"There are SCPs with antimemetic properties," Marion goes on. 
"There are ideas which cannot be spread. There are entities and 
phenomena which harvest and consume information, particularly 
information about themselves. You take a Polaroid photo of one, it'll 
never develop. You write a description down with a pen on paper 
and hand it to someone— but what you've written turns out to be 
hieroglyphs, and nobody can understand them, not even you. You 
can look directly at one and it won't even be invisible, but you'll still 
perceive nothing there. Dreams you can't hold onto and secrets you 
can never share, and lies, and living conspiracies. It's a conceptual 
subculture, of ideas consuming other ideas and... sometimes... 
segments of reality. Sometimes, people. 


"Which makes them a threat. That's all there is to it, really. 
Antimemes are dangerous, and we don't understand them; 
therefore, they are part of the Problem. Hence my division. We can 
do the sideways thinking that's needed to combat something which 
can literally eat your combat training.” 


O5-8 stares back at her for a long moment. Clay fidgets, disliking 
and distrusting the story, but the O5 seems more open to the 
concept. 


"Name one," he says. "Name an antimemetic SCP." 
"SCP-055," Marion says promptly. 


"There is no SCP-055," Clay retorts. 


"Again: Yes, there is," Marion says. 


"There isn't," Clay asserts. "SCP numbers aren't assigned 
sequentially. There are gaps. That number hasn't been assigned. It's 
not superstition, we have enough to be concerned about without 
arbitrary numerological mysticism. We have SCP-666 and SCP-013. 
But there's no SCP-001. And there's no SCP-055." 


"Clay," O5-8 says, "you should look at this." He turns his monitor so 
Clay can see the file that he has just retrieved. Clay bends over and 
reads it from top to bottom. Stunned, he scrolls back and reads it all 
a second time. 


"But..." 


"The file's dated from 2008," 05-8 says. "It's got all the right flags 
and signatures. It's keyed and coded. It's real." 


"You've seen this before?" Clay asks him. 


"Never in my life," 05-8 says. "As far as | can remember, anyway. 
On the other hand, if the content is accurate, both of us have 
probably seen it dozens of times." 


Clay glares at Marion. "This isn't possible." 


Marion nearly spits. "For Christ's sake, Clay, how long have you 
been working here?" 


"But if this SCP is this powerful..." he begins. 
"Yes?" 


"Who wrote the file?” the O5 finishes. "And for that matter, how was 
the interview conducted, and who is 'Bartholomew Hughes’? And 
most importantly, how do you, Mrs. Wheeler, retain knowledge of 
any of this?" 


"Bart Hughes wrote the file. He's dead," Marion says. 


"What happened to him?" 


"You don't want to know." 


There is a very long pause while both O5-8 and his assistant react 
to this. In fact, they pass through a long, discrete sequence of 
reactions. Indignation at the seeming rudeness; confusion at 
Wheeler's incaution in front of sinister superiors; surprise at the 
magnitude of the claim; pure disbelief; comprehension; and finally, 
horror. 


"What..." 05-8 asks carefully, "would happen if we did know?" 


"It would happen to you as well," Marion says, levelly."...As for the 
rest of your questions: we manage that pharmaceutically. You know 
we have class-A amnestics, for people who very badly need to 
forget things? Of course you do. Who could forget about class-A 
amnestics? Well, in Antimemetics, we have a different pill, for 
people who need to remember things that would otherwise be 
impossible to remember. Mnestics, class W, X, Y and Z. Same 
Greek root as the word 'mnemonic'. The M is silent." 


In her bag, her phone beeps again. 


With a nod of approval from the O5, Marion reaches into her bag 
and turns her phone off, acknowledging the prompt this time instead 
of postponing it. She pulls a blister pack from another pocket and 
pops a pill out. It's hexagonal, and green. She holds it up, and is 
satisfied to see a flicker of recognition on O5-8's face. He's 
beginning to put it back together. 


Marion says, "These are class W mnestics, the weakest, suitable for 
continual use. Two pills per day. Go down to the site pharmacy and 
ask. The pharmacist will claim they don't stock any such thing; 
they're misremembering, tell them to double-check." 


O5-8 sighs. "And now, | think, | get it. | see why we're having this 
conversation at all." 


"Yes," Marion says, popping a second pill out and handing it over to 
him. "It's because you missed a dose. You're supposed to be on 
these, the same as me and everybody on my staff. It's the only way 
we can work. You forgot to take a pill, and then you forgot all the 


information that the pills were helping you retain. You forgot why you 
were taking them, who gave them to you, where to get more. You 
forgot about me, and my entire department. And now | have to bring 
you up to speed." 


"And if | take this," O5-8 says, "I'll remember this whole conversation 
and we won't have to have it again?" 


"Hopefully not," Marion says. 
Clay pipes up. "Uh, should | be taking those?" 


"Sorry, kiddo," O5-8 says. "Need to know. Maybe when you're an 
O5 yourself." He swallows the pill. Marion swallows hers too. 


"So what is SCP-055?" O5-8 asks. 


"SCP-055 is nothing," Marion says, now relaxing entirely. "SCP-055 
is, as described in the file, a powerful information autosuppressor. 
As far as experimentation has uncovered, it can only be defined in 
negative terms. We can only record what it isn't. We know it isn't 
Safe or Euclid. We know it isn't round, or square, or green or silver. 
We know it isn't stupid. And we know it isn't alone. But what we do 
know is that it's weak. It's weak because it's the only antimemetic 
agent in our possession which has a physical entry in the files. We 
have paper records of the thing. We have containment procedures. 
It's not Safe, which means it's dangerous... but it's contained." 


O5-8 blinks. "You have procedures? Where?" 
Marion points at her head. 


"Then how many other antimemes are there? How much more 
dangerous do they get?" 


"Ten that | know of," Marion says. "Statistically, probably at least five 
more that | don't know of. This does not count the antimemetic 
entities freely roaming the halls, not under containment. There are at 
least two in this room with us right now. Don't look. | said don't look! 
It's pointless!" 


O5-8 does an impressive job of controlling himself, keeping his 


attention focused on Marion. Clay doesn't fare so well, and quickly 
sweeps the whole room, even checking behind his back. Making an 
ass of himself, essentially. He finds nothing. He looks baffled. 


"There is an invisible monster which follows me around and likes to 
eat my memories," Marion explains, patiently. "scp—4987. Don't 
look it up, it's not there. I've learned to manage with it. It's like a 
demanding pet. | produce tasty memories on purpose so it doesn't 
eat something important, like my passwords or how to make coffee. 


"And what's the other one?" Clay asks. 


With another nod from O5-8, Marion goes to her bag again. This 
time she pulls out a gun and shoots Clay twice in the heart. 


More aghast than in pain, Clay collapses sharply against the 
bookcase behind him. Pulling his head around to face Marion, he 
manages, "How did you— kn—" 


Marion stands, aims more carefully and shoots him a third time, this 
time in the head. 


05-8, again, does an impressive job of not reacting. "That's Clay's 
gun," he deadpans. "You stole it from him." 


"It's tricky to steal a firearm this heavy from someone without them 
noticing," Marion explains, unloading it and carefully setting it down. 
"But stealing a firearm and then stealing their memory of the theft is 
a little easier. Like | said: a pet. Some pets are dumb enough that 
they can be trained." 


"Yes," 05-8 says, evenly. "That much I'd guessed. But why?" 


"Because you were supposed to be taking class-W mnestics," 
Marion says. "You can't skip a dose of class-W mnestic. I've tried. 
You can postpone a dose, but you can't forget unless someone 
actively prevents you from taking it. There's only one person who 
could get close enough to you to do that, and that's your assistant. 
And remember when | asked him how long he'd been working 
here?" 


"He didn't answer," O5-8 says. "I thought you were being rhetorical." 


"He doesn't work here," Marion says. "He's an antimeme. Since 
when do you have an assistant? You don't have an assistant, Brent. 
Look at this office. It's got one desk. You've got a receptionist 
outside: she's the one who screens your calls and schedules your 
meetings. Where does Clay even sit? Where does he fit? Don't 
blame yourself. You're human, and these things are redaction 
incarnate. You need to think like a space alien to get around them." 


05-8 asks a question which, in any other workplace, would be 
absurd. "Is he dead?" 


"Maybe," Marion says. "I can put his corpse in our research queue 
and we'll see what we can see when we open him up. There's a 
duality here, though. They're like parallel universes sharing the 
same space. It's conceptual versus concrete, figurative versus 
physical. It's very unusual for things to cross over. | don't know what 
Clay was, but he had a human body, which instantly makes him 
weird, even by our standards. As ever, the search for stalemate 
continues. | will let you know if we get any closer." 


"Any side effects of these pills?" O5-8 asks. 
"Nausea, and dramatically increased risk of pancreatic cancer," 


Marion says. "And very bad dreams." 


Next: Introductory Antimemetics 


Introductory Antimemetics 


Junior Researcher Kim's been working for the Foundation for all of 
four hours and he feels pulverised, as if an anvil were dropped on 
his head in that first introductory lecture. It's lunchtime, and he's 
found a corner so far back in the cafeteria that nobody bothers him, 
where he can chew and swallow non-anomalous food, drink 
apocalyptically strong coffee and digest the hard lessons of the 
morning. 


On his Foundation-provided phone, he pages fretfully through the 
few SCP files for which he has clearance. Most of them have to be 
jokes. That's how they read. Like very bad, dark, frightening jokes. 


Kim's one of eleven Junior Researchers in the new intake, and the 
other ten are sitting in a separate group at a separate table, chatting 
animatedly to one another. There are some instructors here and 
there, munching sandwiches. Other than them, the cafeteria - large 
enough to seat two hundred people or more - is deserted. To Kim, 
that seems odd. Site 41 is large, three skulking buildings with 
significant basement space, buried casually in the forests of central 
Colorado. Where is everybody? 


A man in a grey suit walks into the cafeteria, makes eye contact with 
Kim and strides purposefully over. The man's suit is sharp enough to 
cut. He wears a tie pin and a platinum wristwatch as big as a brick. 
He looks badly misplaced. Site 41 is a working site. There's training, 
education, research, development, analysis, and even the 
containment of a very few Safe SCPs going on here. Executives 
shouldn't ever be here. So what is he? A lost exec, trying to find the 
helipad? Or a researcher or instructor, dressing for the job he wants, 
not the job he has? 


"Hell of a first day," the man says, holding a hand out. "Alastair 
Grey. With an E." 


"Kim," says Kim. "Paul Kim." 


portrayal, due to its use in works by multiple authors both before and 
after its discovery by the Foundation. 


SCP-582’s actual abilities within narrative are generally nebulous 
and lacking in detail. The most common format of story involves the 
aftermath of a manifestation of SCP-582, or a short-lived encounter 
with SCP-582, rather than an explanation or justification of the 
events. What is known is that SCP-582 regularly appears capable of 
appearing or disappearing at any place or time, and that no method 
of terminating or otherwise harming SCP-582 within any narrative 
has been successful. 


Addendum 1: 
+ SIT EYES ONLY 


The origin of SCP-582 may be traced to an 
obscure American author active during the 1940s and 
50s. The original works containing SCP-582 were never 
published, but were discovered by several close friends 
and fellow amateur writers (namely 3 5 
and ) upon the author’s death in 1957, who 
then served as the original infection vector. 


was considered an overall sub-par author, 
having only published four short stories in his life, all 
within now-defunct Magazine. In addition, he 
was Often criticized for lifting the style of Howard P. 
Lovecraft considerably, a stance backed up by his 
personal journals, which detailed an obsession with 
Lovecraft’s writings and the author himself. Furthermore, 
several earlier entries imply that SCP-582 was formed 
recursively, in that the author wrote a narrative detailing 
his own encounter with SCP-582 decades prior (believed 
to be either Document 582-14 or Document 582-15), 
which then led him to write the first narratives featuring 
SCP-582. 


Addendum 2: 


+ SIT EYES ONLY 


"Good to meet you. What accent is that, if you don't mind me 
asking?" 


Kim blinks. "New York," he says. "I'm from New York. Are you the 
site director?" 


"You seem on edge.” 


"Well, that figures, doesn't it?" Kim asks. "You must know how that 
intro goes. It's like an atom bomb to the ego. | just had almost 
everything | know overturned. It turns out I've spent my entire adult 
life being ‘protected’ from 'dangerous' knowledge, as if the whole 
outside world is a... a ballpit, for under-sevens. Stepping out of that 
has been... humiliating. To start with. And..." He blinks again. "Hey, 
what do you do here, exactly? You didn't answer my question." 


"You didn't answer mine," Grey says. 
"Of course | did," Kim says. "I'm from—" 


And then he just stops, his train of thought running off the end of the 
track into air. It's on the tip of his tongue, the answer to Grey's 
question, but he can't get the words out. "That's weird," he says, 
shaking his head. 


At this point, he also notices that Grey isn't wearing his badge. This 
could be an honest mistake, albeit an extremely serious one. But 
surely execs don't get to the executive level without being 
scrupulously correct in everything they do? 


"Who are you?" Kim asks again. 
"Your life story was fascinating.” 
"What?" 


"You spoke four languages," Grey tells him. "One now, and soon 
zero. Too huge an intellect to specialise, your education was a 
fusion of biochemistry and comparative literature. You felt as if you'd 
die if you couldn't find more foreign thoughts to cram into your head. 
You've been all over the world, hungry, and every country you've 
ever been to was like landing on another planet. You toy with 


anthropology, but there's too much world for one human race to ever 
understand, let alone one human. There's too much human race. 
We should pare it down." 


Kim nods. "Would you excuse me for just one second?" He gets up 
and hurries to another table, to the instructor whom he met earlier 
that day. When Kim gets close to her he feels a kind of staticky 
sensation building up. He tries to shake her shoulder, and succeeds 
in moving it a little, but it's like reaching through tar. "Hey! There's a 
problem. There's an intruder. | think it might be an SCP. Doc, look at 
me! Hello?" She doesn't react. He tries the gaggle of fellow 
newcomers as well, but they keep chattering and hypothesising, 
oblivious to him shouting and clapping in their ears. "Hey! People! 
Listen to me! No, no, no, no."