Soon they would find it in her attic. The Hume reader that she made 
out of spare parts in her garage and from the hardware store. They’d 
read Bob Ross's body as anomalous, and they’d read her as 
perfectly normal. Why? Well, because Hume readers ran on 
electricity, that’s why. If those people on the internet had taught her 
a single thing, it was that when you have a power you use and 
abuse it. You don’t let it become a weird quirk, you don’t let it 
become a party trick. If you want to live without the constant fear of 
being found and abducted, you let it become a part of you and you 
use that shit. Figure out its ins and outs, its ups and downs. Figure 
out how to use it without anyone knowing, figure out how to use it to 
find ways away from people, spend nights upon nights in your 
garage editing videos and audio and time in the backyard altering 
the memory of your dog. Then, when they come, and oh they will 
come, you have the will and power to fight back. Usually, of course, 
this took multiple people. Teams of artists, circles of support groups 
you found on chatrooms, an organization of people who read way 
too many books, you name it. However, the rules were different for 
Rachael. Sure, she disliked phrasing it this way, but it was true: she 
was playing God. Power over electricity covered an amazingly broad 
range of things, up to and including biology. For this, she just had to 
pass off as a genius, and that wasn’t going to be hard, seeing as 
she was. 


Bob Ross would be an anomaly she found. Him and Jerry, of 
course. She would have read them with her own Hume counter that 
she had made. They were found to be anomalous. How did she 
know that Bob Ross would have been anomalous? Simple. She was 
finding a pattern. A pattern in people who would be revived. First a 
boy in China, another in India, and another somewhere else and 
another somewhere else. The weirdest thing was that the anomaly 
followed names only, and Bob Ross was next on the list. She would 


contact with it. This ability appears to be memetic, as it is able to 
spread via copies of itself as well as pictures depicting its likeness. 
However, the effectiveness of these copies is directly proportional to 
the quality of the product. The calming effect SCP-589 imparts is not 
unlike the use of narcotics, as it stimulates the areas of the brain 
that are responsible for feelings of relief and euphoria, and 
encourages the production of chemicals and hormones that reduce 
stress. However, this effect quickly becomes addictive, with infected 
individuals becoming completely dependent on SCP-589 after 
extended exposure. Once addicted, an individual's interaction with 
SCP-589 or any of its copies borders on complete obsession, and 
they are compelled to create more copies of SCP-589 and attempt 
to spread them. 


However, what makes SCP-589 dangerous are its aftereffects. After 
a certain period of time, SCP-589 will immediately vanish. SCP-589, 
any of its physical copies, and all versions of it in printed and 
electronic media will completely disappear. This sudden and 
massive disappearance of SCP-589 results in catastrophic 
consequences for those infected by SCP-589. Without SCP-589 to 
keep them passive and calm, infected individuals will immediately 
suffer a variety of severe withdrawal symptoms including but not 
limited to: manic depression, psychosis, heightened aggression, 
uncontrollable despair, dementia, mania, paranoia, and various 
other behavioral disorders. It is not known how or why SCP-589 
does this, though there is speculation that SCP-589 "feeds" off of 
the mental anguish it causes to those completely obsessed with it. 
Once the process is complete, SCP-589 will reappear in another 
random location and repeat the cycle. 


SCP-589 was tracked down and contained after the Foundation 
received a string of mysterious reports of villages and towns in rural 
areas being found with their entire populations dead, apparently 
having slaughtered each other in a massive and violent riot. The 
Foundation began tracking these incidents, but could not determine 
their cause until Dr. discovered a pattern in the targeted areas. 
Using the data Dr. provided, the Foundation managed to 
intercept and contain SCP-589, though several personnel had to 
undergo rigorous psychological treatment to counter the effects of 
SCP-589. Currently, SCP-589 has not attempted to leave its 


be hailed as a prophet of the anomalous scientific field. She’d be the 
youngest of their most esteemed scientists. Jerry was easily... 
"fixed" into going along with her story. The footage was going to look 
exactly how she wanted it to look, and say exactly what she wanted 
it to say. Oh, and that guy that just interviewed Alex and the others? 
Well, Rachael made sure that he was going to remember it her way. 


11: Epilogue 


Junior Researcher Dorer and Senior Researcher Hillenburg 
moseyed down the hallway and into the humanoid containment 
wing. There was a problem that needed attending to: as far as they 
could be certain, they had two completely non-anomalous humans 
that they had ended up with in custody. They had both come from 
interesting backgrounds, but ultimately they were normal average 
people who were being kept from the rest of the world in a big covert 
research site. This was a problem, and they had just come out of a 
committee meeting to decide what to do with them (the same 
committee were the ones who had decided letting a man die and 
revive and die all over again was just a terrible thing to let happen), 
and they had landed on a fairly simple solution. 


Dorer and Hillenburg stepped into the room, where Bob Ross and 
Jerry Gardner sat playing cards. Looked like Speed, based on the 
set up. 


“How are you?” 
“Hey guys.” 


“Hey,” Dorer replied, sitting down in a plain white chair and letting 

his elbows rest on the table, “we've got a proposition for you two. | 
mean, it varies between you two, but it applies to both of you. Sort 
of, like —” 


“We're thinking of giving you Level 0 clearance around the facility. 
It's a spot we reserve for guests and janitorial staff. You would still 
be unallowed to leave the facility, and you would be given menial 
tasks from time to time. This would still be your room, but we are 
considering furnishing it and improving upon your living conditions if 


you keep on good behavior. You would be able to eat with the rest 
of us at breakfast, lunch and dinner in the cafeteria. You would work 
on a two strike system: at the discrepancy of higher members of 
staff, you will be given strikes. One strike and you lose most 
privileges until said otherwise. Second strike and you are sent back 
to your chamber and life resumes like it continues now. However, 
good behavior will not only make your living space better but get you 
more privileges and access to the facility and more trust. If you 
agree to all of this...” 


Hillenburg motioned to Dorer, and he slid a sheaf of papers 
forwards. 


“There’s more details in the packet, but we aren’t fibbing you or 
anything. You guys would just need to,” he pulled out a pen and 
handed it to Jerry, “sign right here.” 


“Hey, it’s like we’re people again.” 
“We were never not people, just treated differently.” 


“Thanks, Bob. You’re right. We’ve been people for as long as | can 
remember.” 


They read it over, and they both enjoyed its contents. Jerry went on 
to work as janitorial staff (and often an errand boy), while Bob got to 
return to his love of painting. Site-31 was well adorned with never 
before seen Bob Ross paintings from that moment on, and they 
were the proud hosts of The Joy of Painting, Season 34. 


« Sometimes | Wish...|Waiting on the Good Times|Forever 
Young » 


Forever Young 


Forever Young 


by DarkStuff 


"Rachael!" 
An annoying, high pitched voice was calling from the distance. 


"Rachael? Hey, uh, Rachael," Robert Dorer peeked his head around 
the corner of her door frame, which she really should have left 
closed. "You know there's no shame in eating with everybody else in 
the cafeteria, right? Or, uh, at all? | brought you something!" 


Dorer shoved a plate with a burrito and some white salad on the 
side on top of her papers. She took a deep breath and was finally 
forced to look up at Dorer. He had a big grin on his face. 


"It's Dr. Davidson." 


"Nah it ain't, you never got a PhD. Besides, you don't eat enough. | 
uh, | saw the menu today and thought of you so | thought I'd pop 
over. Do you always leave your door open?" 


"No, no | don't." 
"Lucky me, then. What're you working on?" 
"Classified." 


"No it's not, it says 'General Level 1 Access’ at the top." 


"You shouldn't be looking at a paper immediately after | say that it's 
classified." 


"Oh | looked at it before that. Riveting stuff. You know | worked on 
that paper last, right? | mean, heh, | don't really remember it. Got 
accidentally infected with that window meme. I'm all good now, 
though," Dorer tapped the side of his glasses, "see?" 


Rachael hated Site-31. That word, "hate", albeit strong, is thrown 
around a lot, but Rachael really did. She needed downtime from her 
last assignment, of course, and that's what Site-31 was good for, but 
the professional attitude was all but lost here in an attempt to be 
friendly and cordial. Her own office didn't have a lock on it. 
Apparently that one site up in Wisconsin was doing really well, and 
the experiment had started to spread and pervade. She of course 
understood its importance, but it didn't make her any more 
accustomed to it. She wished that she had some easier way of 
having her own space. 


“Thank you for the food, can | get back to my work? I'm not working 
on the top paper, and it really is classified. You're a level below me, 
and have no relation to this anomaly. It would be in your best 
interest to leave." 


"Did you know we have the same initials?" 


Rachael Maria Davidson took one long, deep, exasperated breath, 
and spun her chair to face Robert Maximus Dorer. It was clear that 
she wasn't going to shake him that easy, and she had gotten 
complaints about her behavior here. For a site, the whole place 
seemed irritatingly anti-work and efficiency. Just because the place 
was filled with Safes didn't mean there wasn't something to get 
done, and Rachael felt like she was the only person there who really 
knew that. However, some official requests had suggested to her 
that she lighten up and engage in more social activities. It was the 
place's specialty, of course. Being sociable. 


If only her god damn door had a lock. 


Mustering up a fake smile, or maybe it came across as a wince, she 
began to... engage the eager fellow that wasn't more than three 


years older than she was. That made him the second youngest 
person in the whole site. 


"Yes, | had noticed that before. | found it funny." 


"Quirky, even! | bet it means something, eh? Some sort of mystical 
connection between the two of us, eh? What do you think? How 
often do the two youngest people share the same initials — and hey, 
did you know | was born in Mexico too?" 


"Honduras. | was born in Honduras. They're different. And no, | don't 
think it means anything." 


"You know what | like most about this job?" ... "Well do ya?" ... "It's 
that we're scientists. We are predisposed to disregard horoscopes 
and star signs and ghost videos online. So of course we'd assume 
it's just a coincidence. But! The coolest thing is that we're 
parascientists. Just as easily as we can brush it off and be right, 
sometimes we can take a good long look at something and find out 
‘py God, there really is something there!’ That's what this feels like. | 
feel like our names mean something. The RMD! We should find 
some good acronym for that, eh?" 


Rachael chewed on her salad only because it gave her an excuse 
not to respond for the time being. 


"And besides, | am certain | can get the Level 1 run down of 
whatever you're working on. I'm Level 3 site-wide, and that gains me 
access to Level 1 knowledge of any anomaly Euclid or Safe. Is it 
Keter?" 

Rachael groaned. 

"No, it's Safe because although it's global it's self containing." 


"Ooo, sounds interesting." Dorer took a seat on the desk, brushing 
aside some well organized papers. "Give me the stuff." 


"If only | had more sighs to sigh, you took them all out of me." 


Dorer chuckled. "Oh c'mon, you tell me this and I'll get out of your 
hair. | promise. Speaking of your hair, nice hair." 


"No flirting between co-workers." 
"Ain't flirting.” 


Rachael gave Dorer a long, cold stare. Seeing that he really wasn't 
going to yield, she pushed aside her plate and picked up the stack of 
papers beneath it. Flipping through them until she landed on the one 
she wanted, she began to scan it. The motion was less to remember 
information and more to not have to look at Dorer. She knew the 
whole thing front to back. Clearing her throat, shifting her eyes up to 
Dorer to give him one last chance to leave... she started. 


"It's anachronism. Objects that appear out of time, before they were 
invented. We thought it was just a side effect of other chronology 
affecting skips, but it has its own logic to it. Objects created through 
this form of anachronism will be looked on by all people as normal, 
and the few people immune to this effect who try and point it out will 
be ignored and called crazy, or conspiracy theorists. We thought it 
was a pretty standard anomaly, barely a blip on our radar — 
especially because it does its own disinformation campaign — but 
the real tickler is that it starts on a certain day." 


"What day is that?" 


"Can't tell you that, then you could read it. There are, decisively, no 
records of this anomaly before a certain date. We're trying to figure 
out why. That's it. That's all | can cover under Level 1 access. You 
may leave." 


"Hmm. Alright, I'll leave you to it. If you need me, I'll be in my office 
across the cafeteria — or in the cafeteria, hanging out with Victor. 
Oh, and one thing.” 


"Yes?" 


"If | get transferred to this 'anachronism' project, will you believe me 
then? That we're connected?" 


Rachael looked up at Dorer, and smiled a wide, confident smile. 
Genuinely, this time. 


"No." 


"Well alright then, see you!" 


Dorer skipped out the door, danced down the hallway, and was out 
of sight. Rachael got up, closed her door, jammed a mini-fridge in 
front of it, and sat back down at her desk. The burrito was, 
unfortunately, really good. She finished it quickly. Setting back to 
work, she studied dates and major events and anomalous records 
on site for clues. So far, she had been noticing a pattern. A creation 
pattern. Anachronism didn't seem to be the only anomaly that 
started on May 10th, 1829. It was an odd sort of coincidence. 
Something a scientist might brush off — like horoscopes, star signs, 
and ghost videos online. However, she wasn't a scientist. She was a 
parascientist. 


She was beginning to develop a theory. 


Tom and Abe sat at a dingy hole in the wall bar. The smoke in the 
room was thick, and the sound of clinking pool balls echoed only 
barely louder than the bellows of football announcers on the 
television. A beautiful lady whose life had went nowhere sat behind 
the bar and cleaned glasses in stereotypical fashion. Her name was 
Tulip, and Abe knew her well.