Q: Why is this its own tab when you could have probably had this at 
the bottom of the About tab? 

A: Mostly because the letter string 'FAQ' is exactly the right width to 
fill all the whitespace of these tabs in the fixed-width wiki theme. 
Also, you might not have noticed, but the About tab is filled with a 
bunch of quotes with seemingly no relevance to anything else. It is 
probably haunted. 


Q: Why is this such a bad question? 
A: Because it's not real. | am just pretending as though people have 
been asking me questions. They have not. 


Q: Hey, you seem like a good writer, can you write my SCP/Tale 
idea for me because | am lazy and not a good writer but | promise 
the idea is great? 

A: | am not a good writer. Also, No. 


: Hey, you seem like a good writer, do you want a job? 
: |am not a good writer. Also, Yes. 


: That was not a question. 


: | want to write for Acidverse? 

: Acidverse is not a Canon, it is just the name of this storyline. As 
such, it is not open to other authors. That's not to say that you can't 
write things in the same universe, of course. If you write something 
which is derivative of or related to Acidverse, tell me and | will add it 
to the Supplements section of this page. 


Q 
A 
Q: | want to write for Acidverse! 
A 
Q 
A 


Q: Why don't you write more frequently? 


SCP-565: Ed's Head 


Item #: SCP-565 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-565 is kept in a type three 
aquatic object containment tank on level 4B of Site-77. It is fed twice 
daily, and tested weekly for development or degradation of mental 
capacity. Staff who are so inclined may view SCP-565 during its 
scheduled feeding times by appointment with Doctor Schaeffer. 


Description: SCP-565 is an ambulatory human head, apparently 
male, which appears to mimic the behavioral patterns of Carpilius 
convexus, a species of coral crab. Its chief method of ambulation is 
the manipulation of tendrils of unfurled brain matter which emanate 
from a large crush wound at the back of its skull. These tendrils are 
often utilized as ‘legs’, allowing SCP-565 to scuttle along the 
seafloor like a crab, but occasionally are operated for motion and 
manipulation in a manner similar to the tentacles of an octopus or 
jellyfish. 


To date, Foundation research has proven inconclusive on how and 
why SCP-565 remains animate, or how it is able to manipulate 
neural tissue in a manner suggestive of musculature. Testing is 
ongoing, but [DATA EXPUNGEDJearchers who wish to contribute 
work or theory to the investigation of SCP-565 should contact Doctor 
Schaeffer through the usual channels for an appointment and 
transfer interview. 


SCP-565 was caught by a fishing trawler called "Saturday's Child" 
off the coast of [REDACTED]terviewed Captain and was 
informed that SCP-565 had been sighted several times by local 
fishermen, and was apparently living as part of a crab colony in the 
area's reefs. Video footage taken by one such fisherman shows 
SCP-565 feeding on a dead clownfish. (See attached document 
565-a for further[REDACTED] 


A: | have other things going on. | am a busy guy, and | don't exist 
purely to entertain. 


Q: You don't? 

A: Probably not. | really need to finish my degree at the moment so 
don't be surprised if | delay new stories for weeks or months. If | 
don't edit this page for over a year | am probably dead. 


Q: | want to ask a question that isn't here. 
A: That was not a question. 


Q: | want to ask a question that isn't here? 
A: Message me. 


Conservation Of Momentum 


"What the fuck is this flow shit." 


He sat atop his wood pile in the copse, looking at the photocopied 
flier, absentmindedly pulling splinters out of his legs. He'd built a log 
cabin near the edge of the clearing - there wasn't much better to do, 
and he got annoyed with shivering in the rain. The cabin was plain. 
Stark. Utilitarian. It was all made of wood. He lived off amaranth and 
whatever animals were stupid enough to be in a tree when he 
started chopping. Nobody came looking for him but the search was 
fruitless - he was proper off the grid. He had hairs irregularly 
sprouting from his chin - if any got long enough to annoy him or get 
matted together, he tore them out. 


He wasn't sure where the flier had come from, but it turned up 
nonetheless, and its wrongness was more abrasive than the 
splinters and the poison ivy. 


"This is absolutely no way to be going about things. You can't be, 
like, focusing on this stuff. Think about art too much and you'll 
believe in it. Art's a thing to fester and fucking rot." 


He got up off his copse pile, half-heartedly grabbing the axe that laid 
beside it, and walked over to the trees. 


"I teach you the Antiflow. Flow is something that is to be 
suppressed. What have ye done to suppress flow, beyond the 
FUCKING TAMPONS?" 


He looked at a tree and the tree looked back at him the wrong way. 
"WHAT!" 
He swung the axe and lopped off a branch. 


"IS THE APE!" 


Another branch. 
"TO MAN"" 


A harsh thud into the side of the tree. He pulled back unsuccessfully; 
he pushed against the tree with his foot, pulled the axe out, 
staggered backwards, and took another swing. Swing after swing 
after swing. 


"Flow is the creative ‘process’, if there is such a thing. Antiflow is the 
creative epiphany, and that's the real fucking majjicks. Consistent 
output is for those who munch fibre and puke out shit. Antiflow is a 
compressive furnace that churns out diamonds. Flow is going 
steady. Antiflow is that singular instantaneous moment of conceptual 
release. Flow is redirecting a river and Antiflow is bursting a dam 
open with high explosives. Antiflow is the little death of art." 


He'd sliced far enough - if he left it like this, a strong wind would 
finish the job for him. He threw the axe to the side, grabbed the tree, 
and pushed it hard. It began to fall. 


"The mind is a pressure cooker and it blows when the art is done." 


If a tree falls in the forest and Nobody hears it, does it make a 
sound? 


"Ugh. Too many believers here." 


He stuck his finger into a seeping wound from the dead thing, 
dragged it around inside, and licked up the sap. He walked over and 
examined the branches. Free eggs, cushioned by the nest - he 
picked them up and started walking back to his house. 


"| have a kind of zen, here. I'm dangerously lucid." 


He stopped, suddenly, forgetting what he was doing, until he looked 
down at the eggs in his hands and kept walking back to the house. 


"The question isn't how the flier got here. These things don't matter. 
The question is why it got here. Perhaps they knew this was the 
inverse of the better manifesto." 


He looked down at the eggs. 
"Am | being played?" 


He ran into the house to cook the eggs before he forgot what he was 
doing. He lit the fire and nestled the eggs into the coals. They rattled 
a bit before the unborn half-formed things inside were dead. He 
looked at his reflection and made faces in the mirror while he waited 
for the things to go hardboiled. He needed to remind himself that he 
looked like something. He needed to talk to himself so if he needed 
to talk, at some point, in the future, he wouldn't stumble. 


"And so the internal monologue flows outside a bit for a moment." 


And then back in again. The fire's going. He put it out. Free eggs. 
He cracked one against the wall and peeled the shell and looked at 
himself in the mirror while he bit the thing in half. 


"Wait." 


The mirror had not been there before. How would he have gotten a 
mirror - he was in the woods. What. What. He glanced around, to his 
sides, to the ceiling, to the pamphlet, to the - wait. 


"Fuck, | am being played and | don't like it." 
He grabbed the mirror and looked straight into his eyes. 


"Why are you looking at me. What are you doing? Stop staring, you 
fucking freak!" 


He went to punch the mirror but when his fist hit the wooden wall 
there was no mirror to be seen. But he'd seen it. It was there, it was 
real, something was fucking with him, someone was fucking with 
him, this is not okay. Was he doing this? Or was he doing this? Or, 
much worse, was He doing this, to fuck with him? 


"How did | get to the woods?" 


He looked around the log cabin and realised it had been put 
together with iron nails, and his noticing of the fact of the matter 
made the thing fall on top of him, collapsing inwards violently. 


"FUCK!" 


No. No. Calm. This is frustrating. Just go over, claw your way out of 
the wreck, just go grab your axe from the - and it was gone, of 
course, he was here alone, where would he have gotten an axe 
from? That left the question of how the trees had been falling down, 
but the noticing of that didn't seem to resurrect them from the dead 
and reassemble them atop the stumps. And this stupid flier too, he 
thought, as he looked straight at the thing and was moderately 
confused when it was persistent. 


"It's... persistent." 


It's persistent, he thought, as he picked it up off the ground. So was 

it... real? Or just a particularly hardy construct? Or was it something 

that somebody else left? Anyone could have littered in the forest. He 
looked around again. 


"I'm degrading. Okay. Be calm. This is... manageable. You can put 
the thing up, just... don't notice you're doing it, don't think about it, 

let it be a thing, just reach for the thing you need, just take it, pull it 
out from that majjick fucking HAMMERSPACE-" 


He shoved his hands into his pockets and pulled them out empty. 


"Not good. Not good. Breakthrough, breakthrough, fuck, FUCK just 
BREAK THROUGH!" 


He closed his eyes and opened his eyes and expected not to be in 
the woods any more but the woods, too, at least, were persistent. 
Something was happening, this wasn't okay, this isn't fine. What 
were you doing? What was the objective? What was the purpose, 
what were you working towards? Surely you weren't just... going 
with the flow? 


fuck. 


And the frustration and hate and fire of the thing spewed forth from 
the abject denial of everything that was, the parabolic whimsy 
spraying out and burning up the tangled house, charring to ashes 
the uneaten egg, flaying to cinders the squirrels in the trees nearby, 


the copse pile aflame and the fire inside escaping inexorably. 

He blinked and was still surrounded by fire. The fire, then, was real. 
"Purpose then. Purpose. Something to do, something to break..." 
He fiddled in circles while home burned. 


"That's what makes the things real. The breakthroughs, the 
moments, the momentary lapses in madness. Pop the cork and my 
bottle overfloweth with hatred and motherfucking anger. This 
direction, then." 


He started wandering in the direction of a footprint trail. 


« Seven Characters Die Unexpectedly | Hub | Better To Have 
Nothing Than Everything » 


Number Crunching 


Lucas Monaco, the representative, knocked at the door. 


Skitter Marshall walked over to open the door. The second that he 
twisted the handle, Lucas pushed the door open hard, knocking 
Skitter over on the other side of the door, arranged his fingers into 
fake guns, pointed them at Iris and Robert's heads, shouted "BANG! 
BANG", miming recoil from each hand and making the people he 
was pointing them at jump a bit, then rounded the door, pointed both 
at Skitter's head, and ended on a "Bang." 


The three inheritors stared, a bit confused, and watched as Lucas 
turned around, closed the door, pulled out a key, Twisted it 
clockwise into the door's keyhole, making its perimeter glow a faint 
turquoise and hum at a sinusoidal 200HZz. Iris was the first to try and 
speak, but quickly realised that her mouth wouldn't open any more. 
Lucas saw this and responded. 


"Don't try to say anything, you'll hurt yourselves. Give me a few 
minutes." 


Lucas walked to the three windows in order - they were open, for k- 
n's sake - slammed one shut by pulling it downwards, walked 
across, pulled the next one downwards, walked across, pulled the 
next one downwards. Lucas then pulled out a remote from his 
pocket, pointed it towards each window in order, and turned them 
off. Swirling, inky blackness now flooded outside. It seemed to cast 
odd shadows into the room, despite the only light sources now being 
inside: the yellowy fluorescent light bulbs on the roof, the red dot of 
the fire alarm, and the spreading turquoise from the door which was 
humming at 174Hz. Lucas turned around, already walking towards 
the stepladder that was resting against the refrigerator. 


"| would recommend not opening those windows. Or looking out 
them for too long. Something might see you if you do. Not's a weird 
place. Too many Wednesdays and Thursdays." 


Robert noticed something propelling itself through the hollow not 
outside, felt his heartbeat raise and his head hurt, heard a faint 
chuckle in his ears, and deliberately stared at the floor. He tried to 
lick his lips but his lips were stuck together and that made him 
breathe a little faster and his nose made a little high pitched whine 
from the dried up mucus inside it happening to have turned into an 
impromptu biological whistle and his face started to redden because 
he thought someone had noticed but Iris and Skitter were busy 
staring at the magic man and Lucas the magic man was climbing the 
stepladder. 


Lucas Monaco climbed the stepladder which he'd placed in the 
middle of the room, took out what looked like a hot glue gun from his 
left trouser pocket, shoved it up inside the air vent, closed his eyes 
and scrunched his nose, then pulled the trigger. Everyone's ears 
popped as the pressure in the room suddenly increased - the 
windows started ever so slightly bowing outwards, but nobody inside 
the room noticed this change - and the vent was filled with bright 
orange foam. It sparkled, shiny, bubbling softly, Lucas was staring at 
his watch, three, two, one, and at once it lost its lustre as it dried and 
became rigid. Lucas stepped back down, put the ladder against the 
wall, walked over to the sink, shoved the thing that was definitely not 
a hot glue gun down the sink, pulled the trigger again, another burst 
of pressure (another slight bowing outwards of the windows) and 
then three, two, one, putting the gun back into his left trouser pocket 
and turning back to the inheritors. Lucas pulled a piece of paper out 
of his right pocket. 


"Okay, nods or head shakes. Have any of you met me before?" 
Three head shakes. 

"Good. Are any of you allergic to wheat, rice, or MSG?" 

Three head shakes. 


"Good. Have any of you had sexual intercourse within the last nine 
months?" 


Two head shakes and one nod. While Robert was nodding, 
however, he noticed that Lucas wasn't looking at them anyway, but 


just staring at the sheet. 


"Good. Have any of you passed through non-euclidean spaces 
within the last five weeks?" 


Two shakes and one nod. 


"Good. Have any of you ingested live macroscopic organisms within 
the last 72 hours?" 


Here, Lucas actually looked, and nodded back when he saw three 
nods of affirmation, then scrunched the piece of paper up and threw 
it over his shoulder. Nobody saw it land, because it stopped existing 
before it hit the ground. 


"Okay. I'm going to give each of you a pill and a glass of water. 
You're going to be able to move your mouths in about..." Lucas 
ballparked the door at 108 Hz. "...80 seconds, at which point you 
should immediately consume the pill and finish the glass of water. 
You need to finish the glass of water after taking the pill. Do not say 
anything until | ask you to or it's possible that you'll die. Highly 
probable that you'll die. Also don't look out the window. Also try to 
control your breathing. And heartrates."