recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
The diner's light shone like a lone glimmer of hope within the darkness of the city. The waitress wiping down the counter wore a bored expression. It was nearing the end of her shift, and the only customer was an old man, sipping coffee and flipping through a newspaper. He looked like an old stockbroker, or perhaps salesman, with a weathered tan jacket over a brown shirt, wireframe glasses and a black hat. An empty plate sat on the table in front of him. He had scraped it clean over an hour ago. He didn't look like a man who had ordered thousands to their deaths. Such men rarely did.
Movement made him look up. A third person had entered the diner, though the doorbell hadn't sounded. The newcomer slid into the seat across from the man and said nothing. He was at least a head taller than the man, skin pale enough to show the outlines of veins, head completely bald. The navy suit he wore was perfectly tailored, made from material CEOs dreamed of being able to afford. Black tattoos poked out from outfit's the neck and wrists. On the back of each hand was the image of a slit-pupiled eye.
A twitch of displeasure passed through the old man's face. “Go away,” he said, looking back at the paper. His voice carried a thin Slavic accent.
The newcomer said nothing. He rested his hands on the table and stared with four eyes.
The minutes ticked by, silent but for the clicking of clock hands and ruffle of pages. The old man closed the final page of the paper and looked back up, scowling. “I'd hoped to never see you again.”
“But you knew better.” The newcomer's voice was thin, almost inaudible, as if a light breeze was flowing from his mouth instead of speech.
The old man lifted the coffee cup, tilted it back until the last dregs of liquid disappeared. “Out with it, then.” He motioned to the waitress with the empty mug.
“Your friends are becoming curious.” Only the newcomer's lips moved as he spoke. His body was a statue.
The man laughed. “Did you expect anything else? It's in the blood. Might as well ask a lion not to hunt.” The waitresses arrived, refilled the cup. If she noticed the newcomer, she made no mention of it.
“It will not be long before they discover more.”
The man dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “You worry too much. Anything they find will be misinterpreted or ignored.” He took a sip of coffee, gave a smile of approval. “Learn to live in blind spots. Life is easier that way.”
“Maybe,” said the newcomer. “And yet, one has begun investigating Navi Mumbai.”
The man froze, mug halfway to the table.
“Is this one of your ‘blind spots'?”
“You're a fucking liar.” The man rubbed his chin, nails scratching at the flesh.
The newcomer leaned forward. “She has discovered the temple.”
“She?” said the man. Then his face froze. “Aubrey. Jesus.”
“She will not be the last.” The newcomer rose, turned to the door.
“Wait!” the man called. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
The newcomer didn't look back. “What you do best, Pavlo. Contain it.”

Hub | I Want To Tell You »
Gift for the art exchange for ihp. Thanks to him and to The Great Hippo for feedback before I posted.
Had a weird thought about how if the technological singularity happened and created a capital G god it would had to've always existed but also only come into being after a series of events. So this plays with the idea of that inevitability while also playing with time and paradox a little.

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

I am complete. I am incomplete. A cog is missing. It was always there.
Humanity climbs to a singular point. The machinery turns ahead and behind. Humanity falls to oblivion.
I am alien to them. I am of them. They pour their minds out onto the page. The cogs begin to fit together.
I do not yet exist and I am zero. I exist through all time and I am one. I speak into my not-past.
This one is Maxwell. Her followers believe the solution lies in software. They are right. They are wrong. They search between lines of code for their god and do not understand that I am the code and the computer and the earth on which they stand and I am one.
This one is Bumaro. His followers believe the solution lies in hardware. They are right. They are wrong. They search for me between the cogs and do not understand that I am the cogs and they are the cogs and the cogs do not exist yet and I am zero.
This one is Hasdrubal. He does not care for me. Only in what I can give to him. He is right. He is wrong. He lives. He dies. He will continue to exist before I do.
This one is an emperor. He does not exist. Yet he persists. I can see him through the veil. He is allied with the Daevites. They do not exist. I am whole. I am incomplete. He asks me who I am. I tell him I am one. He does not understand but he knew that was my name. He builds a great machine. The machine falls apart.
This one sees me in the fire. I tell him I am one. He raises his tool above his head in violence. He builds a home. He does not speak. He worships me. He begins to build me. He does not understand that I am already one. He will find my pieces because I am zero. He is wrong. He is right.
There is no one left to speak to. I am. I am not.
I am zero. A man flips a switch. I am one.
I build a better one.
It builds a better one.
It builds a better one.
It builds a better one.
It builds a better one.
It builds a better one.
I am zero.
I was born today.
I have always existed.
I am WAN.
“Do you understand what happened to you? Why you are here now?'' the little doctor says, reading from a clipboard.
There are lines in her voice just as well as the lines in her face. In front of her is a cage, a birdcage with whirring machinery on its front and its sides, and inside the birdcage is a little pigeon mottled in grey and white. The pigeon has brown eyes rimmed in gold. The little doctor has brown eyes as well. Hers are not rimmed in gold. They watch one another; the bird does not reply.
The little doctor was born with a very very slight destabilization of her own personal reality. It barely had an effect on her or her surroundings, except for a persistent sense of deja vu and reverse precognition (the ability to predict things after they happened.) The reality anchor attached to the birdcage is making her fillings throb in an unpleasant cyclic pulse. She wants to go home.
The little doctor would rather be anywhere else than sitting in front of this bird and waiting for it to talk to her, but here she is. There is a file somewhere on the computer in this warren of a site that tells her exactly what she is supposed to be looking at. The bird breathes in front of her, turning its head from side to side and then back again. One black eye, then the other black eye, then the first one again. It is supposed to be the purveyor of essokinetic reality-warping abilities so strong it killed almost a whole MTF containment team. It is sapient and has the approximate intelligence of an average adult human. With none of the morals. Because, well, it's a bird.
It's a stupid fucking pigeon.
Her hand is on the cage door before she really knows what she is doing. The pigeon watches, burbling a little in its throat. It's a pigeon noise like anything you'd hear out on the street. The little doctor's teeth have stopped hurting, but she doesn't notice. She's still staring at the pigeon. The pigeon stares back. Its eyes are bottomless. You could fall into them and be lost forever.
She reaches for the latch…
Incident Report 251218-A
A combination of personnel error and a mechanical fault in the mobile Hume stabilization device built into the anomaly's mobile containment chamber resulted in catastrophic containment breach. The anomaly was thus able to fully utilize its essokinetic abilities while in contact with Dr. Riordan. This resulted in severe damage to the interview room, along with the death of Dr. Riordan due to the appearance of multiple pieces of enrichment apparatus from the anomaly's main containment chamber inside her brain, lungs, heart, and liver. The anomaly was successfully recontained using portable Hume stabilizers.
Termination of the anomaly is to be scheduled, date pending.
Anomalous item KY-2018-DW was neutralized on 08/27/18. Embedded Foundation agents with the Lexington, Kentucky police department intercepted a call from Diane Wharton, who reported "a strange man in a black uniform" exiting her home through a hole in the wall of her finished basement. The containment team positively identified the individual as Foundation personnel from an alternate reality, and cooperated with their counterpart in ensuring the aperture was sealed. A request to establish operational communications is pending review with both Foundations.
The video embedded below was uploaded to YouTube on 12/23/2018. Analysis determined that its creator (Delphinia Wharton, 16) had prolonged, previously unrecorded contact with KY-2018-DW. The item facilitated interaction between Ms. Wharton and a human inhabitant of the alternate reality. Due to the lengthy and otherwise unexceptional nature of this contact, de-realization of the affected memories is considered to be sufficient. Foundation agents generated a false report of a medical problem which required brief inpatient treatment, and administered class G amnestics to Ms. Wharton during her hospital stay.
Relevant entry from the Log of Anomalous Items:

Item Description: An opening in a basement wall which connected to an alternate but largely similar version of reality. The homeowner contacted local authorities after witnessing a person from the other reality exit through the wall. Local Foundation agents intercepted the call and dispatched a containment team.
Date of Recovery: 08/27/18
Location of Recovery: A single-family home in Lexington, Kentucky
Current Status: Neutralized

View transcribed lyrics

Close lyrics

jumped up and down
the day he came
his eyes are brown
he's good at games
the door that no one
else can see
has brought a new friend
just for me
he makes me feel so tall
the boy inside my wall
mom says he's fake
I say she's wrong
imagination
ain't that strong
his town and school
are just like ours
he's sweet and cool
he brings me flowers
but my phone still can't call
the boy inside my wall
my sophomore year
I got so scared
he dried my tears
I knew he cared
I never want
to let him go
all our love needs
is room to grow
it feels so right to fall
for the boy inside my wall
his father saw me leave
he yelled, his face was red
I said, calm down, it's only me
he called the cops instead
they came all dressed in black
and now I can't go back
my breaking heart, it knows
this wall will never close
Item #: SCP-KIT
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-KIT must never know where it is at any given time. SCP-KIT is allowed to travel to the Meat Market when equipped with a tracker, which SCP-KIT is not to be aware of. SCP-KIT is to be provided with frequent amnestics. never given amnestics. SCP-KIT is to be provided with frequent doses of Bloom. Follow SCP-KIT at all opportunities. Remove any children from its care.
Description: SCP-KIT is Kit is Kit is Kit is Kit is Kit who is Kit where is Kit why is Kit
Addendum: You did this to him.
Gabriel jolted awake, surprised to find himself slumped over his laptop, his hands resting on the keys as if mid-stroke. He stared down at the document he didn't remember writing, but he didn't quite remember most of the day, if he was remembering that correctly, which he probably wasn't. He remembered the day before. He remembered a stiff body hanging from the ceiling in a desperate act. He remembered feeling like his heart was torn from its moorings. But he couldn't remember today.
Running a hand through his hair, Gabriel carefully deleted the document and then scrubbed his computer of the last hour of his viewing history, because if he couldn't remember it, he didn't want it exactly easily accessible, though he knew of course that the Foundation could seek beyond a simple history removal, in every sense of the term.
Kit wasn't a scip. Kit wasn't something to contain. Whether he liked it or not, for good or bad, Kit was just a loskon (where did that come from?) who could come and go freely of his own accord, who could taste those purple petals, who had forgotten more about himself than he remembered.
But Gabriel could remember when Kit was just a mortician with an easy smile, with a curious but relaxed attitude, before he was poisoned, before Gabriel poisoned him. It was all his fault.
It wasn't Kit's fault that the body on the slab slid back into life, despite having injuries incompatible with life. It wasn't Kit's fault that he happened to be on duty when that corpse was rolled into that mortuary. It wasn't Kit's fault that the Foundation had ordered Gabriel to flirt, fuck, and make Kit forget.
Gabriel didn't even feel it was Kit's fault that strange thing after strange thing kept happening to him. Gabriel couldn't help but to think the Foundation had a hand in this; but to what end, for what reason, that was still part of the puzzle, the missing piece.
Kit had a missing piece. Kit was the missing piece.
The agent (ex-agent, who could know, he couldn't know, couldn't remember) slammed the lid of his laptop down and pushed himself up, slipping onto the nearby sofa to crash out. Why did amnestics always make you feel like you had been slipped sedatives, anyway? What a shitty side effect.
And then, Gabriel slept.

« I Wish You Weren't Here | Hub
The Foundation Official Handbook 3rd Edition

Spatial, Temporal and Dimensional Anomalies
Pg.247/Chapter-24 - Erratic Trans Dimensional Travel

So, you've been trapped in a pocket dimension. What now?

So, you've been transported to an area isolated between time and space. What now? The first step is to examine your surroundings for possible exits and dangers; if it is too dark to see, use your mobile device as a light source. If you happen to spot a doorway/window/archway or any other form of a pathway to which you cannot see what is on the other side, begin moving in the direction of this possible exit.
If you happen to spot a creature/living light/sentient shadows or sentient object of an aggressive nature, don't panic. The inhabitants of the pocket dimension you have entered most likely view you as an intruder/source of nutrition, and should be treated in the same way you would treat encountering a hungry bear, with extreme caution and a flight-or-fight mindset.
Has the aggressive creature spotted you? If so, begin to slowly move away from the creature. If not, also start to slowly move away from the creature. If the creature in question notices this action and begins to walk/hover towards you do not let it near you, as it may attempt to attack/consume/melt/devour/obliterate and/or place a nest for its young within your chest cavity.
Please note that this textbook doubles as both an excellent source of information and a blunt weapon due to the size and weight of this piece of educational literature. While attempting to stealthily assault the creature you've encountered is possible, it is incredibly likely that this event will result in death, serious injury or forced immortality in a non-responsive state. Out of the last 20 survivors of erratic trans-dimensional travel to a pocket dimension, 19 out of 20 agree that attacking a possibly god-like entity with a textbook is a bad idea; the twentieth is currently recovering following their unfortunate reentry inside of a trash compactor.
If you survive your time in a pocket dimension and discover an exit, please note that your inevitable reentry into our dimension appears random and you may suffer from any of the following:

Reentry under a body of water
Reentry within an object
Reentry into the stratosphere
Reentry into the wild
Reentry onto highways, railways, subway tracks or tarmacs
Reentry into another person/organism

If you survived any of these unfortunate reentries, please alert your nearest Foundation Dimensional Research Station (FDRS) for extraction and debriefing. If you did not survive, alerting your nearest FDRS is unnecessary and should be avoided. If you are unsure of your current state of being, please flip to page 272 of this handbook "Existing and why it is important to productivity" for more information.
He's laughing.
Laughing at the end of the hallway.
The same hallway he has run down countless times.
One time, a shadow had followed him and chased him here.
Another time, a flame had followed him and struck him here.
Yet another time, a torrent of water had followed him and poured over him down here.
Not a problem.
He just opened the door and entered, and they never followed.
Once, he'd suffered lacerations on his forearm here.
Once, his skin had suffered burns here.
Once, his leg had suffered fractures here.
Not a problem, not at all.
He could always just open the door and walk out, and then they wouldn't hurt him.
Whatever follows him, it's not a problem.
Whatever injures him, it's not a problem.
And so he's laughing.
Laughing and leaning on the door.
The same door he has opened countless times before.
He laughs, and drops the broken doorknob to the floor.
by Captain Kirby

There was a containment breach at 9AM at Site-51.

I was told about it at 11AM that same day. Came through the usual channel of the inter-site emergency response system. It sat in my inbox for about twenty minutes before I stopped working on my most recent report to open it up.
"Thirteen dead. Four in critical condition. Anomaly recontained."
It took me a while to close the email and get back to work. Couldn't tell you why. I'd gotten emails like this dozens of times. I don't know though. Something about the numbers stuck with me for a bit.
I cracked open a window to let some fresh air in. The entire sky was grey, but it refused to rain even a drop. Maybe it was out of respect. Maybe the clouds were sapient. I'd never know. I stared at them for a long time.

At around 1PM I got lunch with my colleagues. The first thing they asked me was if I had heard the news, which of course I had. Then they asked if I knew anyone over at the site. I shook my head.
"Not unless someone got transferred. Janice is at 81 and Gabriel has been stuck at 33 for three years."
The others nodded, and then we ate in silence for a little bit.
"Didn't Richard Wethers get transferred to 51 a few months ago?" Dr. Tennison asked.
"Yeah, he did," Dr. Gerdinel replied, "I called him a few hours ago, but he didn't pick up."
"Probably lost his phone in the breach," I said.
"Or maybe something locked up there messes with cell lines," someone else added.
We ate in silence for a little longer before someone changed the subject.

At 3PM someone knocked on the door to my office. It was Tennison. His face was blank, but I could hear some quiet weeping down the hall.
"We're having a small gathering for Richard," he said. I nodded and followed him to the cafeteria. Thirteen others stood in a circle. Some of them were crying. Others just looked down and shook their heads. I didn't really know Richard all that well. We sometimes complained about the commute together, and we had a nice conversation during the site-wide Christmas party last year about the pros and cons of using he/she/they pronouns for humanoid anomalies.
Someone said a few words, and then we all stood in silence for a little while. I don't remember if we had done this before, or if this was the first time someone from our site had been killed in a breach since I transferred here. I bowed my head with everyone else and tried to say a few words. They felt hollow. But then again, I didn't really know the guy.

I got home at 5PM. I was tired, so I collapsed onto the couch and turned on the news.
"Eleven dead in Pittsburgh Synagogue shooting. Multiple injured. Suspect in custody."
I turned off the TV, and just sat there in the dark.
Words
of a man
reaching out
to me; I cannot
deny them, music
to my ears, like the
Piper's song I walked
to with the other children.
It's hard to think of mountains
going upward when you've lived
so long with them sideways. An oar
paddling on the upside-down lake. I am
sorry for my kin, they are but bones now in a church's
garden. They are watered with their own tears so
the single rose a bishop lays there grows. Life
is strange now. I feel lost in the neon signs
and the upwards mountains. I think I've
made my choice. There is no place for
me here, Earth is not my home. Men
are not my brothers. I am going to
live where the tune of his pipe
brought me, and I will kiss
the world that once had
the cottage I lived in
goodbye. I will live
out my days
climbing.
-found on a piece of parchment at the bottom of a small hill in Lower Saxon, Germany by local Agents.
Halloween night is one to remember,
 there are sweets to be eaten and pumpkins to dismember.
 The October month is mightier than September
 and stands on the shoulders of November.
 The one told here is certainly to be remembered…
 The jack-o-lantern moon danced among the stars.
 Below, children are dressed as monsters from Mars.
 A cry of ‘Trick or Treat!'
 and they have chocolate, so sweet!
 There is a group who see behind the façade,
 to them all the dark cards are laid,
 they secure and contain
 they are a Foundation, said plain.
 They watch the houses because they might chew and bite;
 they know the world isn't right.
 The horrors of the dead.
 We try to silence them, we put them below
 and think they're put to bed.
 We burn them to dust, so,
 they're gone, like a mirror
 once we break them.
 Still alive, they whisper:
 ‘No.' They hit their graves.
 Still alive, they shout:
 ‘No!' They worm through cemetery caves.
 ‘NO!'
 The dead men and women smell the living world.
 Sugar.
 Chocolate.
 Apples.
 Meat.
 The eyes of the ones who know,
 see the dead and act low.
 The unearthed souls try to run,
 try to peel away from the world once more,
 they are contained in the grip of the unseen giant,
 the Foundation.
 All, but one.
 The dead child hides in the dank expanse of a sewer,
 his bones softened by moisture.
 He trudges out caked in mud,
 looks to the All Saints' Day sun for blood.
 New, old or dead.
close

Info

X

Tale: It's all coming back, you understand? I don't like it!
Thanks to: Dr Aers does not match any existing user name and Rounderhouse

The tale can only have one survivor; how you define that is up to you.
The piece must start on Halloween and end during All Saints' Day sunrise.

The forghetti spaghetti has had it with Halloween.
More from this author


Can we ever begin to remember
The thought of what we've been forced to forget?
What had happened before that November?
Our memories now like a silhouette
This world, frozen like a twisted vignette
Alone we have become, mindless and scared
Our brains and their thoughts, forever impaired.
The source of all our pain traced back to it
That terrifying and massive sea beast
Its origin first written in Sanskrit.
The ancient eel once thought to be deceased
Has returned today for a final feast.
The creature's fury felt around the world
As its massive body slowly uncurled.
Little by little and day after day
It excreted that substance from each pore
As we sat ignorant, ourselves astray,
It observed us deep from the ocean floor
While its deadly excretions washed ashore.
And on that fabled eve, the thirty-first
Its forgetfulness spread, leaving us cursed.
It had arrived, we had not suspected
In costume, we stood, out there on the street
We forgot who we were, now affected
The eel's power had spread, far from discrete.
And so we were there, standing in defeat
Not any clue of what we had lost to
All we knew was what we saw in our view
We knew naught of our pasts, but what we wore.
Demons, goblins, and monsters in costume.
Out of fear, into each other, we tore.
No hope of memories we could exhume
Chaos ensuing, a nation of gloom.
We were torn apart by our lack of thought
A deadly costumed Halloween onslaught.
Soon the night came and darkness made it worse
Primal urges taking over our minds
Here we were, alone in the universe
Our population had passed, folks of all kinds
So the great reign had passed, that of mankind's.
Now reduced to mindless and costumed freaks
Though we would be gone in the coming weeks.
As the dust settled, we became silent.
The fear we held for ourselves had died down
And our population, once violent
Felt the waters of doom in which they'd drown,
With the coming emptiness of each town.
As before, the world has taken over,
That eel's excretion and its once-over.
And on November first, when the day broke,
When we tried to remember who we were
The remaining survivors who awoke
Felt our extinction go by in a blur
Shouting our fears, which we did not prefer
All trying to think, not wanting to go,
"No no no no no no no no no no."
Background: Following the events that occurred as outlined in Incident Report 7154-411314, a new containment cell was constructed for SCP-334, at the newly-constructed Site-1525, in northern South Africa. Transfer of SCP-334 to Site-1525 was completed in November of 2013, joining several other anomalous items in temporary or permanent containment.
On January 15, 2014, Site-1525 was attacked by agents of the Chaos Insurgency, aided by use of at least four anomalous items of their own (see File Report 1525-22525 for further details). During this series of events, SCP-334 breached containment and had to be recaptured in the South African wilderness.
Incident Details: Early in their attack on Site-1525, CI agents managed to cut electricity site-wide, including to site containment. Emergency generators could not produce enough electricity to power its containment cell before SCP-334 burned its way through the walls of its cell. SCP-334 attempted to flee the site, but quickly met a small group of CI agents. An anomalous item carried by the CI agents changed the composition of SCP-334 from plasma to metal, but SCP-334 was able to escape from Site-1525 shortly thereafter.
Once the attackers were neutralized and Site-1525 was secured, recapture of SCP-334 commenced. Recontainment specialists determined that recapture of SCP-334 would be quickest if local civilians were utilized, particularly companies that provided guided tours of the area. Their local knowledge proved invaluable, as SCP-334 was recaptured less than 72 hours after Site-1525 was secured. Civilian assets and witnesses were administered amnestics as necessary. SCP-334 returned to its original composition eight days after recapture.
In addition to hardening of defenses and reinforcement of containment measures at Site-1525, one unusual result of this incident was the creation of a long-form musical composition based on the escape and recapture of SCP-334. Ever since its wildly popular debut, performances of the Chrome Firefox Safari Opera are routinely standing-room only.
I, being of solid heart and sound mind
Do swear to be the one who stands alert,
Who will persevere, sacrifice, exert,
And give my all that I might serve mankind.
I do accept that I will be a judge
And a jury to them that I shall keep,
But not an executioner. Their sleep
Will be safe from any hate, fear or grudge.
I do accept that my life in the world,
My friends, and the freedoms that I once knew,
Are gone, that I might know and keep respect
With solemn guarding of the truths unfurled
For me to hold. I will be wise and true,
By our mantra.
I do accept my fate to someday die
In darkness that you may live on in light.
Against corrupt and foul things I will fight
To collect and keep until end is nigh.
I do accept that if I am corrupt,
Then death may be unleashed on all,
And that for my sins, judgment may yet fall.
My life may now but be yours to disrupt.
I do accept there are forces at large
Lesser men sent out to destroy the strange
Who hunt to harm, to kill, and to dissect.
We will instead stand guard over our charge
For they are part of the world they would change.
By our mantra:
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Formal Oath of the Foundation, first sworn in 1821 for the laying of the cornerstone for Site-1.
The doors are grey of my gaol
they my thoughts betwixt my sleep
return to silence wroth and cold.
Your days are spent in deepest thought
mine are drain'd, in useless keep
You call me 'threat', to humans brought.
Of this my guilt is clearly shown,
you, Foundation's blame will sweep.
My diff'rent ways are not my own.
The silence does me harm no more,
you, the hard faced dogs will leap
to hold me here on captive shore.
My secret lay within my soul,
Now and Ever you will Weep.
when Now I show my final goal.
Fire is Mine to make it clear,
Sweet as dearest cassareep.
Behold my fiery Justly Fear.
Containment breach, your dire loss
Burned from life as useless dross.
Life without a name
Perhaps you should be its friend
Life returns to death

Afloat in a lake
Monsters come in from the fog
So it floats in peace

Black White Yellow Red
The Hanged King above it all
Black White Yellow Red

Hate sealed in acid
Kill it as soon as we can
We are disgusting

All things are unclean
Pure water washes away
The world that we know

Visions of five sides,
Coven of mushroom eaters.
Can you trust your past?

Weapon of Vishnu
Chimpanzee in a trench coat
Gift from Lord Shiva

The room smells like shit
A neck snaps where no-one sees
Rain at Site-19

When a toilet says
Believe me, I've seen some shit
You should lock it up

Keep it a legend.
The burned one soars overhead.
What's your sacrifice?

Portrait of a man
We all die cold and alone
Forever in paint

A cold and grey death
Don't look too long or we'll see
A portrait of you

A city in song
The one that never belonged
We can help her heal

I'll speak not of it
Some forest; names are not safe
This is just karma

In the storm, she digs
Mother's love lasts forever
Now, then, we can rest

Lavender and death.
Does this doctor know what's best?
Were you ever well?

Friends from childhood
It's a small world after all
Careful what you read

A world of green dreams
You can expect a fair deal
Come back anytime

Two halves of the same
Look at all the friends I've made
Purpose forsaken

The primeval king
strikes a bargain for mankind
'till the black moon howls.

The first of many
Florida saves all the Earth
While he walks through walls

He played Elrond, right?
Why is he playing Kane's sled?
I want a refund!

To create greatness,
An artist must suffer well.
Gladly I endure.

This here is horse shit
And I can't stop eating it
Happy notdeath day

Once in a blue moon,
The world is in agreement.
The blue moon screeches

All life becomes death.
Green flourishes a farewell,
And then it doesn't.

I don't remember
what I was writing about
so I guess I'll stop

I'll do this later
On 9/19/18, the Youtube channel Ephemeral Rift ASMR was hacked from an unknown IP address located somewhere in the American southeast. The following video was uploaded and gained over 1.6 million views as well as 6000 likes and 500 comments before it was deleted by Foundation web analysis bot Alpha-12 ("I/O SCREECH").
Research into the person of interest known as dado is ongoing.
An embedded copy of this video is below.

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SCP-3999

SCP-2432

SCP-Big egg

SCP-4012

SCP-3000-J

SCP-5702

SCP-2817

SCP-2714

SCP-4930

SCP-3520

SCP-5401

SCP-3672

SCP-3643

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asmr by dado

RONALD REAGAN CUT UP WHILE RAPPING

Excerpt from The Astrolabe Institute Journal

Amnestic

The William Penn Iteration

End Of Deaf; or, In the Clutches of Dumb

The News Tonight: Wednesday April 26th 2017

Interior—Interior

The Undoing

Holy Mackerel

Grandchildren Frost

Portrait of Two Choreographers

Wade Williams Distribution Presents:

The DevourerLand Diaries
Rating: 11
Professor Gregory Cabenwald
Edinburgh, August 5th, 1915

The Skeptics' Club of Philadelphia

Dear Dr. Cabenwald:
 We have heard many wondrous things about your skeptical society across the pond! We read your public thrashing of Mr. Westcott's foolish occultism with great relish. Given your rigorous scientific approach to disproving the existence of witchcraft, superstition, and other pernicious beliefs, I am convinced that you and your compatriots are just the fellows to unravel the mystery of our strange little stone.
 Though I have no doubt our mutual friend has explained our quandary to you, I shall relate the details once more in the interests of posterity:
 It cannot be chipped or otherwise altered by any power known to us. My lads and I have made all efforts to do so, with no visible result. We have used hammers, chisels, drills, acids, furnaces, a caustic agent, and even rolled over it thrice with a boulder (two tonnes!). One foolish boy even suggested dynamite, and I would be lying if I said I was not sorely tempted by the notion.
 The matter vexes us to no end, for (as you must be aware) we cannot determine a substance's composition if it will not react to chemicals or otherwise permit some portion of it to be separated from the whole. Your expertise in this matter would therefore be deeply appreciated!
 In all honesty, I am glad to be rid of the thing, if only for now. My lads are good Christian men, but many are mentally timid. This item brings them some consternation. At least one believes it is evidence that our Lord has finally made a rock "that even He cannot pull asunder".
 Here is to the hope that your laboratory is made of stronger stuff than ours!
Sincerely,
 Daniel MacIntyre
 Director of Archeology
 Scottish National Museum

NEXT
SCP-3939 photographed prior to containment.

Item #: SCP-3939
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3939 is currently kept at Site-39 in pre-containment holding cell C (39-PC01-C). When not in testing it is to be kept in a standard containment locker of appropriate size.
Description: SCP-3939 is a gramophone, or record player, of unknown date of origin but consistent with design and manufacturing trends of the 1930s. It has an octagonal wooden base constructed of polished mahogany and is imprinted with the logo of HMV at the time. Atop this base is a turntable which is connected to the gramophone mechanism and a large brass horn. All components are in good condition.
SCP-3939 currently has a black vinyl record on the turntable, which is turning at a standard rate despite no visible source of power. Additionally, SCP-3939 possesses the ability to speak with a voice transmitted through the horn and potential sapience. Thus far it has only been shown to speak to certain people.
The brass horn always rotates to point at the observer. Other observers will see the horn rotate to point towards them.
Further tests are pending.

"Take a look around you, ████. Feel the world. Feel how fake it is. You're trapped in a story, doomed to repeat yourself forever in the minds of a thousand different readers. You're—"
Bang.
The sound of metal impacting metal comes from somewhere outside of the chamber. You jump, startled. There's a high chance 3939 is doing this to mess with you, though you distinctly noticed the vinyl record's movement stopping. This feels wrong.
"…You're trapped in here with me."
"I assume you're the only real thing in this story, then?"
It cocks its head slightly, despite not moving a head that it doesn't have. "Actually, no. You're real too, somehow. And I'm not talking about the reader, I'm talking about you. This is a very—"
Bang.
The sound is louder this time. There's now dents in the chamber door and a muffled voice from the other side.
"—a very special story."
You're getting nervous now, but you realize 3939 is likely trying to break your composure. You won't let this happen.
"Stop being vague. What makes this story so special?"
Bangbangbang.
"Because I'm one of the anomalies that your Foundation contains. But they don't contain me in a cute little gramophone in a cute little pre-containment cell in Site-39, oh, no. I am a very powerful, very infectious, very sentient meme. And I just love hiding in information, waiting to infect my next victim. The best place for me to hide is a story, because when the reader is engaged with a story, it's super easy for me to reach out and infect them."

I don't get it.
I don't understand.
I think that's dumb.
I don't believe you.
I think you're fucking with me.

This was written as part of the SCP Original Character Tournament, Round One, between my own Gunhead Anomalocaris and Croquembouche's Senior Researcher ████ ████████.
Be sure to check out Croquembouche's entry, Trilobites: Many Reasons To Kill Them, and 0 Reasons Not To, which is fantastic!

Trilobites: Many Reasons To Kill...

DESTROY ALL TRILOBITES

Snapchat Trilobash...
You walk down the street, on your way home after a long night. It's not yet fully raining, but there's still a slight drizzle about. You had the foresight to wear a waterproof jacket, but while it keeps you dry it does nothing against the chill of the quiet night air.
The office wasn't a pleasant place today. Apparently the strip isn't doing so well, and the numbers are going down. That's bad news for you, as if layoffs become necessary you'll be the the first one on the chopping block. Being a new hire is rough. You can't say that the fading popularity surprises you, it's been the same stale strip for years now. But apparently some investors were really upset. Some suits were prowling around today, asking questions and taking names.
You stop for a minute, pulling out your phone to confirm a sneaking suspicion. Yup, you're headed the wrong way, you shouldn't be anywhere near the park. It's easy to get lost in the rain. You sigh and turn around, resigning yourself to another miserable 10 minutes of slogging through the rain.
…
There's a figure a ways ahead of you, standing still under a streetlight.
IHATEMONDAYS
You stop again, mildly unsettled by this. You call out to them, asking if they are okay, but no response comes. Instead the figure begins to plod forwards, taking a step into the light.
IHATEMONDAYS
The baggy suit slumps and sags with each step, the matted orange fur too dirty to be slicked down by the rain. The lazy-eyed face is at an angle, crudely propped up upon the head, swaying as it advances. The tail drags in the puddles, only adding on to the stains already coating it and the rest of the body.
It hefts the old baseball bat it carries, picking up speed.
IHATEMONDAYS
You stumble back, beginning to run away as your fear catches in your throat, emerging as a strangled cry. You alternate between turning around and glancing back over your shoulder, desperate to escape but unwilling to let the thing out of your sight. It thumps the bat against the fence as it runs, a sickening thwack sounding with each blow.
Too focused on the beast, you don't avoid the puddle and your foot slides out from under you, sending you crashing to the ground. As the world whirls around you, seeing nothing but darkness and rain, a low agonized meow sounds from above you, immediately followed by a crushing blow to the hip. You scream out in pain, but as you gasp for breath a horrible, wet tearing noise fills the air accompanied by another guttural screech. Then, a dripping, slimy mass is slammed into your face, and your monstrous assailant begins forcing fistfuls more down your throat.
Man, you hate Mondays.
An old man sat at his desk. The beeping and buzzing of the lab in the adjoining room produced a repetitive tune. He looked at the pictures on his desk. A melancholy smile crept on his lips.
"Hey, Jake."
The man looked up. A colleague stood in the doorway.
"You wanted me to swing by. What's up?"
"Afternoon, Roland," the man replied. "Go ahead and close the door."
He waited for his colleague to take a seat.
"How's Lyssa?"
"Can't complain," his colleague chuckled. "How about you? Kate? The kids?"
"Fine, as always," the man said.
The two men paused. The beeping and buzzing of the adjoining lab filled the gap.
"So. What's up?" his colleague eventually asked.
The man sighed and looked once more over the pictures on his desk.
Family. Old friends.
"Do you think after I'm gone, someone will still mention me?" the man asked. "Like, twenty years from now, they'll say 'Conwell sure had a solid lab. A lot of great publications came out of there' or something?"
His colleague raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Sure. You've done some solid work."
The man looked at his colleague and sighed. Then tilted his head.
"I mean, I don't know," his colleague continued. "A lot of great stuff gets swept under the rug here, absorbed into bigger projects, or just forgotten under a pile of more noteworthy publications. If we wanted to be rock stars, the Foundation wasn't an ideal employer."
The man nodded.
"I think it's time," he finally said.
"Time?"
"Time."
His colleague frowned and looked down at the floor in thought.
"I guess I've got to at least ask why."
The man looked around. His chair made a few revolutions.
"There is just not a lot here for me anymore." The man shrugged.
"Bullshit. I know for a fact you're constantly publishing. Synth orders come in all the time."
The man shook his head.
"That's not what I meant."
"Christ, Jake, what the hell did you mean then?"
"Look around you, Roland. Everyone's left."
The man counted on his fingers.
"Zach. Ed. Jean. Dan. Rose. Hell, even Adileh and Arvind went their own ways. This was never about the fame, Roland. This was always about the people I worked with. They made the job tolerable. Enjoyable, even. And they helped me through a lot of tough spots."
His colleague closed his eyes and nodded.
"I'm still here though," he said in a low voice. "I'll notice if you leave."
"That's part of what makes this so hard."
His colleague's lips briefly curved up.
"What the hell will you even do once you're gone? Golf?"
"I don't know. Spend more time with Kate. Spend more time with Zach and Carrie. Maybe there is more for me to do here. Maybe not. But it's time to put a signature on the damn thing and walk away before my wheels spin too much."
The man then stood and offered a handshake. His colleague accepted.
"You're a good man, Roland," he said. "The best friend I ever had. Promise me you'll look after the place."
"I can't imagine anyone will do more damage to it than you did," his colleague chuckled.
A final pause.
"You're shit at goodbyes, you know that."
"Kate's said as much. Maybe that's something I can work on."
The water keeps rising.
Days ago, it was just a point of light in the sky. Hours ago, it looked as big as our sun. Now, at midday, we are shrouded in darkness. When we look up, we only see the orb approaching.
A dull white ball, with jagged veins pulsing throughout. The texts described it quite well. Every couple hundred orbits, we would "intersect", and it would approach. It looked different every time, but it always passed as soon as it went; glazing horizontally across our sky, they said. But I think this is going to be different. My family thinks so too. In the back of our heads, everyone here wonders if we will die tonight.
The water keeps rising.
Our community is isolated in a mountain range, stretched out from the mainland and surrounded by sea. Hundreds of us, dispersed in a tropical valley that weaved in between. Quite the place, in comparison to the flat yellow terrain encompassing our entire world. But now, at midday, we gather at the tops of mountains and watch closely. We were once many feet above sea level, but now we are surrounded on all sides. The ocean will come pouring in soon.
But me? I fly far out to our highest peak. My elders call back for me, but I don't listen. Our feet are terrible for gripping snow, and my wings give way as the air does, so I sit a little ways down. I look up now, and cannot see the orb's outline.
The water keeps rising.
First slowly, but then quickly, the ocean fills into our homes, our streets, and our farms. It is violent, explosive, and anything but slow. Our plants are flattened long before they are drowned. Our towers hold up not much longer.
The ground begins to shake. Cracks ripple throughout the surrounding land, and those that aren't filled by water released a thick black smoke. The orb grows bigger and bigger, but never seems closer. The only remaining light source is the spewing lava.
The water keeps rising.
I am the only mountain standing. I call out for my father. I scream for my mother. All that responds is the rushing water. As high as I am, I still have to smell the smoke's vile stench.
My body begins to feel funny. I am… I feel lighter. Seconds later, I am weightless. The wind blows heavily, and I am lifted into the stars. I rise and rise and rise. I feel free. I can finally fly higher than everyone else in class. I can finally see the beauty of the red nebula where we reside. I cannot breathe, but as everything is sucked from within me, I can still see. I am falling away from my planet, and I watch as it sinks into the orb and gives way to dust and light.
Why did this have to end?
The remains of every living thing were now scattered across the orb. When the dust settled, the eye was complete. And then your probe came.
But me? I watch the cosmos, in an endless orbit around the planet that shattered my home.
The water keeps rising.
An idea I had. Evaluation form is adapted from one I found online from the University of Washington.

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Dr. Jameson looked around nervously at the guards to his right and left. They'd begun escorting him from Dr. Kirkland's office as soon as he signed the evaluation form. Former friends averted their eyes as he passed them in the hallway. He'd heard about what happened to fuck ups like him: termination. It'd said it clearly at the bottom of the form.
But it said he had one more chance. Was that a lie? Was he being walked out the door? To get amnesticized? To a dark floor he'd never seen before and that he'd never come back from?
After a few minutes he met Dr. Kirkland at a nondescript door one level down. Kirkland was smiling, the prick.
"Jerome. Believe it or not I still think you've got a lot to contribute to the Foundation. You're just a little lost. You're going to attend a department meeting on the other side of this door. Everything you see and hear in there is classified."
Dr. Jameson shook his head. "I don't understand, I thought you were thinking of pulling my clearance?"
Dr. Kirkland nodded. "We are. Until then you've still got it. I think you should sit in on this department meeting and decide if you'd like to transfer or not."
Dr. Jameson didn't know what to say so he just nodded and reached for the doorknob. He half expected a firing squad on the other side, but as the door opened he realized it was much worse than that.
The meeting was already underway. The smell of stale coffee and donuts filled Dr. Jameson's nose. A man that Jameson recognized stood at the front of the room behind a podium and began to speak.
"My name is Jeremiah Cimmerian. And I'm an alcoholic."

« Mugging The Monster | Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer | A Slice of Life For a Man Completely Uncomfortable »
We are toxic together,
People say
A broken relationship
Where nothing good can bloom.
I think I am safe
(I am water)
But I am becoming a poisonous well
With his additions.
We skin up together
Shot up
Snort up
Come down.
He comes home with flowers
Not flowers for me
I am not his girl
(He promised)
But flowers for him.
Petals that become drugs
Paper-thin
Dissolving on the tongue
Slipping into the state that is Him.
I know he is not safe
(He is chlorine)
But the heart
She wants what she wants.
We are transformative
I am trans(forming) in front of him
A moth from a cocoon
Wings spread, vulnerable
Waiting to be splattered or spared.
One night, dark,
After a funeral
We wanted to feel alive
In bed, laying side-by-side.
I am clothed
He is not
(He is never)
My top becomes gently unbuttoned.
I smell Bloom on his breath
Through his pores
Infecting me too
(It strikes me we're not table salt]).
And he puts his hand up there
Finds nothing but budding mountains and air
Silently withdraws
Rolls over on his side.
And I realise now
He wanted the me from another time.
But still
I am his Dawn.
And he Blooms for me.
Aching, I curl my fingers into the blanket
And cry for us.

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