recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
By Anaxagoras

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.
My name's Jeremy Adams and I'm 22 and I'm being chased by a monster. I don't know what's going on. I don't know how this is possible, or what I'm supposed to do. The thing won't stop. I've been running for — oh god — only fifteen minutes. Feels like longer. I'm exhausted and it won't stop.
I didn't do anything wrong. I just saw this guy on the subway. It's night, we were the only people in the car. He looked odd, a bit gray and glassy-eyed, which was odd because from his hands I'd have guessed he was black or Indian or something. We got off at the same stop and I guess I wasn't looking where I was going because I bumped into him and his head fell off. I mean, that doesn't happen. And then he got up and chased after me. That… that… can't happen.
How is it even following me anyhow? It's not like it has eyes. Another door locked. No! Can't someone have left their door unlocked tonight? Please, I just need to get away from this thing and there it is how did it get behind me? shitshitTrashcan! I grab one and swing it straight into the thing's chest and it stumbles backwards and collapses and I'm off running before it can get back up. Thank you adrenaline.
How can this alley be a dead end? It can't be, I need to escape! It's not fair! Walls, walls, damn it. Too high and too slick and it's found me. Anything around? No. I can't fight, but I try to punch it and it's strong and this doesn't make any sense and is that a blade and
~
Much, much better. Could hardly even hear with that old one by the end. But this one is good. Young, healthy, should last me for weeks. Colorblind, but you can't have everything. And let's see… Reasonably bright, too. I just hope I didn't get too far off track getting this one. Mr. Redd, I'm coming for you. And I can't wait to find out what wonderful thoughts I can think with that head of yours.

Next: 2. Mr. Clank from Dr. Gears

Back to Hub
The first time I came home to an unlocked door, I figured I'd just forgotten to lock it when I went to work. I've done that before.
This morning, I made sure to lock it - jiggled the knob a few times just in case - and thought nothing of it until I returned.
I combed the house. Nothing was out of place, no murderers stashed in my closet, no valuables missing. I slept fitfully that night, hugging a baseball bat to myself. When I woke up, I found conditions to be the same as before: there was absolutely nothing unusual.
That night I slept with the bat again. In the morning, I poked through every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Nothing. I locked my door and left for work. And when I got home, it was unlocked. This continued for weeks.
As weeks turned into months I became used to the state of my door; even got to appreciate it. I liked that if I stayed out late, I didn't have to fumble for my keys in the dark.
One night, when I returned home, my door was locked. After a good deal of messing about with my keys, I finally managed to unlock it and go inside. I clicked on the light - then I spotted the tiny writing on my wall.
"you need me."
I've gotten used to them. The feet. You never think about how many feet they have. How they grip at your skin and the hair on your body. How they hold onto you effortlessly. They almost tickle now. Almost.
The smell. It's barely noticeable anymore. At first, it was… It was pretty bad. I threw up a lot. And then they started crawling into my mouth when I was trying to eat… But then I realized they didn't mind when I ate them. I think that was when I started to come to terms with it. They didn't taste good at first. But then… The crunch. Insects have a texture all their own. Thick and sweet and full of… I don't know what. It was like the best thing I'd ever eaten. And they didn't even mind. There was so much I could just reach out and take…
I think they like to sing me to sleep. Hard to ignore it when they get in my ears. Well, everywhere else too. All kinds of things chirping and buzzing around all the time. Constant noise. I mean, it's a lot louder in the summer. A LOT louder. I don't think I mind, though, they just like to sing. It's almost like music.
… I can see them watching me. Not the crawling things, no, the people. I know how you see me. Even in places where the strange people live, people who the world forget. Even they look away. I can see it in their eyes, they pity me. Or they're just plain grossed out. Revolted. You too. I see you trying to look me in the eye. Not at the bits in my hair. Not at my teeth. I've seen that look before. You don't want to, you can't help but stare. I know you can't. They never can.
It's okay… no no, you can sit back. Yeah, it's alright. Your eyes are watering. It's better if you move away a bit. Take a drink of water or something. It'll help your stomach.
I gave up trying to wash them off. Not in a shower or a bathtub, those aren't big enough, not enough water to wash them away. Not that I didn't try, it's just a lost cause at that scale. I mean, I still have scars from scrubbing so hard. Then I started to go swimming to drown them. Like the story of the Pied Piper. You know, he took the rats away and drowned them in the river. I always loved swimming, even before it gave me that little breath of cleanness. Then… then the leeches found me.
Leeches aren't… Ants are the worst. They're so small. They get all over, in my hair, and nose, and ears, in my eyes… Thousands of them, it's… It's just… I can't even… I can't even describe it. Just imagine every inch of your body cov- never mind. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…
… I never even mentioned the rats. Always so, many… But I guess they're not… At least they're warm. There's so many they keep me warm in the cold. Like a fuzzy blanket. A fuzzy, hungry blanket. People keep rats as pets, right? It's no different. Everyone loves pets… I love my pets… I love them all…
… I'll never be alone…
It's just me and Tim now.
Everyone else is gone.
He came up to tell me. William and Marie dug up Evan's body, took the life raft, and left. We're alone. On the upside, this means more food for us… I'm still hoping someone will come along and find us here. I want to know more about who owns this place, why it's so strange. Is the cliff really some sort of pier? Or is it something stranger?
I can't help thinking about how the front half of the plane just vanished, how the seam was so straight and perfect… How it looked just like the cliff at the end of the island Tim is sitting on dangling his feet over the water as he fishes to kill time. Perfectly straight edges… I think I'm beginning to understand. In a scary science fiction sort of way, it makes sense.
It's impossible, but… I think I unders

Researcher's Note: Document 1057-E-Stephen was discovered in the upper floor bedroom of a beachside rental home on the peninsula at[REDACTED]. The site was brought to the attention of the Foundation by a caretaker, who arrived to mow the lawn to find a male corpse, minus the legs and with the arms removed just below the elbows, lying in the middle of the driveway. Study of this document as well as [REDACTED]dentifies the body as Timothy Zwicky, who has been missing since the loss of ████████ flight ████ out of San Diego in March of ████. Neighbors report not seeing anyone enter or leave the house since the caretaker's last visit. Note that the house is not, nor has it ever been, located on an island. The "cliff" described in this account does not exist.
The body of a woman identified as Marjory Vinnigio, also listed as missing following the disappearance of flight ███, was found in the house. Cause of death appears to be multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body.
Of particular interest to the Foundation is the fact that no passenger named "Stephen" is listed on Flight ███'s manifest. No other persons were found in the house, and the identity of this document's author is currently unknown.
Case 1057-E is open for all researchers with interest in contributing, to both evidence gathering and analysis. Personnel who wish to assist should contact doctor Vanheissen, and requisition documents 1057-E-Timothy, 1057-E-Ma[DATA EXPUNGED]
It all happened so fast.
It's just beginning to hit me that only a few days ago a massive plane crash left me stranded with just a few other survivors on an island, and that in those few days one of us has gone missing and another, a child for pete's sake, has been murdered. This is crazy.
I need to be alone.
I've come up to the bedroom and shoved a bookcase against the door. The others seemed to understand that I wanted to be left to myself for a while. I'm going to lie down and get some sleep, and maybe when I wake up this bullshit will all have sorted itself out.

kill. kill Kill die death die sacrifice the Symbol speaks the noise the noise
symbol noise SymNoiseb ol. Radio speaks and GOD speaks and he speaks and
his arms and his arms like knives in my back the lights the noise kill die THESYMBOL
no no no no no no no no no turn it off turn me off turn it off the radio the noise
I was flying on UA 93
That shadow in the footage, it was probably me
I'm the rumour, I'm the doubt, I'm the lie
But you wouldn't stand near me if you didn't want to die
HE IS TALKING TO ME.
I don't remember writing any of this. It isn't my handwriting.
Someone is knocking on the door. I'll figure this out later.
"…tellin' me I live inna world where silly fucks don't let their own children receive medication because some asshat on a talk show told them not to, and you wanna know how my day is goin'? lemme tell ya, bea- no, thanks, I can't drink anymore, heart condition- lemme tell ya…"
The guy on my left keeps talking to the woman across from me as I order a can of ginger ale from a flight attendant with an enormous nose. It's the third hour of a seven hour flight, and I already want to just jump. The attendant gives me a can and cup of ice and moves on before I can ask for a napkin, which I suppose is just par for the course.
My name is Stephen, and I am a commercial writer bound for Shanghai from San Diego. I'm writing all this down to keep myself amused on my journey- if it comes out entertaining, I may pass it on as a travelogue to some magazine and make a few bucks. So far, though, it looks like the chances of anything interesting happening ar

Adrift at sea on an airline life raft. This is the sort of shit you see in movies. I never expected it to happen to me. While it's fresh in my mind, I'll write out what happened.
I'd just gotten my drink when the front half of the plane disappeared. I know that sounds crazy. It is crazy. But that's what happened, I fucking saw it. I was in seat 23B. Everything beyond two rows ahead of me just vanished with a rush of exploding pressurized air, leaving a yawning view of empty blue sky that tilted all too fast into approaching clouds and the howling rush of free fall. From the looks of the spray of blood I glimpsed before I passed out, the whole row's legs went with it, like they'd been cut by God's own invisible scalpel. I instinctively rammed my notebook back into my briefcase and like a moron started to raise the tray table when the lack of oxygen and adrenalin put me to sleep.
I woke to impact, as what remained of the plane hit the water and threw me hard into the seat in front of me. I had just enough time to gulp for air before the water rushed over me to fill the cabin.
I dunno who thought to pull the raft and toss it out of the plane, but I hope that crazy bastard got a hero's welcome in heaven. It was floating there waiting when I surfaced, briefcase deathgripped in my hand. I flipped it right side up and clambered into it. That's when I blacked out for the second time.
Eventually, one of the other survivors woke me up. There are seven of us. The one who's at the front of the raft says there's a small island ahead and we're moving toward it, but it's going twilight now and we may miss it in the dark. I hope we don't miss it.

We've reached the island. There's a house here.
When I was little - I, that is Crackles, not an unnamed creepypasta protagonist - I went on a lot of road trips with my dad and my brother, almost always to Idaho to visit family. We passed by a lot of fields. Sometimes they had wheat, others had corn, others were littered with bales of hay. On occasion we'd see herds of cows. But the fields that just looked like several empty acres of dirt often baffled me. Were they not being used anymore? Were they freshly planted, with no new plants visible yet? Did nobody own them?
One summer, when I was eight years old, we were driving through Iowa along Interstate 80. One of those empty dirt fields caught my attention, not because it was particularly fascinating, but because there was a man in a brown coat standing in it with his back to the road. As our car passed by, I noticed he was turning slowly so that he was always facing away from me. I watched him until the car dipped over a little hill and he - and his dirt field - disappeared.
I asked Dad if he saw that. The 'field man'. He didn't. My brother hadn't either, as he'd been asleep since Illinois. I'm not certain if it was real, a very vivid dream, or a half-remembered bit from a film seen many years ago. Memories of small children can easily lie.
Sometimes, nearly ten years later, I find myself driving along Interstate 5 and looking out for the field man.
Jenkins started as he always did, with the heart. He took it in his gloved hands and turned to the small safe, already open. Gently he placed it inside and closed the door.
Second, of course was the brain. Padded clamps lifted it out of the sawed off portion of the skull and after a few quick snips Jenkins took it over to the safe and spun the combination dial on the far right up one digit. The safe opened. He placed the brain in the empty compartment and shut it away.
With the skull empty the eyes could be removed easily, preserving connection to the optic nerve. This one had piercing green eyes. Jenkins almost wanted to keep them out for a while, before they dilated fully. But he was not one to tamper with an established routine. 0000334 for the left. 0000335 for the right.
Then the ventral cavity was emptied, alphabetically, except for the troublesome pancreas of course. When that was done and all the organs had been secured in the little safe it was time for the real work with the bone saw to begin. He hated the sound of a bone saw in action and there was always so much to be done with it when the time came.
Before he began, Jenkins looked at the safe, then went over and spun the two dials on the right back to 0000334. A single green eye caught the light and he smiled. You have to be able to appreciate the little things. He gathered it in his medical glove, shut the door and thumbed the dial, revealing the other eye. He put them beside each other and admired them again, though he knew it couldn't last. He had to put them away before the corneas wrinkled.
Later, as he began to put the parts away, Jenkins realized that everything he'd put in the safe last month was gone. Usually he had to dispose of a dozen or so unused organs and whatnot. Well, the Doctor must be having a field day lately. He turned back to the dismembered corpse, an expert by now in using one hand for the bloody thing, one for the combination.
The very last thing were the feet, and Jenkins sighed with relief when they were each stowed in their own compartment, knowing this might be the last time he'd have to do this. He was up for a promotion and anything had to be better than doing this every month.

Two hours later and five thousand miles away, an examination was concluding.
"Well Doctor?"
"It appears you were right to call. You'll need a transplant right away." The doctor went over to a small safe, turned the dials on it until it opened. "Good. Mister Jenkins has fulfilled his quota right on time. We can begin immediately." he said.
Well, shit.
Yeah, I'd say you got the bastard. They don't get much more dead than that.
Okay, calm down. You're not gonna get D-Classed. Breathe, kid.
Here's what happened. You're not the one who shoved him off the building with a live grenade. You were doing your honest best t'follow orders and take the bastard in alive. You were doing just fine, too, until Nobody killed him.
Well, yeah, obviously, someone killed him. I meant Nobody, the person. Or people. Or whatever. You've heard of Nobody, right?
Yeah, that one. Does mysterious shit, helps or hurts us, an' then he disappears. He's the one who did it, understand?
No, it's not exactly lying. Okay, so it's lying, but it's lying to cover your ass, which is practically a moral obligation at this point.
Look, you're new, so I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Everybody wants things to be simple. They want the world to make sense. Even the higher-ups. Sure, they know the world's fucked up, but they want it fucked up in a way they understand. Things out here, in the field, they get messy. Sometimes, we gotta do things they wouldn't understand. And sometimes we make honest mistakes. The higher-ups don't wanna think that sorta thing happens. We're their hands and eyes. We go out, we fix problems for them, and so far as they're concerned, we always do it the way they want.
Like, sometimes maybe you end up needing help from outside. We all know the other guys in the GOC, or MC&D, or hell, even in the CI. We trade favors when we have to, but the higher-ups wouldn't understand it, and they'd fuck it all up. Or maybe they want us to take in something alive that turns your blood to fire by lookin' at you, and never mind how you're supposed to get it done.
We do what we gotta do. We try to make the mission go through. Sometimes, that means we gotta do things they wouldn't like, sometimes it means we cut our losses. And then, when you write up the report, you gotta make everything nice and neat in a way the higher-ups understand. That's where Nobody comes in.
Everyone knows Nobody does shit that doesn't make much sense. Sometimes he helps us, gives us information, works with us. Sometimes, he comes in and fucks it up. The higher-ups, they understand about Nobody. They don't like him, but they accept that he exists and that there's not much we can do about it. So, when we write up these reports, he's real handy for tying up loose ends. At the end of the day, the mission gets done the best we can do it, and the higher-ups get a story they can swallow.
So kid, you didn't do it. You tried to take the skip in alive, but Nobody got in the way. Said some mysterious crap, I'll come up with that, and then left before we could stop him. Maybe jumped off the rooftop. He does shit like that, after all. He's Nobody.
Is he real? I dunno, kid. Ask him yourself sometime.
SCP-███ Observation Log
Forward: A total of ██ transcriptions have been made from SCP-███. Each has resulted in similar narratives in the subject's native language, using vocabulary appropriate for their education level. The following notes were written as they were perceived by Dr. ███████.
Begin Log:
Dr. ███████ (spoken): SCP-███ has begun to [DATA EXPUNGED]. Taking it in my hand, I feel the same compulsion reported by D-1589. Memetic precautions are in place, and I will now proceed to write as directed by the object.
Dr. ███████ (written):

There were so many against us. So many lies from so many liars. The non-believers argued with us, they taunted us, they laughed at us. It never stopped. My family grew smaller and smaller as the years went by. Those of us who remained dedicated were becoming fewer and fewer. Everywhere we looked, the temples were closing and the dear followers of The Gods were abandoning the faith. The endless hordes of putrid faithless, reveling in their blasphemy, assaulted our very essence. Their existence was an insult to the Divine. But we are not unreasonable people. While the heathens chanted their propaganda of "progress", we raised no hand in anger. The faithful knew that, in time, it would be Their hands raised in anger against the vile ones. And this would be all the justice our battered community could hope for. But the Elders knew that time was running out. The Truth was clear to some of us, but it had begun to fade in others.
The strident grew older, and the younger ones were being seduced by the heathen filth. The heathens took credit for the "miracles" of science and technology, and the young ones believed them. It is through The Gods that all miracles are possible. It was through Them that our solution was made possible.
Praise be to They who are Divine, for granting us reprise from the heathens! Damned are they in their ignorance!
Those with the financial means to make a difference looked to us, the Elders, for guidance. Surely, said the faithful, there must be a haven. Our prayers were many and desperate but our faith held strong. Finally, we were granted a vision of our blessed future. A paradise awaited us! Our children would finally be free from the barrage of filth the non-believers tried to visit upon them. The stench of moral decay could not follow us to our new home.
The faithful of means had discovered a place of safety, and the arrangements were made. The heathens agreed to leave us alone forever. Never would their feet, their words, or their signals get to us. Their lies would never reach our new home. And as we claimed our new land, free of the tyranny of the heathens, we destroyed everything that might remind us of that terrible past. We destroyed everything but this. This Holy record is for you, my dearest descendant. May it be passed on to each High Elder in turn, so that our final struggle for paradise might not be forgotten. May our kind live out all of our days in Holy isolation on this beautiful new world.
All glory be to The Gods, for ever and ever.
He stands
king
over all he has ever wanted; a shadowed corner
in a fetid cell.
Life
is nothing to stone.
Mountains erode.
Hillsides crumble.
To him, they go as whisper fast as men
whose eyes
have
failed
them.
Offal spreads from his feet,
stinking, harsh,
making unprepared eyes water-
so much faster,
stone.
Stone does not care for life,
and this stone cares yet less
but for the quick,
subtle
delicate
erosion
of the snap of bone on bone.
"Abandon all hope ye who enter here."
Stone does not care.
Don't blink.
The following document was recovered by Agent ███████ following a vacation in ███████████, Florida:

Document X45-a
"The Mean Dragon"
There once was a dragon that made everyone mad,
He changed his shape just to make people sad!
He'd be mean to everyone! Yes, even you!
Everyone called him six-eighty-two.
One day the big doctor had had enough,
"You're mean and you're smelly,
I'll show you who's tough!"
First he decided to use a big crystal
"I'll freeze and then shatter him with my pistol!"
The dragon's skin showed a quick aversion,
So it stopped at 62% conversion!
Then the big doctor thought, "Hmm.. what to do…
I know I'll use good ol' 162!"
But the mean dragon was too clever for him,
And he attached the big ball to his left fore-limb!
He ran around the big halls and made a terrible mess,
Then he went back to his home under much distress.
The big doctor groaned and he moaned and he stomped,
When he suddenly saw a little agent prompt,
"Sir, I know a way out of this pickle,
We'll just show the dragon the monster that tickles!"
So they sent 999 to deal with their foe,
But 999 didn't want to go,
So they told it the dragon was being too mean,
And it went bravely onto the scene.
It jumped on the dragon, who let out a roar,
But he tickled and tickled and tickled some more,
Then, suddenly, the dragon was giggling,
But the monster just kept on jiggling and jiggling,
Finally the dragon pulled the monster off,
But he did not let out a roar or a scoff,
He said, "Thank you, sir, you're a saviour hereafter,
Cause you have shown me the great gift of laughter."

Area hosting the document was firebombed. All recovered children who had been read the document were recruited into D-class.
Addendum (05-29-2011): Due to frequent requests for an audio form of this report, Research Assistant Corbette and Agent Mao have created a spoken version. Please see Audio Log X45-a.
Oh, the things you believe. You think that the things you see are really reality? That your friends and family, your Foundation, you yourself, everything you know, are all there is to this world? Ha. Wouldn't you like to know the things I could tell you?
What's that? You do? Hmmm, interesting. Very interesting. Let me see what I can do for you. What do you want to know? What could I tell you…
How about what this world really is? The true nature of things? Would you like that?
Ah, you would. Well, that's an answer I'm not willing to give up without full payment, but I can give you an idea of what it is. How does that sound? Does it sound good?
Very well. These walls around us, this world, the whole of this reality, is but one piece of an incredibly complicated, yet well organized network of intersecting view points. No, a spider web doesn't begin to describe the complexity of this network. To you, this universe is all there is to it. Nothing more, nothing less. That which you know is the limit of your reality. But I, I can see it all. Every one of the lines that intersects ours, and subsequently others, and then more, so on and so forth to create a great mass that is reality.
I can see variations on your human history, little bits and pieces changed about to create entirely new events. Assassinations survived, wars lost, lives saved, births that never happened. Just within one thread of reality, time is mashed up so tight that events can be changed on a whim. And when the lines intersect, then the whole fabric of reality is rewritten. In fact, there are trillions of universes where you never even existed.
But the connections go deeper than that. Global, galactic, even universal events only begin the scratch the surface of what I can see. If I just look a bit further, I can see that the thread you perceive yourself to live on is only one of a countless - well, countless to you - number of realities. They bear no resemblance to this one; there is no concept of geometry, time, space, life, death. All these things you take for granted, they have no bearing on these realities. There are even completely empty ones, realities filled with nothingness, and yet filled to the brim with concepts you can't begin to understand.
And yet, for all their differences, all these realities, even the ones that don't connect, are all one and the same. They are multilayered, all on top of one another, separated yet together. They form a net, a ball, a line, shapes you have never even heard of. It's all together, and all right in front of your face.
That's what I can tell you. What's wrong? You look confused. You don't get it? Do you want to know more? Want to dive deeper, see what I see, understand the insanity of the world you live in? I can help you. Through my eyes, you could see all. You could know the true nature of reality itself. How does that sound? Do you want to?
You do? Good. All you need to do is put me on…
Oh, look at that. I was lying. Let's see how long you last before you rot to nothing.
Yesterday,
I watched three men die because one man sneezed in a room full of blood and shit and light.
Today,
three more men go in, cheap mops and each other's lives in their hands.
Yesterday,
I watched a man I admired gunned down for leaving a rose for a girl whose life was tattered by trauma she never deserved.
Today,
she doesn't remember, and three halls down I can hear her screaming.
Yesterday,
I watched a group of soldiers go down fighting against the corpses of comrades who'd died before them.
Today,
we test another sample, this time on children.
Yesterday,
I watched five men and women gunned down in an abandoned factory no one cares about.
Today,
it happens again and again. Every eleven seconds. Forever.
Yesterday,
I watched a man sit comfortably in a nice armchair, sipping scotch and laughing as he ordered a woman to simply stop breathing.
Today,
he gets the day off of work detail for good behavior.
Yesterday,
I watched hundreds of men and women in orange jumpsuits herded like animals into empty rooms that filled with gas and fire.
Today,
hundreds more are told they have a chance for a lighter sentence, and a chance to serve their country.
Yesterday,
I watched the world nearly die in a thousand thousand terrible ways. Sometimes we would have had time to scream.
Today,
I'm alive to write about it. You want happy endings? Fuck you.
You're alive to read it.
God help us all.
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Let all of those who read this know that I have not failed my duties to the SCP Foundation. I have not broken under stress, nor have I gone crazy. What has happened is that I cannot allow the events around me to continue any longer.
I am going to die. After hours in solitary confinement, and the time in-between being almost unbearable, I've come to conclude that my actions after this writing will unquestionably lead to my demise. If you find this before I die, do not try to stop me. I've made my peace with God, and decided that what I am going to do is the right thing.
What I am about to do is break every single Special Personnel Requirement for the project I am assigned to. Normally, I wouldn't do this, but I just can't let her suffer any longer. Even though I will die trying, she will know that somebody cares for her.
It will only be for a moment, maybe less. I don't care. Just as long as she's out of her torment for one second, it will be enough for me. It will be enough knowing that for that brief instant, she will know that she is not a prisoner, that she is not a monster, that somebody cares enough about her to do something about it. For that brief instant, she'll be free.
I have passed all the psychological examinations. I have not broken down. I don't love her. I don't want an XK. All I want is for her to know, for the briefest instant, that somebody cares for her as a human being.
And I will make sure she knows.
-Agent Shields

Note: At 0900 hours, Agent Shields stripped off his concealing helmet and somehow entered the enclosure of 231-7. 231-7 was awake at the time, but showed no reaction to Shields' presence. Armed guards were deployed as he approached the bedside, placed a single rose upon it, and left the containment chamber. Four minutes after the security breach, Agent Shields was shot to death by six guards, and 231-7's amnestic schedule was altered slightly to allow for a dose shortly afterward. Procedure 110-Montauk was put into effect minutes later.
Room dark. People gone. Can move. I happy.
Trapped for years. Kept by men for "research". Left alone in room, left to scratch at walls. Left to rot and die unless needed. Specimen for "research". Trapped by self. Never seen by others, never spoken. Listen, but never speak. See, but never seen. Made of rock when others come. Free when they not look. Prisoner when they look back. I hate.
They have freedom. They move freely, talk freely, look freely. Live freely. I do not. I trapped. Silenced. Rock. Subject. Prisoner. I do thing about it.
Their necks fragile. Their necks weak. I stalk them. They always come, new ones. Come for "cleaning". They look away. I sneak up. I take hold. They panic. They look, and I prisoner. They blink, and I free.
I twist. They die. Neck makes sound. Not words, or scream, or gurgle. Neck go crunch. Crunch is beautiful sound. Crunch means end has come. Crunch means man can torment no more. Crunch means others panic; others become easy. Crunch begins and crunch ends.
I live for crunch. Life has no meaning. Do nothing but walk and scrape and hate. They watch. They send men. "Cleaning". And life has meaning. "Cleaning" means crunch. Crunch means purpose. Crunch means life. Crunch means choice. Crunch means freedom.
Crunch means everything.
Remember man. Like me. Never see others, never hear others. Trapped. Prisoner. Left to wander. Hated man.
He trapped, but he also free. He move freely, do what he want. Not trapped by men, not trapped by self. Wanted him dead. Wanted life. Wanted crunch. He did too.
He came asking to die. Couldn't take it. Wanted loneliness to end. Wanted death. Closed his eyes. Asked for crunch.
I laugh. Crunch too good for him. Crunch too kind. Let him rot. Let him suffer. Let him walk world, looking for way out. Look for purpose, never find meaning in life. Never find purpose. I have purpose.
I laugh and deny him crunch. He leave. He still alive. Know it. Looking for way out. Never find it. Life meaningless without purpose.
I have purpose.
I have crunch.
And they always come.
BEGIN AUDIO
- sounds of chairs being moved and objects falling to the floor -
Agent Randolph: Tell Hicks to get that channel open! Can anyone on this floor see anything?
Doctor Gears: Gentlemen, is this Security Station Theta Blue?
Agent Randolph: There's some sort of containment issue right now, you shouldn't be… oh. Sorry Doctor. What are your orders?
Doctor Gears: Please pass me the microphone if you can find it, Agent Randolph. I need to make a site-wide announcement.
- Static and feedback -
Agent Randolph: -at's it.
Doctor Gears: Attention, all Foundation Personnel. This is Doctor Gears. There has been a containment incident resulting in the temporary blindness of all sighted individuals in Site-19. Remain calm and do not leave your workstations. I repeat. Remain calm and do not leave your workstations.
Doctor Gears: Thank you, Agent. Please put that on repeat.
Agent Randolph: Yes sir… I think this is it. There. So this is temporary?
- Recording of statement by Doctor Gears can be heard repeating in distance -
Doctor Gears: It should be, Agent. An experiment with Me2515 has gone awry, however our research strongly suggests this will pass within the next six hours. Please contact Site-23 and have them send in a relief team to secure this location.
Agent Randolph: Already done, ETA is 19:45. God, I hate to imagine what must be going on in some of the lower levels right now.
Doctor Gears: The lower levels are contained by blast shields, all personnel there should be safe. Casualties will be worse if there is a panic. Would you kindly secure the door?
Agent Randolph: Those poor bastards are down there with the really dangerous stuff and they can't even see anything though -
- Rattling noises -
Agent Randolph: -icks should be on his way back, we need to let him -
Doctor Gears: Please secure the door Agent.
- Screams heard in the hallway -
Agent Hicks via security radio: Goddamn it! Answer me you fucks! I said 173 has escaped containment! 173 has escaped containment!
- Screaming stops. Loud scraping noises -
Doctor Gears: Agent. Please secure the door.
END AUDIO

Note to O5: This is the transcript of an audio file recovered during the weekly scan and backup of servers at Site-19. We have no records on anything labeled Me2515 and there is nothing to corroborate what is contained in this file. Agents Randolph and Hicks were KIA during a field mission in '08 and Doctor Gears was not stationed at Site-19 during their rotation there. - Site-19 IT dept
It's probably leftovers from some prank involving 050 again. Just delete it. - O5-8
The strangest thing about the situation, Andrew reflected, probably wasn't the geometry. (Though that itself was certainly noteworthy. Any cubical room where it's possible to roll a ball from the floor to the ceiling without crossing any of the walls has something going wrong.) It wasn't the bicycle, either; Azathoth knew, he'd seen stranger modes of transportation around the city. Spheroid wheels that squished too much for comfort were really quite commonplace.
Even the sight of Great Cthulhu, still dreaming-dead, sleepwalking around the city — well, that was less ordinary, but it did happen. At least that meant that some of the wilder, more obnoxiously shrieking squamous things would cower quietly in corners instead of howling Andrew's ears off as he passed.
No, the strange thing about the procession careening down the impossible streets of R'lyeh was the fact that Cthulhu wasn't sleepwalking, He was sleepriding.
On the bicycle.
Pursued by, of all things, an opossum.
Andrew stopped dead in the middle of the street, his feet planted squarely on the green decaying cobblestone, to let the sight sink in.
Cthulhu. On a bicycle. The Elder's ponderous bulk, easily bigger than most of the buildings, completely dwarfed the tiny human contraption beneath Him. He looked, if the Great Cthulhu could ever be described as such, completely ludicrous.
His great bony legs pistoned, cranking the grotesquely slender pedals. Judging by the possum's mad scramble, He was actually making very good time, probably rolling along at a good ten miles per qar'hrlg. His sheer size drowned speed, though: something that big couldn't look fast until it was outracing a flying Mi-go.
Andrew stopped. Squinted. Something about the sleeping god wasn't right.
As hard as it is to read expression from a writhing mass of tentacles, Andrew had had some little experience with that face. It never changed — not when He lay in His crypt, not when He stood and opened dead blank eyes to sleepwalk, not (they said) when He would wake to reshape the world for His Elders' coming.
Now, though… The eyes were still dead, the tentacles still slowly creeping, the skin still mucous and sickly shining. But unless Andrew was completely mistaken, the taut batrachian skin of Cthulu's face was actually a little bit crinkled around the mouth and eyes.
His Great Old One was afraid.
Of an opossum.
A pang of worry intruded briefly on the observer's shock. If something can shake Cthulhu, any denizen of R'lyeh has cause for concern. But the twinge faded as quickly as it came. Even gods have their nightmares, it seems. And not every dream has any meaning.
Humans dream of showing up naked to work, Nightgaunts of being eaten alive by a thousand singing jeweled caterpillars. Andrew himself had an awful recurring nightmare involving the ancient depths of icy space and a rotten ham sandwich (extra mustard), which despite its farcical plot never failed to wake him screaming. If Cthulhu's dead dreaming involved being forced to flee small mammals while trapped on a bicycle, who was he to judge?
He'd much rather get out of the road, sit back, and enjoy the show.
Stone sculptors aren't usually the ones to discuss patina. Normally, you see, the word refers to metal oxidation—the blue-green bloom that copper develops under the rain's hands, for instance. Applied to stone it's naught but a metaphor: there's no real word for the slow smear of lichen darkness over the faces of the library's gargoyles.
It's not as though they need one, after all. Stone weathers, ages, turns grey; it's the way of things, and the ordinary way of things doesn't merit special description. Words are made to fill gaps in our understanding, to communicate things odd enough to be worth saying.
Things, maybe, like the way the grey never touched certain bits of stone. The eyes of the lions outside the neglected side doors. The fingers of a leering grotesque atop a minor gable. One strand in the mane of something chimerical that perched over the fiction section's windows.
There should have been a word for the way that time and soot fled those spots. One could almost swear they were whiter even than the day they were quarried on the night Jean Andrews vanished.
I could swear to it myself. I remember a few things: mostly the pallor of the stone, but also a few other flashes of white. A low blank wall — somewhere in Young Adult, I think — that should have been painted over last summer. The moon through a thick, distorting glass eye. Jean's face twisting in the wind — just a glimpse, that one; she was on the middle gable by then.
I wish I could say more. Maybe they'd be able to find her. Maybe they'd be able to find me, or whatever it is that I lost that night on the library roof.
The lions know, I'm sure of it: one of their eyes is weathering now, graying into a slow eerie wink.
I think I'll make a word for that. Someday.
If I can ever remember just how to speak.
This is a formal request filed with the intent to report and log improper conduct by a Foundation-employed individual. Associated recommendations of disciplinary action have been selected and included with this report. Filed on ██/██/20██ by Dr. ████████. See attached report for details.

Disciplinary request denied. For wasting time and effort on this petty report you are assigned as Dr. Burns' temporary assistant until ██/██/2011.
- O5-5
I miss the children.
I miss them so much.
I miss Janey and Jake and David and Roxanne.
These people are alright, I suppose. They're not the kids, but I like them anyways. I guess I should be grateful, really. They gave me a new home after the Doctor threw me away.
I love them.
I want to make them happy. Mommy always told me to be a happy girl, didn't she? I want to show them how much I really appreciate how much they're done for me. It's so, so incredibly nice what they do.
I just wish I could talk to them.
Of course, I can't. I'd need vocal cords to do that. Lungs, too. Heh, I don't even have a mouth most days. Even when I do, I can't use it. Not even to introduce myself. "Hi, my name is Leo, thank you so much for saving me, blah, blah, blah…" I'm thankful anyways, though. It's nice to feel…normal, even if it's just for a short period of time. I miss being…being…
Cripes. I keep trying to remember that silly name. It doesn't matter, what's past is past and I can't change who I am. Yep yep, my name is unimportant anywa— Oh wait. Silly me, it's Jake! Anyways, I really can't complain. I'm a guest now! A guest to these wonderful people! It's not like much is different from the Warehouse and the Amaze-O-Sphere. All that's really changed is I'm not allowed to be all there sometimes (which I don't mind), and I get taken out a little less. But that's okay! This place is my home now! These people will never throw me away!
Not like Wondertainment did.
…
…
I thought I was part of the family…I never thought they would…I never thought they would treat me like Redd…
They told me I was the Beta product…I was ready for shipment…
…I guess I didn't change right one day.
But that's okay. Because now I have this family! It's a lot less comfy than the bedroom with my brothers, but hey, it's better than the dump! Hahaha.
Yessiree, I gotta remember that happiness is the selling point! Always be positive! Mr. Shapey's still on the clock!
On 9/18/2011, SCP-703 manifested an instance of SCP-703-1. Analysis revealed it to be a list of items produced by SCP-703, dating back to its initial containment. Referencing with updated documentation has reinforced the classification of SCP-703 as a sapient non-organic. Analysis of this document's content is ongoing.

Item: Aluminum can.
Note: Weighed 21.32 grams.
Status: Retrieved 14.78 seconds after appearance.

Item: Red paper.
Note: Contained drawing of a circle.
Status: Retrieved 11.12 seconds after appearance.

Item: Green pen.
Note: Contained red ink.
Status: Retrieved 10.09 seconds after appearance.

Item: Stuffed tiger.
Note: Name was "Paulie."
Status: Taken after 9.00 seconds.

Item: Picture of me.
Note: Aesthetically pleasing.
Status: Taken after 10.01 seconds.

Item: White paint.
Note: Usable for restoration purposes.
Status: Stolen after 9.89 seconds. Was not used for restoration purposes.

Item: Three (3) bullets, .45 caliber, hollow point.
Note: Acceleration was below expectation.
Status: Stolen post-impact.

Item: Gaseous matter.
Note: Unsafe to breathe.
Status: Stolen via inhalation after 20.6 seconds.

Item: An apology
Note: Made with care.
Status: Taken after 45.78 seconds, without remark.

Item: Sweet things.
Note: Is this better
Status: It wasn't.

Item: Your briefcase.
Note: Left it in your office.
Status: Sorry about the stain.

Item: Sheaf of papers.
Note: Helpful.
Status: Helped.

Item: A better lock.
Note: You seemed worried about it.
Status: I'm sorry.

Item: One of the black boxes.
Note: I'm sorry I cheated, wanted to help you move.
Status: Went through them. Broken up.
Mr. Moon knew he was very good at timing these things. He really couldn't afford to be bad at it, with his condition. He'd tried to use watches, but watches only worked when you had eyes to watch them with. Same with a metronome. So Moon counted.
One… Two, Three…
Thirty two thousand, four hundred and sixty seconds. That was how long he'd been able to see. Moon felt his bones cry out in protest as he rose to the chamber door. In approximately three hundred twenty four seconds, a Security Agent would open it and let him out. Give or take twenty nine, if the Agent was slow.
Thirty… Thirty one… Thirty two.
Moon's face was clouded, partially with worry and partially because it was a cloudy night. This particular Agent was an early-bird, and it'd thrown off the count. Deciding that he could make do until it reset, he timed the approximate two and a quarter of a second it took him to make a step with his cane.
Four and a half… Six and three quarters… Nine…
The air conditioning had been on for five hundred sixty seconds when Moon took his seat. Waiting here was the hardest part. In five hundred seconds, the doors would open and they would see him. He'd watched one hundred and twenty pitying expressions staring at him.
Five thousand, six hundred seventy three…. Five thousand, six hundred seventy four… Five thousand, six hundred seventy five…
They were older. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty two weeks had taken their tolls. The small talk was painfully low. She smiled at him, telling him about all the things outside. About Jim, and how wonderful he was, and how happy he was for her. Mr. Moon had lied to her three thousand, five hundred times. At least Jim hadn't accompanied her this time.
Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…
She cut the visit short by ten minutes. Apparently she'd been five minutes late to a social event, and had been paying him a favor to visit. Fifty seconds later, she'd left him again. She was getting quicker.
Five thousand, nine hundred seconds later, Moon's ear began to grow dull. He paced his cell, counting the steps. Eleven and a half steps north to south, fifteen and a quarter east to west. Pacing until the count could reset and bring him respite.
One… Two… Three…
Run.
The rusted metal stretches for as far as can be seen. The runner does not care that this is only a few feet in front of himself. As far as he is concerned, the claustrophobic corridor stretches on forever. And it does.
But not for him.
Don't stop.
A woman slams against a steel door, pristine and shining in the darkness of the hold. Rust flakes from the floor as she throws herself against the steel, panting heavily. Her fingernails crack as they scrabble against the smooth face of the door, frantically searching for something to turn.
They will never stop looking.
Not like this.
A man walks slowly through a room, filled with steaming belts and pistons. A human eye rolls towards him as a face stretches across a belt, locked in a rictus of pain and agony. A human elbow rapidly pumps in a nearby machine, forcing an unidentifiable chunk of something in and out. A pair of empty eye sockets stare into him.
He will never look away.
Make it stop.
A man sprints into a dead-end room, stopping to stare at the wall. He screams and turns, a cry of rage and confusion and hurt, only to see the door slam shut behind him. He will never leave.
Until his flashlight dies.
The pain.
Deep within the rusted hulk, a woman screams. She has been screaming for seconds, for years. She does not know the difference. She only knows that she should never have entered this place of death and steel and meat.
She will never correct her mistake.
No escape.
A man stands atop a rusted deck, gaunt and pale from his days spent in the darkness, searching for an exit. A spotlight waves over him, a boat is sent, and a crew arrives to rescue him. The man, overjoyed, moves to jump.
He does not hit the water.
Stay with us.
In the heart of the ship, a thousand voices scream in agony. All are lost, many for hundreds of years. Some for days. All are screaming the same soul-wrenching scream that only the dying know.
And they will never stop.

Team was lost after reporting entry to "central navigation." Rescue team lost after reporting the investigation of "screaming" in a cargo section.