The man, whose name is unimportant, settles down to wait — it is 
not long before his ears, honed by years of working with delicate 
machines, hear a creak behind him. He stiffens, turning and bowing 
solemnly towards the raised cylinder of earth that sticks from the 
field. A scarecrow lies dislodged to one side, comical face splattered 
with mud. The protrusion bifurcates, sending cascades of soil in all 
directions, and a small metallic shape peers out from within its 
depths. The man raises an eyebrow, and speaks. 


"JAmbi Ij Vnei-t?" 


The robot moves slowly out of the cylinder, brandishing its single 
appendage in front of it like a weapon. "What is this creature? What 
is it doing here? What am / supposed to be doing here?" Several 
memory banks that have not been used in centuries begin to warm 
up, as its almost-mind fills with unfamiliar queries. 


"pH Ij!", repeats the man, emptying a plastic bag in front of him. 
Meat, small gemstones, and thin metal discs spill out onto the 
ground. "V nf‘-t 'LtEJt, OFOLIH =WriS Ta'Acim". He bends further, 
supine in front of the strange, conical creature that confronts him. 
Server banks a lifetime and a half away begin to process information 
that hasn't been accessed in oh-so-long. Whatever action M-002 is 
supposed to take at this juncture, it is almost certainly incredibly 
important. It reaches out, and places an approximation of a hand on 
the man's shoulder. Behind them, photorealistic mountains de- 
render themselves as new data floods back. 


Query: Human 


is currently unknown. Witnesses report SCP-918-1 instances 
communicating with each other in the form of high-pitched clicks and 
screeches. 


After emerging, instances of SCP-918-1 will almost immediately 
begin to fly to an apparently predetermined residence located in the 
country of . The residence that SCP-918-1 flies to will always be 
home to one (1) newborn infant and two (2) parents. Upon arrival at 
the residence, SCP-918-1 instances will locate the newborn infant 
and carefully hold it utilizing their talons. 


SCP-918-1 instances will then, still carrying the infant, fly back to 
SCP-918 and insert the infant into the machinery inside SCP-918. 
Personnel report a series of loud banging noises emitting from 
several points of machinery at this stage. After fifteen (15) minutes, 
varying amounts of talcum powder will be dispensed from the end 
point of the mechanisms. 


SCP-918-1 instances will then climb into the open point of the 
machinery. Scans of the machinery at this stage shows that 
instances of SCP-918-1 remain in the pipes for six (6) seconds 
before vanishing. 


« SCP-917 | SCP-918 | SCP-919 » 


Result: 

1: of, relating to, or characteristic of humans (see [2] human) 

2: consisting of humans 

3: a) having human form or attributes 

b) representative of or susceptible to the sympathies and frailties of 
human nature. 

See also: Humanoid, Primate, Humanity, [REDACTED], 
[REDACTED], and [30098] more... 


The robot looks down at the man, and the man looks back at the 
robot. The robot looks to the sky, and sees a charred, jagged hole, 
the right size and shape for a rudimentary spacecraft. A trickle of 
smoke drifts from the edges, mixing with the already pungent smog. 
The man sees the hole too, and grins. Their scientists have 
breached the sphere of the heavens. A tiny red light flickers on 
M-002's chassis, and the robot raises its arm. A jerk, and it lowers it 
back towards the man's forehead. A look of realisation flashes 
across his face, replaced moments later by one of anger, and finally 
one of peace. The red light flickers off. 


The cylinder descends into the bowels of the ship, taking M-002 with 
it. Artificial clouds are replaced by static, the Outlast's primary 
Societal Re-creation Chamber is deactivated, and the charred 
remains of humanity are extinguished. 


[00000001/33554432 remaining]. 


Project Outlast was an ill-advised project to begin with. A 
group of researchers with few restrictions and even less 
funding, tasked with ensuring the survival of the human 
race. They were a laughing stock, the butt of countless 
jokes. Even those who founded the Project expected it to 
fail, treating it as a thought experiment and a way of 
removing troublesome researchers from other, more 
important tasks. Certainly nobody expected them to 
make some of the greatest technological breakthroughs 
the supra-finite plane had ever seen. 


They were crackpots and visionaries in equal measure, 
bursting to the seams with ideas that seemed better 


placed in a cheap sci-fi novel. Reverse entropy engines, 
planet-sized pocket dimensions, stasis chambers that 
existed only in the minds of those inside them — they 
were given nothing to work with, and they used it to 
devise everything. These men and women who were 
laughed at throughout their careers are the reason we 
exist at all. We, and anyone else who survived the 
Collapse, owe them a debt of thanks. 


And more than that, we owe them our lives. 


~ Extract from the memoirs of SCPF Researcher Remes, Digital 
Library of SCPS-Outlast-XX] ("Well Enough Alone") 


M-002, complete with a shiny new 44th Generation chassis, rolls up 
to a small, wood-panelled door. It's taken him years to get there, but 
it doesn't matter. All non-essential systems shut down as soon as 
the counter dipped below 600. It could have taken millennia to reach 
the door, and some variation of the original robot would still be 
trundling along, accompanied by numerous disc-shaped objects 
clearing a path through the metre-high coating of dust. The fact of 
the matter is that if nobody will ever be around to hear it, the tree 
can take as long as it likes to fall. Falling is, at least in the short 
term, essentially optional. 


M-002 attaches itself to a socket in the wall, powers down its 
conscious subsystem, and waits. 


There is no way in hell I'm going to be put in that 
machine. Fuck you. No. Listen, what part of "fuck you" 
don't you understand? No, absolutely not. I'm not 
becoming another goddamn cog in your deathtrap of a 
spaceship. No, | don't care that it's a ‘metastable omni- 
habitation module, designed to traverse the infinite’. I'll 
die before you put me in a computer. Fuck you. 


~ Observer-Vitae 09, prior to instatement. 


It would be nice to say it was the gunshot that woke the robot up. 
Unfortunately, the suite behind the door was separated by several 
metres of soundproof nanofoam, and it was a number of minutes 
before the cessation of life signs was detected. Having loaded the 
necessary instructions in advance, M-002 rolls over the threshold. 


It's a grand room. Sumptuous, decadent, with all the luxuries a 
human could ask for. It is spacious enough to comfortably house a 
small village, and contains something seen nowhere else on the 
ship's colossal hull. It contains, plastered across the furthest wall, a 
window. It consists of 3 metre thick transparent para-fibre mesh, and 
it looks out on blackness so dark it might as well not be there, but it 
is a window nonetheless. A huge security risk, the weakest point on 
the hull; a window looking out on nothing. And this is why, M-002 
knows, the man who lives lived within this room is was quite possibly 
the most dangerous man alive. 


Because the man who lived here, according to records, was indeed 
powerful. Powerful beyond measure, but not in the way you'd 
expect. He certainly carried enough weight to disrupt the integrity of 
the entire craft, and enough to be preserved here, with his own set 
of self-restoring subsystems. M-002 isn't entirely sure what a self- 
restoring subsystem is, but his five-million page on-board 
encyclopedia convinces him it's probably not worth the effort to find 
out. Perhaps ‘influential’ would be a better word to describe him. He 
certainly doesn't look powerful now, as his limp body is lifted from its 
chair. He looks weak, and sad. A bloodied, broken shell of a man, 
with a neat hole through his forehead. Very, very neat. Precise, 
practiced, like a surgeon's incision — ironic, really, given his 
carefree attitude to the human body in general. 


There's the clink of jewellery, the thud of flesh, and the body is 
away, flying down a chute towards the fire in the bowels of the ship. 
The door glides shut with a barely-audible hiss, and the counter 
reaches zero. No fuss, no drama, no bells or accompanying 
whistles. Nothing but [0], solemn and silent against the tides of the 
apocalypse. Because of course that's what the counter means. 


There are no more passengers left on the Outlast. 


Which means that, after millennia of waiting, it's time for the second- 


to-last maintenance droid to perform their primary function. To 
maintain. 


"It's time", M-002 thinks. "It's finally time”. 


10 years. That's how long it took M-002 to reach the cargo hold. A 
decade of silent, repetitive movement through a latticework of 
corridors, lined with identical doorways. After about 6 months the 
artificial gravity failed, which provided a brief amusement, but pretty 
soon it was back to rolling, rolling, rolling onward. Through the 
cryonic preservation bay, where samples of creatures extended for 
miles in every direction. Through the cultural reversion matrix, where 
bickering machines told jokes and skits and punned their way 
through eternity. Past vents and ducts, strange boxes of impossible 
artifacts, lost and lonely creatures bound in cages. Past incinerators, 
generators, cultivators, and huge whirring discs that soun power 
from nothing. A left turn, a right, straight on for a month or two then 
double back. Quietly roll into a room where a man in a vat has an 
amulet placed around his neck by cold metallic hands, then roll out 
again to avoid his screaming. 


A network of tubing, more convoluted and warped than the rest, 
hung in a room of its own. It lashed out, sparks flying as the ends 
are severed and collected, ready to be melted down. Spewing honey 
and glass, the pipe nightmare wept. At the centre, forever burning in 
a maelstrom of wax and blood and gin, other things cried out louder. 
M-002 awoke at the other end of the conveyor with a brand new 
silver coat, and thought nothing of it. Why should a maintenance 
droid worry about such things? It was Genesis Construct A-015 
doing its job as always. Hopping off the production line with a clank, 
the droid charged off once more. Onward. Ever onward. 


That was a long time ago now. The cargo has long since been 
awoken, and the Outlast has resumed its job. Outlasting. M-002 
sleeps soundly in the knowledge of a job well done, and 
Observer-Vitae 09 cries himself to sleep, staring out of his oh- 
so-precious window. The boxes tick away, and the ship spins off into 
the dark. 


Cradling humanity within its shell like a mother with her child. 


Securing, containing, and protecting. 


Forever. 


Purity Of Essence 


In ones and twos they entered. Most came with the alertness of the 
carnival-goer, necks craned to take in all the art, hoping to catch 
whatever strange goings-on they could before they faded away. 
Some descended with the coiled defensiveness of the first-timer, as 
if the paintings would leap from their frames and attack them at a 
moment's notice. Micah smiled at their naivety; attack art was so 
passe. However, their fear was endearing in a way; it showed that 
post-real art could still have a kick. He reserved his contempt for 
those who sauntered down the staircase, full of ostentatiously bored 
experience, because dear, Kemp or Denneman or Sabourin had 
already said as much, and while your tribute is marvelous, it simply 
can't compare to the spark of the original. As if reading third-hand 
accounts of A Jackal Un-Devours or musing over photographs of 
Baroch's pre-raid work somehow meant understanding. Judith 
seemed to know every last one of the loathsomely sleepy-eyed 
patrons, giving a quick peck on each cheek. 


His people-watching was interrupted as he noticed Judith attempting 
to hustle casually towards him, her face white. In a moment, she 
was next to him, whispering in his ear. "Khouri is coming." Ina 
second, she was gone again. As he processed the words, he felt his 
stomach drop. Maria Khouri would be here. A writer for the most 
important, hell, the only, anart magazine, would be here. And their 
only piece in the gallery, entitled Purity of Essence #4 was a mildly 
clever geegaw, made as a playful "fuck you" to a mutual friend. They 
probably wouldn't even be noticed; Thomas, the insufferable ass, 
with his "mournful attack drone" bullshit would be the star of the 
show. Micah sighed. Tonight was not his night. 


A semi-circle of people had gathered around his and Judith's work, a 
marble pedestal with a plastic basket of books by its side. Micah 
approached them cautiously, attempting to notice any reaction to the 
piece as he did. Just because it was a one-off joke didn't mean he 


couldn't be neurotic about it. He saw several appreciative nods, 
even one from one of the sleepy-eyed viewers. Judith was among 
the crowd, trying to look unconcerned as she scanned the reactions 
of the crowd. An olive-skinned woman looked over the piece 
dispassionately as she scribbled something on a notepad. Shit, he 
thought, that was Khouri. He stood next to Judith. 


"So, what does it do?" It took several seconds for the question to 
even register. One of the newbies, having uncoiled herself, had 
asked it, not looking at anyone in particular. The appreciative 
murmurs halted, leaving the area dead silent. Several glares fixed 
themselves upon her. The murmurs began. What does it do? What a 
crass question! How gauche. Who let in this idiot? What does she 
expect, fireworks? He felt a pang of sympathy for the newly-shunned 
girl. He stepped out from the semi-circle and picked up a book, a 
copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, from the basket. 


A half-dozen scenes of bullshitting the crowd with incomprehensible 
double-speak ran through his head. Its effect was the creation of 
community against the Other. Its effect was the destruction of the 
ozone layer directly above it. Its effect was turning your intestines 
magenta. He was about to open his mouth when a scene of Judith 
decking him for trolling the critic from Realitat Kunstform passed 
through his head. He decided to go with the truth. "It gives the 
essence of books. There's no time in this modern world for reading. 
Why take hours when you can take seconds?" he said as he placed 
the book on the pedestal. After a tense second of silence, it sprang 
to life. 


"Are... We... Cool... Yet?" asked a voice from nowhere in particular. 
Micah smiled triumphantly as a murmur of approval ran through the 
crowd. Khouri wrote furiously in her notepad. Judith did her best to 
suppress a grin. The uncoiled newbie gave a sigh of relief as the 
attention of the crowd was no longer upon her. He took Tom Sawyer 
from the pedestal and replaced it with a copy of USWeekly. "Are we 
cool yet?" a silky voice, asked. Micah held his smile, despite himself. 
Another book, this one a self-help book about using crystals and 
stars to activate chakras, went up. "Are we cool yet?" asked a gruff 
voice. Someone in the crowd chuckled. Judith was glaring daggers 
at him. The Bible, Eragon, and an anthology of Surrealist writings all 


elicited the same response. Several muffled guffaws emanated from 
the group. 


"But yeah, that is what it does" Micah said, trying to give a confident 
smile despite the pit in his stomach. He moved back into the crowd 
as discreetly as possible. Before he could try to find her, Judith 
grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to the coatroom, attempting 
to look as nonchalant as possible.