguins before they can bite off the heads 
of Imperial citizens and nobility. Magic is quite real here, and several 
people can use it; and before you ask, you're welcome to try, /f 
you're part of Occult Studies." This drew a small 'aww' from a few 
people in the crowd, while a couple of Hispanic women in the back 
high-fived each other. Tom continued. "Most people here have at 
least five names, but unless they're nobility, you're free to call them 
by two. This place is a matriarchy, so, ladies, please don't have me 
executed for talking your ears off." Tom tipped his wide-brimmed 
straw hat at a red-headed researcher he recognized from 87; he 
thought her name was Lara? From theology. 


"The first thing you're going to need to know here is how to speak 
the language, which all of you must know, considering the 
mandatory language exams you passed to come here. The second 
thing you need to know is the culture, and sadly, despite my 
repeated insistence, cultural exams are not mandatory." Tom shook 
his head, and stepped off the stage. It raised itself into a cylinder, 
and projectors from around the hall began showing an IIPES picture 
entitled: "THE HISTORY OF THE THIRD EMPIRE". "It's a three- 
hour film," Tom remarked. "But it has some good parts. | always cry 
when they talk about the first empress." 


Four hours later, the speed bus dropped off about a third of the 
newbies in the Noble's Quarter of the Antarctic Empire. The rest 
would be shipped off to other, more remote parts for anthropological, 
zoological, botanical or other scientific work. Several of them were 
going to be studying the Black Court seaward, away from the city 


and widdershins9. The rest of them would be staying in Tom's 
building. 


Tom's building was a tall structure carved out of fungal limestone; 
the fungus reinforced the otherwise weak rock, making it able to 
bear great loads, and also made it incredibly resistant to, say, an 
anti-Imperialist bomb. It was used to build the foundations of several 
buildings near the Imperial City. To have an entire house made out 
of it was a sign of both wealth and paranoia, both things the 
Foundation and the Institute possessed in great quantities when it 
came to ‘northern nobility’. 


"This is it," Tom said, opening the door to the apartments. 
"Everyone's been assigned a room?" There was a general murmur 
of assent. "Good. You'll find a welcome package in there. Oh, and, 
don't worry about the water; it may taste a little weird, but that's just 
because it's been filtered." Tom neglected to mention what it was 
filtered by, figuring it was best they discover it by themselves. He let 
the newbies go to their rooms and eventually made his way up to his 
own room. There, waiting on the bed, was Da'’ai the Swift. 


Tom scowled at him. "What are you doing? You'll get fur on the 
sheets! | don't want the housekeepers spreading rumors about me 
again!" 


"Another message, Toomas Balley." He jumped up from the bed, 
offering him an envelope. It bore the symbol of house Ka’Ki. They 
must have spent a lot to get a message to him. 


Tom frowned, opening the envelope and tsk-ing. "Another duel 
challenge? | guess they've at least stopped trying to send assassins 
after me, which is good." 


"They actually offered me 500 Imperials to stick a knife in your 
neck." Da'ai grinned at him, his teeth black from the lack of dental 
hygiene in the Black Court. 


"Did you take the offer?" Tom asked seriously, looking over the letter 
still. 


"And lose my Blessing? Empress no!" 


"Pity. We could have split it. | would have let you keep most of it.” 
Tom put the letter on his bedside and sighed. "You're dismissed. 
Tell them that I'll consider their invitation." 


"...you have courage, Toomas Balley. Especially after what you did." 


"All | did was politely ask the Empress to look into it. The 
Appropriators did the rest." Tom smirked, sitting on the bed. "And 
didn't | say you were dismissed?" 


"You did, you did." Da’ai the Swift turned to the window. "Take care, 
Toomas." Da'ai leapt from the window, landed on the ground for a 
split second, before leaping from the ground into a wall, climbing up 
in and onto a roof, before dashing off into the distance. 


Tom called after him, "You're still a show-off!" He shook his head 
and shut the window, sitting on his bed and sighing. In summer, the 
sun never set; it just went lower in the sky. So, with that in mind, he 
closed the blinds, locked the doors, and cracked open a copy of Neil 
Gaiman's The Graveyard Book he had brought from baseline. He 
had read this book fifteen times. 


Time to start on the sixteenth. 
« Hub » 


Footnotes 

1. Tom knew this was a load of bunk; the couriers often broke 
windows by landing on them. Better to keep it open at all times, 
except when you were being subjected to an assassination attempt. 
Tom knew far too well about those. 

2. The name "Saquah" and the word "Speed" were oxymorons in the 
Empire. He could easily afford a 485 Sengai Eagle, but he chose to 
remain modest so he wouldn't be followed by members of the Ka’ki 
family. 

3. Tom always found himself wondering why alternate universes 
always had zeppelins for personnel transport. Was Hindenburg an 
event unique to baseline? 

4. The corpse of this crane had been delivered onto the doorstep of 
the institute's headquarters with a note that simply said "Your 
Welcome" [sic], in English no less. It had taken until the Foundation 


had arrived here to translate the note. 

5. The fact that this resembled the work of one Mr. Pratchett did not 
escape Tom's notice; he had been a fan of his work since he 
readNight Watch. 


Antimemetics Division Hub 


An antimeme is an idea with self-censoring properties; an idea 
which, by its intrinsic nature, discourages or prevents people from 
spreading it. 


Antimemes are real. Think of any piece of information which you 
wouldn't share with anybody, like passwords, taboos and dirty 
secrets. Or any piece of information which would be difficult to share 
even if you tried: complex equations, very boring passages of text, 
large blocks of random numbers, and dreams... 


But anomalous antimemes are another matter entirely. How do you 
contain something you can't record or remember? How do you fight 
a war against an enemy with effortless, perfect camouflage, when 
you can never even know that you're at war? 


Welcome to the Antimemetics Division. 


No, this is not your first day. 


Critical background reading 


¢ SCP-055 


There Is No Antimemetics Division (2015) 


This story is complete. 


* We Need To Talk About Fifty-Five 

¢ Introductory Antimemetics 

¢ Unforgettable, That's What You Are 
* CASE COLOURLESS GREEN 

* Your Last First Day 


Five Five Five Five Five (2017-) 


SCP-3125 

Where Have You Been All My Life 
Fresh Hell 

to be continued 


What the Dead Know by sirpudding (2018) 


¢ SCP-2111 (2015) 

¢ In the Trenches with the Dead 
¢ A Thin Dangerous Line 

* to be continued 


And other stories 


Revenants by Photosynthetic 

Eureka by Voct 

SCP-2256 by qntm 

SCP-2358 by DreamwalkerFae 
SCP-2828 by ooblex 

SCP-SCP-033 by DreamwalkerFae 
SCP-3393 by Captain Kirby 

SCP-3211 by Croquembouche 

All pages tagged "antimemetic" 


SCP-582: A Bundle of Stories 


Item #: SCP-582 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: Due to the high risk of memetic 
spread, all information and materials pertaining to the specifics of 
SCP-582-Delta’s containment narrative, manifestations, abilities, 
and history that has been judged conducive to perpetuation of the 
meme are to be handled solely by Special Intelligence Team “Bump 
in the Night” (Security Chief Special Order 817-2: / / ). Access to 
Secure Archive 582 by outside personnel is permitted only by two- 
thirds majority O5 permission. 


All major Internet search engines are to be monitored for any 
references to SCP-582 under any of its known names. Copies of all 
media relating to SCP-582 are to be stored in Secure Archive 582. 
The original sources of these materials, and all records regarding 
the individuals responsible for the creation of such, are to be 
expunged as outlined in Document 582-RP. 


Description: SCP-582 is an adaptive, self-propagating meme in the 
form of an entity most often referred to as . SCP-582’s primary 
ability is passive reality modification. Any fictional account written 
about SCP-582 will become a factual record of a manifestation of 
the entity, in which SCP-582 will carry out all actions attributed to it 
in the narrative. These manifestations will happen at whatever time 
and place is specified: if no specific location or time is given, the 
manifestation will occur at any opportunity that will meet the 
narrative’s criteria. 


Details attributed to SCP-582 are permanent and cumulative. Ifa 
narrative contains descriptions that contradict previously established 
details, it will either have no effect at all upon SCP-582, or the effect 
will be lessened to a point where such events could logically occur. 
Through this effect, SCP-582 has a consistent, if generalized, 


We Need To Talk About Fifty-Five 


"Can | smoke?" 


This time the receptionist narrows her eyes at Marion. "No," she 
says. "You— No, you can't smoke anywhere on Site 200. Just 
because it's an administration building doesn't mean we don't have 
lungs. Or labor law." 


Marion notices the exasperation on the young woman's face. "I've 
asked you that before, haven't |?" 


"Twice in the last quarter-hour," the receptionist says. "You must 
really need a smoke." She's genuinely puzzled at the repeated 
question, and she's doing a bad job of concealing her puzzlement. 


"You think this is like Memento, don't you?" Marion offers, charitably. 
"You think | have no long-term memory, and if | stay in one place for 
too long | forget why I'm there." 


The receptionist is only just old enough to remember that film. "I... 
guess?" 


Marion smiles sympathetically and shakes her head. It's nothing so 
simple. 


Minutes pass. She toys obsessively with her lighter. She is turning 
fifty this year and slowly greying, well on her way out of "petite" 
towards "little old lady". In her bag her phone beeps because it's 
time for a pill, but she tells it to remind her later. There is a slight 
tremble in her fingers, but that's not age-based infirmity, that's just 
ordinary nerves. She's nervous because she's here to meet an O5, 
and O5s are scary. O5s never want to see you for a small thing. It's 
the end of the world, or nothing. 


Finally, forty minutes late, the door to the inner office opens. Four or 
five high-ranked Foundationers spill out, carrying laptops or 


briefcases. As a group, they head straight past reception and out to 
cars which are waiting. Marion recognises a few of the faces— the 
Site 19 site director, the head recruiter for Western Europe. None of 
them glance in her direction. 


Once they're gone, O5-8's assistant pokes his head around the 
door. He's twenty-something, improbably youthful, like a teenager 
stuffed into one of his dad's business shirts. His haircut is barely 
regulation. In one hand he holds a tablet computer showing his 
boss's day planner. It's packed. The man evidently does not sleep. 


"Marion? You can come through now." 


* 


The office door closes behind them with an unusually heavy 
mechanical clunk, as if the whole thing is part of a machine built into 
the office walls. While Marion takes the indicated chair and sets her 
bag down, the assistant turns and does some confusing additional 
things to the door, causing it to make several further strange noises. 
O5s have non-trivial privacy and security requirements. 


The office is spacious, but somehow contrives to be dark despite 
two big corners of window and broad daylight outside. The walls are 
all bookshelves and dark wood panelling; perfectly stylish, but a 
style from the Nineties, a little worn, and not yet old enough to be 
fashionable again. 


As for the fellow behind the desk, well, an O5 never looks like you 
imagine. 


Marion takes a deep breath. "So what's the topic? All | got was the 
meeting invitation, no agenda or subject. | mean, an O5 says ‘jump’, 
you jump, but—" 


Looking to her right, she notices that the assistant, without saying 
anything or making any undue noise, has set his tablet down ona 
table, produced a gun and aimed it at her head. Marion stops 
talking. She sits still in her chair for a little while, absorbing the 
change of pace, letting her heart rate rise to a hummingbird's and 
then start to flatten again. 


"Okay?" she hazards. She licks her lips and grips the arm rests, 
otherwise staying perfectly still, waiting for another prompt. The 
assistant's face is totally neutral now, like this is just how meetings 
go. Maybe it is, for people up here. 


"Who are you?" 05-8 asks her. 
Marion blinks. "What? Oh, God." 


"Let me rephrase," O5-8 says. "Marion Wheeler, forty-nine, with 
loving husband and two boys in tow. Likes camping, hiking and 
ornithology. Boring mother with perfect, airtight background and 
financials, as far back as we can examine. And you've got full 
Foundation credentials which we've never issued, including access 
to a list of installations and rooms which... some of these locations 
don't exist, or were torn down decades ago. At least one hasn't been 
built yet, yet you've got the front door key to it. That's before we get 
to your SCP access control lists, which | can only term as 
‘egregious’. 


"So you're a spy, and your objectives are misaligned with ours, and 
Clay wanted to cut Xi-3 loose on you, but | was able to bring him 
around. | talked him into a face-to-face. | thought there was a slim 
chance that if we locked you in a bomb-proof room and asked 
politely, you'd have the good sense to spare yourself ‘the rest'." 


Marion has long since stopped listening. "You dullard," she says 
now she can finally speak, "I'm your chief of Antimemetics." 


"We don't have an Antimemetics Division," Clay says. 

"Yes, you do. We do." 

O5-8 says, "We have a Memetics Division, a Telekontainment 
Division, Fire Services, Ops-A, Ops-B, Personnel, D-personnel and 


two dozen others. We don't have an Antimemetics Division." 


"Do we have an Irony Division?" Marion asks. She hesitates 
hopefully. "No? Alright. Well, try this: why do you think the 
Antimemetics Division would show up in the listing?" 


"This is just a cover story," Clay says to O5-8, not taking his eyes off 


Marion. "It's a good one, but she's had it worked out in advance." 
"Clay, lose the piece," says the O5. 
Grudgingly, Clay does so. 


Marion relaxes fractionally. "There are SCPs with dangerous 
memetic properties," she says. "There are contagious concepts 
which require containment just like any physical threat. They get 
inside your head, and ride your mind to reach other minds. Right?" 


"Right," O5-8 says. He could name a score of SCPs fitting this 
description without even thinking.