The crowd of D-Castes surrounded a dais protruding from the 
ground, and an elderly D-Caste woman in the same tattered orange 
jumpsuit surveyed the crowd of fellow villagers with eagle-like eyes. 
To her fellow villagers, she was their spiritual leader. She lived long 
and represented great wisdom, or whatever the Holy Foundation 
allowed her to have. She did have a designation, but villagers called 
her 'Elder' out of respect. The Omega Guards stationed there did not 
care about what the D-Caste called one of their own, as long they 
fulfilled the Holy Foundation's directives. 


In due time, the Elder judged that all were accounted for. She 
stepped down from her dais and took out a scroll from the sash that 
held her robes together. 


"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The Elder yelled, and the village full of D- 
Castes halted their merrymaking. The eyes of the D-Castes were on 
the Elder, who uttered the words from the Nameless Pasior's 
Orientation to the D-Caste. 


"Grace to the Lord Bright and all His Saints and Prophets." The 
Elder continued, "We are gathered here to celebrate the designation 
of our Castlings. For those Castlings are now men and women. All 
that is left is to be designated as men and women." 


The Elder's voice grew louder. Meanwhile, the D-Caste women took 
out the branding irons from the flames and walked towards the dais. 


"A designation to make our Castlings men and women, and they will 
assume the responsibility of men and women! The responsibility to 
cleanse our lineages of our forefathers’ sins! The sins of our 
ancestors’ heathenry! The heathenry of which we redeem ourselves 
through our labour!" 


"The responsibility to cleanse our lineages of our forefathers’ sins! 
The sins of our ancestors’ heathenry! The heathenry of which we 
redeem ourselves through our labour!" The other D-Castes repeated 
the mantra of their people, a mantra spake of since their ancestors’ 
repentance and submission to the Holy Foundation. 


As the villagers’ chants died down, the Elder began reading the 
contents of her scroll. 


"Only one Castling for this night! 18 years ago, a male was born to 
D-48572946 and D-83756246. Tonight, Boy D-48572946 will be 
designated. No longer will he be a boy of his father. For he shall 
become a man. Boy D-48572946, step up and claim your 
designation." 


Boy D-48572946 walked up toward the dais, wearing only a 
loincloth. The crowd of villagers cheered him on, as he laid down on 
the dais, face-up and spreadeagled. The D-Caste women held the 
branding irons above his chest and right forearm. 


"Boy D-48572946, do you accept the responsibility of a man and 
take on the same duty as your father, and his father before him, in 
service to the Holy Foundation?" asked the Elder. 


"Yes, Elder." replied Boy D-48572946. 


"So be it. In the name of the Lord Bright, designate the D-Caste!" 
The Elder declared. 


The two robed D-Caste women quickly lowered their branding irons; 
the white-hot metal made contact with his flesh. Boy D-48572946 let 
out a pain-filled yell, which was drowned out in the cacophony of 


cheers and applause from the D-Castes. The child's mother — 
D-83756246 — only covered her mouth at the necessary act, eyes 
downcast. The Omega Guards remained firm at their station, having 
seen the oft-repeated Rite many times. 


The Elder gave a signal to the two D-Caste women, and they lifted 
the branding irons. Steam shot from the man's flesh, leaving 
identical darkened marks on his right wrist and chest. It would 
henceforth be his designation. No longer was he a boy of another D- 
Caste, for he would be a D-Caste in his own right. The following 
designation was branded onto him: 


D-34029132 


"Henceforth, in the name of the Lord Bright, D-34029132 has been 
designated!" The Elder declared solemnly. 


"D-340291 32!" The crowd chanted. 


The newly-anointed D-34029123 stood up from the dais and 
observed his fellow villagers cheering on in congratulations. The 
Elder draped an orange jumpsuit over D-34029132, and he quickly 
donned the marker of his adulthood. All this time, the Omega 
Guards looked on with unchanging faces. 


"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The Elder yelled again to call for attention, 
"The Holy Foundation has called for the D-Caste to perform a Trial 
of Service. The D-Caste who are descendants of sinners and 
heathens! The D-Caste who must repent for their ancestors’ sins 
and heathenry! The D-Caste who support the Holy Foundation with 
their body!" 


"The D-Castes who are descendants of sinners and heathens! The 
D-Castes who must repent for their ancestors' sins and heathenry! 
The D-Castes who will support the Holy Foundation with their 
bodies!" The crowd of D-Castes repeated the Elder's words, like 
sheep to a shepherd. 


"Who answers the call of the Holy Foundation?" asked the Elder, 
"The Holy Foundation seeks only one D-Caste from our village." 


D-34029132, who was still beside the dais, raised his hand without 
thought. Some within the crowd let out breaths of relief at the newly- 
recognised adult's unusual initiative. Teardrops trickled from the 
eyes of his mother, D-83756246. The Omega Guards marched 
forward, with D-Castes stepping back reverently before their social 
betters. D-34029132 smiled at the Omega Guards and walked away 
under their escort. 


Many seasons after, D-34029132 remained in his Trial of Service 
where he lived out his days in the Overwatch Cathedral. The last leg 
of his final task was underway, and his body was prepared for it. As 
per the Holy Doctors' decree, D-34029132 had fasted for countless 
days until he was but a shell of a man. All of his teeth, fingernails 
and toenails had been pulled out as well. That was the protocol and 
mercy of the Holy Doctors, for many succumbed to temptations and 
culled themselves. For a D-Caste to cull oneself or fellow D-Castes 
without the approval of the Holy Doctors is a sin. 


But D-34029132 was calm, for he was so close to seeing his dearest 
wish fulfilled. As the Omega Guards tied him down with great 
chains, a Cardinal Doctor spoke to him. 


"Do you know why you have been brought here today, 
D-34029132?" 


"Yes, my lord." As he spoke, the D-Caste recalled one of his 
mother's last words to him, now but a distant memory: 


"Yes, we are sinners. But Lord Bright loves us as well. In the Holy 
Procedures Lord Bright personally passed down, only the D-Castes 
may be indwelled by Him." 


Dr Gears Storytime Entries 


Introduction 


In many ways, | question my entry here. To even attempt to put 
myself in the same realm of Black Fedora and Josef K seems like a 
terrible sacrilege. Still, | have been told that my little chat stories 
have merit as creepypasta, so in the spirit of greater entertainment, | 
now post them here for your enjoyment. 

Reentry 

Swimmer 

The Vault 

Influenza 

Meteor 

Late Night 

Peeled 

Knives 

Jaywalk 

Devotion 

Feverish 

Cold 


Alone 


Mice 


Elevator 

Potty 

Life Saver 

Bloody 

Mad Love 

Sa Jin (Photo) 

Breaker 1-9 

Delia 

Climber 

Shy 

Occasionally, | get ambitions and write something above and 
beyond short creepypasta. Here are stories that slip over in to the 
"short story" realm. Longer, but | hope still worth the price of 
admission. 

Stitches 


Love/Hate 


elapsed before the relative humidity rose to 1%. The 
relative humidity stayed at 1% for nearly an hour more, 
slowly rising to 2% after the twenty-seventh (27) hour. 
SCP-622 did not completely dissipate until thirty-five (35) 
hours and twenty-eight (28) minutes. The final relative 
humidity capped at 19% (19.26% with significant figures) 
for the next four (4) weeks and remained there as of 
writing. It is undetermined if it is a result of SCP-622 
removing all excess moisture from the construction 
phase of Site 16, or if there is a chemical component that 
does not dissipate. 


Test Log 622-2: 


Inorganic Testing of SCP-622 to determine shelf life 
of chemical compound [DATA EXPUNGED] ina 
controlled environment. 


Procedure: Before SCP-622 was applied in hallway K- , 
four (4) buckets of water, equivalent to the water content 
of an average human being, were placed in 
aforementioned hallway. As with Test 622-1, hallway K- 
was isolated, applied with SCP-622, and viewed through 
remote monitoring devices. Moisture measured and 
monitored by electronic instruments. For a control, 
hallways K-06 and K-07 were also monitored for humidity 
content, averaging at 20% relative humidity. 


Results: In twelve (12) hours, all four (4) buckets of 
water were completely dried up. The relative humidity 
stood at 12% until twenty-five (25) hours had passed, 
finally capping at around 19% (18.87% with significant 
figures) after thirty-five (35) hours elapsed time. When 
applying significant figures to the control rooms, the 
average relative humidity has dropped from 20.24% to 
20.17%. It is unknown whether this is directly a result of 
SCP-622, Site 16’s air system, or a combination of the 
two. 


Test Log 622-3: 


Reentry 


Everything was screaming. The dials, the readouts, everything was 
screaming, but he noticed none of it. What he noticed was the heat. 
He was burning. Not on fire, but inside, burning with a searing heat 
that was cooking him inside out. What's more, the tiny capsule was 
so sealed, so perfectly fitted, he couldn't even twist or writhe to burn 
in a new position. The radio squawked and squealed twice before 
going silent, the tiny plate starting to warp as the shoddy, 
overwhelmed heat shield continued to buckle under the reentry 
force, the flames licking white and golden past his tiny porthole. 


Still, the heat was not what filled the man with fear, what made him 
afraid of not only his immediate and untimely demise, but what may 
possibly be waiting beyond it. The baking flames did not form a total 
wall over the tiny porthole fixed over his sweating, softening face. 
They divided in the middle, blocked by the hard, sharp point of a 
chin. 


The face watched him, staring, vague suggestions of limbs holding 
to the sides of the window. The face watched, even with no eyes, 
no mouth, the blank, vapid nothing still so hellishly suggestive. It 
watched, smiling a nothing smile as the tiny bit of grit burned up in 
the thin, searing atmosphere... 


and its breath fogged to frost on the burning, bubbling window. 


Swimmer 


The water was cool, if a bit murky. The lake was the color of tea, 
owing to its past as a logging route. Great banks of long tree trunks 
would bob and sink, staining the lake. At least, that's what the boy's 
grandpa said. He dove off the dock, slipping into the cool water as 
easy as an otter, his sunburned skin drinking in the cooling water. 


The lake was very deep, and quickly he was over the vast, deep 
edges, paddling softly with the easy grace attainable only by the 
happy few who know the width and depth of summer break. He 
turned over to his back, the murky, tea-colored haze buoying him up 
on billows of cool water. He flicked his hands with a careless 
annoyance as he skirted a patch of loosed seaweed, sending it 
bobbing away. He watched the clouds, listening to the empty hum of 
the lake in his ears. 


He slowly noticed more patches floating about him, and bobbed to 
vertical, wincing as his feet kicked and brushed the slippery, brown 
strands of weed. The strands twitched and clutched with their soggy 
strength, and he sighed as he started to plot a course out of the 
muck. 


Deep below, the twitching strands stirred the muck they were rooted 
so deeply in. The mud puffed... then bulged, rising softly in a great 
mound. Then it opened eyes, great sludgy orbs the size of cars. It 
slowly rose, freeing its gnashing maw, and drifted up to see what its 
feelers had found. 


The Vault 


The door was heavy, and old, but still strong. It sealed the passage 
tight, blocking even light from around its edges. The hall was 
claustrophobic, and in near total darkness but for the dim, drooling 
light from the far-off stair. He beat on the door again, feeling the 
thick reverberation bounce through its solid core. He could try and 
pick the lock, or bash it in, but that was not the way. Not their way, 
never. Respect was always foremost, even at the utmost end of 
need. 


He folded back on his haunches, his sigh turning the dust on the 
long-abandoned floor. He looked back, at the dim stair, and 
considered again just going back, letting it go. He thought this way 
for a long time, then stood with a new, more burning resolve. He 
went and knocked again... and again... and again. He hammered 
on the door. He beat on the door. He slammed his fists over and 
over, thundering against its mocking, ageless weight. He beat his 
fists until they split, spilling blood that looked like deeper, slicker 
smears of darkness onto the unrelenting wood. He threw himself 
against it, biting, clawing, gouging at the wood like something rabid 
and in pain. 


Finally, he slowed, then stopped, pulling away from the blank wood 
with an almost sheepish slink. He folded back up again, letting the 
split, reeking flesh stop pulsing and start to knit over. He turned the 
black, pulsing mass that gave him sight to the door again, split 
tongues lolling as he chastised himself for his reckless, misplaced 
hatred. They had gone, those many, and hidden deep in their vaults. 
This may be the last, the very last flake of rotten flesh left of their 
abandoned body. Their endless impatience had called to them for 
correction, so...they had come. Man had hidden deep in their vaults, 
their short-sightedness leaving them no retreat, no escape. 


Now they waited, delaying their final lessons with every futile 
breath... But to worry and to lose one's temper was not the way of 


the People. He resolved that, once ages had turned the door to 
dust, he would show them the folly of hope. 


One eon at a time. 


Influenza 


I've been sick for days now. That bubbling nausea that fills your 
throat, makes you feel as if you're about to throw up every time you 
burp or so much as breathe out your mouth. Holding the toilet, 
resting my head on the cool, cool porcelain, | really question why in 
the hell | don't make myself throw up and just get it over with. It's just 
not something | can do...thinking of forcefully gagging myself...ugh, 
it's almost worse then | feel now. Almost. 


Suddenly it hits me, and this is it, this is IT. | feel that slick, sour spit 
coat my throat, my belly tightening up as | push my head over the 
bowl and spit. For a split second before | explode, | realize this thing 
has not been cleaned in a while. Then | vomit. Hard. Mucus-rich and 
acidic, it pours out in a hard, jetting stream from my mouth and 
nose, burning my nasal passages like fire. It hits so hard, it feels like 
it should be coming out my eyes, too. 


| vomit again, and again, the third time bringing up just some thin, 
reeking slime, and | gasp a bit, getting my breath back before the 
next wave. | pitch forward again, eyes tearing as they squeeze shut, 
and | feel another hot jet of filth pour out. Opening my eyes, it 
seems...different. A tarry black, and there are...things bobbing in it. | 
don't have time to look too hard, before two more hard retches 
double me over the bowl. These are more pinkish, and | can 
definitely see some kind of meat in these. Hamburger, maybe...