There is currently no recorded limit for the amount of 


concepts SCP-5429 can affect within an individual. 


Blue Ash picked up a pen, and began to add to the bottom of the 
page. 


SCP-5429 Test Log: 


* 01/12/2028- Attempt to successfully reintroduce 
the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have 
lost such concept. FAILURE 

12/20/2029- Attempt to successfully reintroduce 
the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have 
lost such concept. FAILURE 

12/09/2030- Attempt to successfully reintroduce 
the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have 
lost such concept. FAILURE 

11/14/2031- Attempt to successfully reintroduce 
the concept of "Eclipse" to individuals who have 
lost such concept. FAILURE 

03/30/2033- FAILURE 

09/28/2034- FAILURE 

¢ FAILURE 


Authenticity Trip 


January 6th, 2015. 


In Miami, there is an apartment. A studio one, stuffed with 
computers, beeping and booping, manned by a single, unwashed 
operator. There are many monitors, looking into seismic activities, 
weather, tracking anomalies, all sharing data with each other. It's a 
networking system with a rough approximation of the globe. It's the 
best they can do. There are monitors showing the snowy peaks of 
Siberia, the inside of strange dreamscapes, and urban decay and 
modern wasteland. Its affiliation is with a loose confederacy known 
as the Chaos Insurgency. 


There is a field agent outside of this station, down on the street. He's 
aman named Anders Forsmen. Today, he is walking down the art 
deco district, looking out for a man. An individual their peers had 
been keeping a close eye on. 


He has absolutely no idea why. 


Leaning on a lamp-post, Anders casually brought a finger to his ear. 
"So this is the place, then?" 


The technician glanced to an adjacent monitor, adjusting his glasses 
as the glow reflected off of them. "That's, uh, yeah. That's the 
target's pad." 


"| don't see it." Forsmen frowns. "The dossier, it made him seem like 
he was some Houdini-type. This guy doesn't strike me exactly as an 
Olympian..." 


Indeed, the man currently walking out onto the street was a slightly 
overweight, pale complexioned epitome of the white-collar worker. 

With a briefcase in one hand, a watch around the wrist, and lightly 

pressed trousers, he stood at the bus stop listening to his iPod. 


SCP-794: Desert Shipwreck 


Item #: SCP-794 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: The area in a 10 km radius 
surrounding SCP-794 has been designated as a no-fly zone and all 
unauthorized personnel attempting to enter the area are to be 
detained for questioning. Unauthorized aircraft attempting to enter 
the airspace around SCP-794 are to be signalled off immediately, 
and any that fail to follow instructions are to be intercepted and 
detained at Containment Site 794-Alpha. 


Personnel may only approach within the 1400 m "Red Zone" of 
SCP-794 with prior permission from at least two (2) Level 4 
Personnel, and may stay within the area for no longer than 30 
minutes at a time. Personnel experiencing any nausea or exhibiting 
any strange or psychotic behavior must be removed immediately 
and quarantined pending psychological and physical evaluation. 


Description: SCP-794-01 is the derelict remains of an oceangoing 
vessel located at approximately+ ° ' .",+ ° ' . "near 
[REDACTED] in the Sahara Desert. According to markings in 
Cyrillic, the vessel is the [REDACTED], built in —_in the city of 
[REDACTED] in 19 . This is inconsistent with available records, as 
no vessel by this name was ever constructed. The vessel is in an 
advanced state of disrepair consistent to exposure to the elements 
for a period of at least years, and to date it is not known how 
SCP-794-01 came to rest in its current location, nearly km from 
any body of water. 


SCP-794-02 is an enormous mass of living nervous tissue 
integrated into the cargo hold of SCP-794-01, currently estimated at 
approximately 167 kg. While experimentation has shown significant 
neural activity, it is currently unknown how SCP-794-02 functions, or 
how it obtains sustenance. 


Sniffing, the technician shuffled a sheaf of papers. "Looks can be 
deceiving. Last time we had a target like this, he, uh, looked 
completely, totally ordinary. Turned out, guy had a pocket dimension 
literally inside his pocket." he paused. "It turned out to be pretty 
useful, actually. Once the guy was done with." 


"This is clearly a fix-up." 


"They gave him way too much attention for this to be a fix-up, 
Anders." 


Forsmen rolled his eyes. "Be respectful. And open your eyes, 
maybe. Look at this guy. He isn't shit. All we have is from the 
Foundation. Christ, is this all? | get called down, briefed, get to know 
the local people, and you guys don't check up that this fucker is just 
some guy, some random guy, like the ones they've picked before? 
The ones they tail, so that we tail, so that they can flush us out? 
Jesus Christ, man. Don't they teach you guys anything?" 


Before the technician can open his mouth, the schlep on the screen 
steps behind the bus stop sign, and out of sight. 


"... Son of a bitch." 


Crouching by the sign, Forsmen examines the vanishing point. He's 
jumped. He thinks he’s gotten away, but he's not expecting to be 
followed. He'll mess something up, they always do... 


Sure enough, there is a shimmer in the air. A small brick to grab 
onto, to kick the door to the whole rotten wall down. Giving it a hard 
shove, he fell through. 


He rose, brushing the invisible brick dust off his sleeves. A white 
concrete path stretching in front of him, with ancient trash bins and 
pieces of newspaper littering the ground. An attic silence permeates 
the air. The walls were all windows, leading to empty houses, family 
rooms, backyards. Some have snow, and some are barren 
wasteland. None are open. 


He's still inside. 


But he's not right here. Dropping to a crouch, Forsmen positions 
himself behind a trash can, and peeks over the edge. After fifty feet, 
the world either stops existing, or stops letting itself be seen. Either 
way, the guy wasn't coming out. 


At least, that's what he was thinking until the man ran back at him, 
frantically waving his arms. 


"Hey! What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here!" 
So much for stealth. 


"What are you doing, man? | was just tryin’ to walk to the bus, and | 
leaned on the sign! You get me the fuck out of here!" 


The man stops, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. "That 
doesn't- there wasn't-... how did you even... there wasn't anyone 
there!" 


Pausing, Forsmen pops his head up above the bin, keeping his gear 
out of sight. "Look, man, just tell me what's going on? This is weird 
shit, dude." 


The man frowns. "Why're you talking like that?" 
"I'm not talking like anything.” 


Sighing, he turns back towards what lay ahead. "Look, this isn't safe. 
This is not a safe place for, any, for you to be." 


"Why not?" Forsmen squinted, trying to see what was ahead. 


"This is... an in between place. It's the backdoor to the universe, 
through... basically every possible reality that didn't work out." 


That's certainly important. "Now, you're going to have to explain that 
a bit more..." 


Waving him down, the man shouted a response. "Look, you're 
screwed unless you follow me! | can take you through what could've 
been, back to what is!" 


Before he can protest, another figure emerges from the fog. A tidal 
wave of molten flesh tumbling forwards, with a gaping maw and 
black tar coating its back. As it twists its liquid jaw into a silent roar, 
sloshing towards the pair, the man quickly digs into his shirt. "Look, 
I'm really sorry about this." 


"Sorry? What the hell are you-" 
With a BANG, the man disappears. 
"Shit." 


and without another word, the flesh rolls past him, and he falls into 
darkness. 


When he wakes up, he will be lost. 


All being lost turned out to not be so bad, after all. 


The first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the 
blinds, above his bed. Was it a bed? Seemed like one. It was a lot 
more comfortable than the cold stone he'd been on a couple 
seconds ago. Blinking, Anders sat up. He knew that old sinking 
feeling, and it was hitting him pretty hard right now. Looking around, 
he could see a room that looked pretty much identical to his first 
apartment. The one he'd shared with Julia. 


Just then, a voice called out from the other room. "You awake yet, 
sleepyhead?" 


Son of a bitch. This isn't just that old sinking feeling. 


Glancing around the room, Anders checked for anything. Word of 
the day, cat calenders... settling on a computer, his body reacting 
before his mind, he checked the date. 


September 18th, 1995. Twenty-crappin'-years. 
Anders peeked out the blinds. 


That was definitely not the neighborhood he'd lived in twenty years 


ago. 


Instead, a purple haze lazily swirled by, with half-formed ideas and 
memories ambling by. The face of a first grade teacher, name long 
forgotten but with a face all too familiar. Villages, towns and cities, 
visited in the line of duty and elsewhere. Girlfriends, friends, 
enemies long forgotten. It was as if somebody had slowed down the 
tornado to Oz, dumped in a packet of kool-aid, and made it a 
personal shitshow. 


The voice called out again. "Hon, you coming out? | made 
breakfast." 


Anders decided the shitshow would be better to deal with than... 
whatever was out there. 


"I'll be out in a minute!" 


He opened the window, climbed out, and fell into darkness. 


Autocorrect 


Note: This is part three in a multi-part story. It is 
recommended that you read the previous entry The 
Harold Maine Fan Club, or start from the beginning At 
the Library. 


The man tried again.“I'm sorry | sunny live CD around here.” 


He shook his head. “I don't VB lives... VC assumed... CV here,” he 
said. And then, with considerable effort and a sense of genuine 
victory: “I... don't live... around... here.” 


Helen smiled in encouragement. “Where you visiting someone in the 
library?” 


The man’s face sank. “I stunt know CV what you're telling about. | 
sunny know what your talking about. Don't. Don't know.” 


“He's an idiot,” said Aidan Brown. “And don't tell me to shush; he 
can't see me or hear me.” 


“My arms,” she began, looking down at her stumps. “I wasn't always 
like this.” She saw the man open his mouth to say something, but he 
stopped. He did not close his mouth. “I woke up just over a month 
ago with a birth defect. | think the man who did this also did 
something to your speech. | think you know Harold Maine.” 


The man immediately stepped back, and he motioned as if to push 
past Helen, but Aidan Brown was in the way. The man stopped, not 
quite understanding what was blocking his progress. 


“This guy's a fucking idiot,” Brown said. 


“Please let me go,” the man said. “I really came tell you Anthony. | 
really can't.. tell... you... anything. | want VB top VB to give. I... 
want... t0... go... home. Please.” 


“We're not here to hurt you,” Helen promised, “or endanger you or 
anything else. We just want to ask you a few questions. See if we 
can't get our heads around this.” 


The man looked around. “We? You said we. | dummy - don't - “ 


“We, as in myself and Aidan Brown. You can't see or hear him, but 
imagine an unholy rotting lobster-man monster. He’s right in front of 
you. His pincers are about an inch away from your balls, should you 
decide to run. Joke,” she added, when she saw the look of alarm on 
the man's face. It was the first time in weeks that she had felt 
humour, known anything other than dread and hopelessness. 


“Thanks for that,” Aidan wheezed. “Why don't you ask Chaka Khan 
here to come to the park? | don't like it here, it's too crowded. | know 
people kinda instinctively move around me, but even so...” 


Helen looked at the scared man in front of her, anxious to be away 
from them, distracted by his desire to be somewhere without human 
interaction and the frustrations that came with them. “You're not 
alone,” she said. “Will you walk with us?” 


The man shrugged. “What coupe... copies... choice do | have?” 


ooo 


They sat on the park bench under the shady tree and listened as 
Geoff Mansani told them, in broken, nonesuch speech, about how 
his recent life had changed. 


“Has my landline. Landline... Landlord... Here's my landform. Christ. 
Do you have as pen or sunbathing? A pen and paper, maybe?” 


Helen shook her head. 
“Sorry. Insurgencies question. Insensitive.” 
“Harold Maine's your landlord?” 


Geoff Mansani nodded. “Started to oversee... instead... inverse... 
increase the rent. Couldn't afford it. Little bastard knew VB | couldn't 
BC said it. Couldn't pay so he did those to me. This. Did this to me. “ 


“Why that? Why your speech?” 


“Three reasons. One, | have a radio show. Jag a real slow | should 
stay. Had... a... radio show... The Geoff Mansani hood.. hour. This 
makes a real slow a little difficult. Radio... show.” 


“Understood. And two?” 


“My wood is blind. Wife. All | can do is talk jet here, and Noel can't 
rebel do that. Now | can't BC even still VC that. Talking to her was 
the only VB peaks were hag, now | don't VB reverb have that. 
Simian.. Soon of a birch. Birch... Bitch.” 


“And three?” 


“When here was asking me for Monday at his plate | want VB 
showing him respect. | was on my phone texting. Thought | want 
showing him respect. And...” He trailed off and laughed, and threw 
his hands up in mock despair. “Layer on he dent me a test 
increasing the meant. | sent VB one back dating you can't... 
increasing... the... meant... meant... rent! | said you'd can't. “ 


“And?” 


“It was Autobots... auto... churches... corrected to ‘you cunt’. Stop 
ic sent him a text calling him a cube... cube... cunt. So he changed 
me so everything | say is sprocketed. Autobots... auto... correct.. 
Ted. Just phone at frost, then when | was worrying things down BC 
and CV then everything OK said. Now it's enriching... ensuring... 
everything | think add well... as well. Over had VC enough. Now 
than enough.” 


Aidan Brown shifted position on the bench. Geoff Mansani moved 
unconsciously to accommodate him. Aidan put his good hand on his 
exposed lung, holding it in place, and straightened himself up, 
stretching his thorax-spine and yawning lazily. 


Geoff Mansani sniffed the air, and turned away. 
“Note that's just damned rude,” said Aidan. 


“How do VB | know you're not must trying VC took duck need over? 


Not trying VG top duck me over? Fuck... me over?” 


Helen shrugged. “I guess you don't know,” she admitted. “But what 
would be the point? If Harold Maine says jump, we jump. We're all 
trapped. If you think we're on his side, or working for him 
somehow... No. That's not how he works. He makes us squirm, 
makes us broken, and he doesn't want anyone else involved. 
Doesn't want to share the credits. Our suffering, our punishments, 
are inflicted by him and him alone.” 


Mansani weighed up her words. Finally he nodded. “Had VC to ask,” 
he said. 


Aidan Brown coughed and shifted position again. 


“He said at his plate, what did he mean by that?” He asked, 
massaging himself. “Christ. Everything fucking aches.” 


Helen relayed the question. 


“At his place,” Mansani said. “His soaring... his apartment... 
apartment.” 


Aidan and Helen both looked at him with amazement. “You know 
where he lives?” 


“Sure,” said Mansani. “Why?” 
“Just like | been saying,” said Aidan Brown. “Guy's a fucking idiot.” 


“Why doll you want VB to VB know where he VB loafs? Lives? I'm 
not going there again. No away. Absolutist book way. You think I'm 
going VC to lead you to him so he can fuck me over the he's fuckers 
though over?” 


“But we're all in the same boat,” Helen reasoned.