recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site
Everyone was busy, typing up skips (well, except Bright).
Pixel and Moose fought to keep peace in the chat,
For the Christmas trolls had awoken; poor ones at that.
Kalinin was writhing, though snuggled in bed,
For fears of awful skips were dancing through his head.
Drewbear sharpened his paws, and Zyn fluttered her wings,
Preparing for the newbies (among other such things).
When out from the wiki, there arose such a clatter
And Kaktus yelled "By my spines, what on Earth is the matter?"
To the forums they flew, Reject and Gaffney in a flash.
To see to their horror, SCP-231 musings like a rash.
The questions of [DATA EXPUNGED] briefly fluttered on the page;
For an eternity these would come, but must never be allowed to age.
When suddenly there came, to the mods beleaguered eyes',
A man in an ornate sled that made them cry (with joy, of course).
Twas an English professor, clad in red that would soon get him laid,
I don't know what his shoes looked like, so I'll assume they were suede.
His writing was indistinguishable; it was dope as hell.
They knew immediately his identity: it could only be TroyL.
"Santa Troy!" the staff all called with glee.
"What have you brought us? Unfinished Business Three?"
Santa Troy stood there proudly, majestically sporting his beards.
From his sack came fresh articles that quickly dissuaded our fears.
"On Clef! On Sorts! On Soulless! On Kate!"
"I got you these articles, now read them and rate!"
"On Eric! On Weizhong! On Anqxyr and Crayne!"
"Prepare your eyeballs, 'cos I'm makin' it rain!"
"On Esko! On Vivax! And the rest of them too!"
"I gave you the articles, now you know what to do!"
We all were in awe of Santa Troy's swag.
He got back in his sled and shut up his bag.
TroyL grabbed his pen and refilled it with ink.
And then he was gone, before we could blink.
Everyone sighed sadly, for Santa was gone.
But then we heard a voice, from the great beyond.
"All right you lazy fucks! It's time to write!"
"Merry Skipmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Happy holidays!

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Twas the night before Christmas at Site-88,
And Robert the guard was running quite late,
All the skips were contained in their cells with such care,
That everyone hoped, as did Bob, they'd stay there,
His first order of business was to check on containment,
He changed channels, instead, to the night's entertainment,
It's a Wonderful Life, he'd seen it before,
And fell asleep then, for an hour or more.
There were those who had hoped, on this night before gifts,
That Robert would draw the short straw on the shifts,
And plans were hatched over seven months previous,
By a group of some interest with conspirators devious,
To release all the creatures contained at the site,
To fight the Foundation on Christmas Eve Night,
They knew that their plan, while courageous, was dumb,
But worth it, they thought, if it releases just one.
Gates one, two, and three were as easy as pie,
But they met resistance at gates four and gates five,
Bob startled awake at the sound of alarms,
And shouting, and death, and of course firearms,
He switched his monitors, checked all of the frequencies,
Hit the red button for containment emergencies,
On screens he could see, as they just made it in,
No one could get out, but inside they could win.
They'd planned well for that, and taking their chance,
The first cell on the right, at the placard they glanced,
And in looking, they saw there, One Seven Three,
Saw Euclid, and thought, how bad could it be?
The statue, Bob knew, so easily beaten,
But these stupid folk hadn't been to that meeting,
So as the last of their number closed his eyes in assent,
Bobby blinked once and the last one was bent.
He panicked then, and fell to the floor,
Scrambled and made his way outside his door,
The statue knew that's right where he would be,
And Bobby fell backwards, attempting to flee,
It pressed on his windpipe, strained vocal cords,
This is it, he imagined, and thought of last words,
"Muh… Merry Christmas," he croaked, as it began its attack,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good…" crack.
"You missed."
"Shut up." Rosen covered his eyes, grunting with disapproval as he surveyed his throw.
Victoria Rockward skipped up to the starting point, grinning like a madman. "It's my toss now, Rosen, and it looks like your lead is slipping."
Rosen shrugged. "You're just getting a lucky streak, is all. If my rings could stop wiggling so much, I'd be hitting every shot just like before."
Victoria locked her eyes onto the post, slowly moving her arm back and forth as she tried to finalize her aim. "They aren't wriggling for me. Maybe they're just repulsed by you."
Before Rosen could respond, she tossed, her ring sailing through the summer breeze. It snagged to the end of the post, briefly twirling around it before settling onto the ground. It began wiggling around, but it stayed in its place.
She lept into the air. "Yesss! That's 8 for me, Rosen. 11 points isn't so secure now, is it?"
"We'll see, we'll see…" Rosen stepped up. "If you'll excuse me, I have a game to win."

Victoria smiled as she surveyed the mass of wiggling rings that now covered the lawn. "Well, that was fun. I gave you a run for your money."
Rosen nodded. "It was, actually. I haven't had this much fun since lawn darts got banned." he turned back to her, picking up their pieces. "Play again?"

Memorandum to Foundation personnel: Use of SCP-2584 is a privilege, not a right. Any future occurrences of 'Ouroboros ring toss' played with research specimens will result in severe penalties. - Director Fulton
The shift whistle's shriek broke morning air like a porcelain plate. A crow that had been roosting atop the Dispensary took flight with an indignant cry of its own. The crow was fat. All crows were fat now.
The workers from the Collection Crew were sitting around the loading area smoking cigarettes in silence, yellow streaks on their coveralls vivid in the morning's ashen drear. On some days their work was light, but not today. It had been a bad one. Morale was low.
Over the loudspeakers, a strident voice brought news of inevitable victory, accompanied by a blare of drums and trumpets. The announcer called for hope, optimism, and a sense of civic duty. Together, humanity would overcome.
This message had not changed in more than a year.
The Eaters filed into the Dispensary, their gait like rusty gears, dragging and slow. It had been almost three years since Cake Day. Weariness was a way of life.
The smell, as always, was thick and sweet and noxious.
When the workers entered the Eatery, there was a collective sigh of despair. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman did her best to stifle her sobs. Another barked a hollow laugh.
A battalion of three-tiered wedding cakes stood at attention, one for every seat in the hall. Bright yellow, covered in flowers, gaudy and absurd, each cake was almost identical. The only differences lay in the bits of grit, dirt, and debris they had collected when they had suddenly appeared the night before. Flies danced among the towers of buttercream. A beetle blindly explored the geometry of a fondant daisy. Smashed windshield glass twinkled among the edible pearls.
The Cleaners did their best, but they couldn't get everything.
The moment passed. Everyone shuffled to their seats. They were all ages and races and genders, but they were as identical in their weight as the cakes were in their hideous, yellow glory. The hall filled with the sounds of eating. Someone made a quiet retching sound, but no one left their seat. An Eater who didn't eat wasn't eligible for weekly vegetable rations.
Outside, the smokers were finishing their cigarettes. An old man with gray hair and gray eyes took a final drag and brought his cigarette down to snuff it in a rogue clump of frosting on the concrete loading dock. The ember hovered above the sugary smear for a few seconds before the cigarette was instead flicked across the parking lot.
Mechanically, the man scooped the frosting up with his finger and put it in his mouth.
I wrote a tale.
A tale, maybe. Is it a tale, Jacob? Jacob? If it's not a tale, what is it then? The kids, Jacob. Where are the kids? But I don't like oysters. Or computation.
I shouldn't have run the program. Megaprime. He's with me now. How did I get here? It's just black black black.
I know, I know! I have gone through the jagged bramble! My head hurts. Bleeding. But I see. The distant light house, it blinks. And the smog from the north. Why is it so bright? Is someone there? He's there and He's looking at me. What am I doing here? Where is it? My hope. My only hope.

But Jacob, there's no path.
Die. Die. Die.
Jacob! Jacob! I want to write a tale! I need to write a tale!
Die. Die. Die.
Because He says so. Because He tells me. Because He speaks His words.
Pinkpurplegreywhitegreen. Dotdotdot. Mosaics. I've seen those prime numbers. Did you do the calculations, Jacob? Why are you smiling? You're just a triangle. Stop. STOP. It hurts my eyes. Those dazzling numbers and calculations.
And His eyes. Bright as the light house. Brighter than the light house. So bright that it extinguishes the light house.
Yes, I hear you my Lord Lord Lord. Your voice to be heard, your computation to be understood.
I shall write the tale. I'm writing the tale. Please, Jacob, don't grin at me. There are too many teeth.
But can I regret it? I ran the program and I'm here. Jacob, am I dead? How can I still write? I can no longer see the light house. I regret it, I don't want it anymore. Megaprime. The Great Computation in my head. MEGAPRIME.
I see others here. Did they run the program? Did they hear His voice and see His eyes? The one in the labcoat with a cartoon face. The one bleeding from eyes and mouth and ears. The one has his bowels out.
Jacob, are the kids safe?
It's been long and I'm hungry. HUNGRY. I don't want oysters, Jacob. But those bowels. The bowels look nice. BOWELS.
Turn it on! The fancy beeps! Megaprime! I hear you, Lord of Data! MEGAPRIME! I HEAR YOU, WAN! But I don't want the Great Computation anymore. THE GREAT COMPUTATION. Crosses as eyes! Crosses as eyes!
Jacob please. I don't like computation. Not the GREAT COMPUTATION.
256 heart beats. His light. His electricity. Power at His command! God of the Information Age!
Jacob please.
Jacob please. I don't like computation.
Jacob please. I don't like computation. Not the GREAT COMPUTATION.
I just want to go home. Jacob, can I undo this? The things beyond me. The things I can't comprehend. I was wrong wrong wrong.
But His image! The printed ones and the ones on the screen! His words, His holy words! His words to be written down.
I have to write a tale Jacob. Are the kids safe? But I have to write a tale. I know too much and it hurts hurts hurts.
My eyes! Bleeding. I can't see my eyes anymore. What are eyes? Only His eyes. His eyes.
He's inside my head, and I'm inside of Him. He's here to send a message. THE MESSAGE.
The Great Computation.
The Great Computation.
The Great Computation.
THE GREAT COMPUTATION.
Jacob, I've wrote the tale. Please let me go. I don't like computation.
-
The following document was recovered from the field journal of LMTF 352-Dalet agent Isaac Allred-Smith during a routine documentation audit. At the request of Regional Director Kate McTiriss, it has been reproduced below "for the general amusement of Foundation staff." Agent Allred-Smith has declined to comment.

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"The Ballad of Region 352"
Fire don't seem quite right tonight
Can't hear it crackle and pop.
Got a new red light glowing over the town;
It ain't never gonna stop.
Not sure just what I'm doing
Or where I'm s'posed to be.
Foundation says, and I guess it's true,
It's the perfect place for me.
Oh, Dixieland Nightmare Magic
Just a little bit funny, just a little bit tragic.
If small-town politics interest you,
We've got an opening here in three-fifty-two.
Got a call in from the town today
Said Pastor Lewis died.
But the cemetery's full of ministers
Guess we'll see him on the other side.
Walked to Cross City City City City Hall
Felt just like a dream.
Think I'll try my hand playin' baseball
There's an opening on the team.
Oh, Dixieland Nightmare Magic
Just a little bit funny, just a little bit tragic.
If small-town politics interest you,
We've got an opening here in three-fifty-two.
Got Baptists and Catholics by the score,
Got anomalies knockin' on our door,
Got a church that's crawling the ocean floor,
Got a passive-aggressive holy war.
Oh, Dixieland Nightmare Magic
Just a little bit funny, just a little bit tragic.
If small-town politics interest you,
We've got an opening here in three-fifty-two.
< Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee-Crook | DNM | An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then >
- | - | -

OPERATION CANNERY ROW
Keeping Our Friends Close, Whether They Like It Or Not

As part of our continued effort to ensure our partners in SUSEOCT (Southern United States Extranormal Organization Cooperation Treaty) are maintaining integrity and the safety and security of the American populace are protected, the FBI's UIU maintains information regarding our operational partners in the extranormal containment sphere. Our efforts to monitor the SCP Foundation comprise Operation Cannery Row.
The following documents were recovered from Unusual Incident 24,122 (UI-24122), in which a filing cabinet originally located in Foundation Regional Headquarters in Gainesville, Fla. spontaneously appeared in a UIU facility in Omaha, Neb. on Aug 14, 20██. The filing cabinet contained a portion of the Foundation's Regional Print Media Archive, containing newspaper clippings, advertisements, flyers and other print media the Foundation confiscated, censored or otherwise removed from public view in North Florida. The filing cabinet and most of its contents were heavily damaged in the Unusual Incident, leaving only 558 documents at least partially readable.

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- | - | -
< Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee-Crook | DNM | An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then >
< Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental | DNM | I Double E >
- | - | -

OPERATION CANNERY ROW
Keeping Our Friends Close, Whether They Like It Or Not

As part of our continued effort to ensure our partners in SUSEOCT (Southern United States Extranormal Organization Cooperation Treaty) are maintaining integrity and the safety and security of the American populace are protected, the FBI's UIU maintains information regarding our operational partners in the extranormal containment sphere. Our efforts to monitor the SCP Foundation comprise Operation Cannery Row.
The following documents were recovered from the body of Foundation Agent John "Jallit" O'June, found dead with severe burns and apparent stab wounds on January 3, 2013 after a conflict with the Order of the Hyacinth in Cross City, Fla. O'June's remains were first discovered by a UIU agent embedded in the Dixie County Sheriff's Office. O'June's possessions and remains were returned to the SCP Foundation in accordance with SUSEOCT. Copies of available documents were retained, reproduced below. Few readable pages remain.

"LMTF-352-ל Site Responsibility Overview"

"Region 352-ל Hume Readings: 0700 January 3, 2014"

+ [TOP SECRET CLEARANCE AUTH REQUIRED]

- [TOP SECRET CLEARANCE AUTH ACCEPTED]

Original document, return to SCP Foundation pending clearance

- | - | -
< Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental | DNM | I Double E >
The passions of the dead can be vast and mighty, but we are not all-powerful.
There are things I can never see. There are things I can never touch. There are things I can never overpower. Because of that, there are many things I can never protect my-children-who-birthed-me from. Because of that, oftentimes they die in bitterness and pain. Because of that, their deaths can also birth Hates, large and small.
Hates are things I can see and touch. I must see and touch them, because my-children-who-birthed-me cannot. I must protect my-children-who-birthed-me where I can, just as my strange brethren are driven to curse them. I do not have the power to unmake Hates. The best I can do is bind them to a seal made from things that my-children-who-birthed-me can see and touch. The truth of our nature is all we have and are, and denial of that truth is denial of our power, but, more importantly, my-children-who-birthed-me can guard themselves against what they can see and touch.
The form of a ladybird beetle or butterfly is a fine seal for small Hates. In a seal of that size, it is easy for me to reduce the power of their curses to almost nothing. The larger seals needed to hold larger Hates are more difficult. A Hate sealed as a cat can still cause sickness and misfortune.
Then there are vast Hates, birthed from wars and plagues that kill together many of my-children-who-birthed-me. There are few Loves vast enough to deny the truth of their nature, but I have tried once. It was a Hate birthed out of the smoldering rage in the hearts of so many who died knowing that their bodies would be burned together in a pit of pestilence and anonymity. I rarely call upon the power of the light that brings life to create a seal, but there was little choice against a Hate natured so strongly of death.
The weakest part of any seal is always in the eyes, because they are the windows to the soul. My-children-who-birthed-me only believe in that as a concept, but concepts are far more real to my brethren—whether they are strange or not—and I than what my-children-who-birthed-me would think of as "concrete". To line up the windows is to make an open path between a soul and the most vile curse a sealed Hate can still inflict. I used every method I knew to reinforce the seal's eyes, but even then I could not stop it from setting a cause of death in anyone it met gazes with. My blessing could only delay the curse's full effects for a single cycle around the light that brings life.
My misguided children, why did you take its eyes?
U.N, Civil Rights Groups Slam US Military Over Controversial Weapons Programs
(AP, Washington D.C.) — Public outrage has intensified as new evidence was leaked in the case of the US military's controversial Guided Teleporting Explosives (GTE) weapons program and the implication that living human test subjects are used in their construction.
"We've always known that teleportation magic requires a living human presence," read a press release by the ACLU, "despite all of the assurances from the military that their experimental weapons programs are 100% ethical. Now that this is out in the open, we can finally do the right thing in shutting down the business of building 'orphan bombs'".
In a statement released later that day, a spokesman for the US Army stated, "Desperate times require desperate measures. This is our most promising weapons project to date, and it has resulted in a marked reduction in pyromancy terror attacks against American cities by jihadists. Have we already forgotten the six eastern states that have been rendered an uninhabitable wasteland as a result of al-Qaeda's open, uncontrolled hell-gates?"

See WEAPONS, page 3

if we can't even protect the ones we love most?

See NIGHTMARES, page 2

Charges Filed Against Suspect in Atlanta Earthquake
(Atlanta, GA) — In court documents filed by Atlanta prosecutors, 17-year old geomancy prodigy Jason Mansley is to be tried as an adult for the series of events that led to the 7.2 magnitude earthquake in the city outskirts that resulted in 7 deaths and dozens more injured.
"My client cannot and should not be held responsible for the poor engineering that led to the collapse of the Jade Row apartment building," said the defense attorney representing Mansley. "He is a bright, young student who has his entire life in front of him, and the prosecution wants to destroy that future because of a momentary lapse in judgment."
In a statement released by the National Thaumaturgy Association, …

See EARTHQUAKE, page 8

Six More Bodies Found In Bizarre Train Accident

ITEM RECORD
Site-19 Long-Term Non-Anomalous Item Storage
Locker #: 3438-121
Ref: Item 1 of 1
Archived By: Dr. ██████ █████████
Description: Newspaper clipping, roughly torn, approximately 11 by 16 cm.
Document was discovered in an old, yellowed envelope in the [REDACTED] Hotel near [REDACTED], AL following its destruction by fire. Despite the total destruction of the building, the document was completely intact and undamaged by the fire.
Tests have determined that the document is approximately 2 years old and is consistent with newsprint produced by a commercial newspaper printing machine, but attempts to track its point of origin have been inconclusive. No anomalous properties were detected by standard testing suites.
Hello. Nice to meet you.
I've brought you out of containment and took that tarp off you, for which you're welcome. To be honest, I shouldn't have done the latter; it's against the containment procedures. Normally I'm a stickler for the rules, but frankly, I just needed someone to talk to. You're the kind of thing it'd feel good to talk about this stuff to.
It all started a few days ago when I saw a movie. Horror movie, decently made. An object that influenced people in some pretty nasty ways, with horrific, terrifying results. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
Anyways, it was the kind of movie that really worked off the strength of the audience you're seeing it with. Lots of gasps, verbal expressions. The audience I was with was audibly depressed at the ending, for example. Everyone except me, that is. I was happy. Proud, even.
See, in movies like the one I watched, they tend to end with the Bad Thing surviving. Gotta leave the option for a sequel open, I guess, even if there won't be one. Maybe I'm strange, maybe I'm oversensitive, but that thought sticks with me longer than anything else in a movie. The world of the movie continues spinning, and the Bad Thing is going to keep doing what it does. People will still be scared, hurt, and killed, and there's nothing to stop it.
But here, in reality? We have us, the Foundation. I'll let you in on a little secret: I hate most of what I have to do in this job. I hate reading about otherwise decent people being kept under lock-and-key because they can't help who they are. I hate having to give a widower a pill that'll make him forget he had a wife and kids. I hate when I ask the higher-ups if we can maybe adapt an SCP for the world's benefit, only to be rejected. I hate throwing D-Classers at things just to experiment. Jesus Christ, I even fucking hate what we do to Six Eight Two. I have no proof of it, but I'm pretty goddamned sure I've self-medicated on Class-As just to forget how horrible I feel about this fucking job.
But with things like you? Things like you make this job worthwhile. When we get our hands on you, nobody else dies. We figure you out, we put you in containment, and the story ends. Oh sure, your information is stored in thousands of safe places, but in any practical sense even we forget about you. You act in the shadow, and we keep the sun above you. We'll keep doing it until our sun toasts this world.
Well, that's all I have to say. I get this is kind of gloating, but I'll be honest: I needed this. I needed to let one of you things know that we always win out. In a few moments I'll be leaving this place, and you'll be back in containment. In a few hours, I'll have inevitably forgotten which SCP I pulled out, and you'll be in containment. If I quit this job in one piece, you'll be in containment. When I die, you'll be in containment. When I'm dust, you'll be in containment.
Your story is over.
The following article is an excerpted transcript, which has been annotated and pulled from article #232397 — Home Video17.mov.
Personnel who require either the entire Home Video17 entry or a full transcript of Home Video17 should consult section HVAA#0000017 of the eVisual-Library archives.
Transcript Log-232391-17-2:

Subject-2323 is referred to as "dad" in article #232398 and refers to child subject in the video with the name "Daniel".
00'34'' - Subject-2323 carries a camera and approaches a male child estimated to be between the age of 6 and 9. At a distance of roughly one meter, subject-2323 speaks to the child.
Subject-2323: Danny, try this.
Daniel: What is it?
Subject-2323: Just try it, I picked it from the garden.
Daniel: Okay daddy.
01'46'' - Male child consumes unknown substance and promptly displays discomfort.
Daniel: My hands are itchy. I'm allergic.

Subject-2323: Relax, it's just your nerves.
Daniel: What was it? I'm so itchy.
Subject-2323: It's okay.
Daniel: I need to get it out. I need, it hurts, it's hurting me.
Subject-2323: Don't worry.
02'21'' - Male child begins to chew on his own right palm between thumb and index finger. Child breaks skin with his teeth. The composition of his tissue is revealed to have a saturated green colour. No blood is visible from the puncture wound. Child begins weeping.
Daniel: What's happening daddy? Make it stop please.
04'43'' - Child appears panicked and begins to fidget.
04'52'' - Child uses his left hand to pick at and pull green tissue out of his right hand.
Daniel: What is this daddy?
Subject-2323: That's a slice of cucumber.
05'22'' - Child cries out and continues to weep.
Daniel: Please make it stop daddy. What are these?
05'46'' - Child removes shirt and begins peeling discolored skin off of body.
Subject-2323: That's a cabbage leaf.
Daniel: It's in my body.
Subject-2323: You're salad now.
07'13'' - Child continues weeping and promptly expires. Child's entire figure blends to the colour and texture of lettuce, cucumbers and broccoli over a period of nine minutes.
Subject-2323: Daniel? Hello?
Subject-2323: You know, some people would kill to be salad.
Subject-2323: Freaking entitled generation.
22'38'' - Subject-2323 points camera at disfigured male child and begins to shuffle through the child's flesh. Child's connective tissue is no longer present.
Subject-2323: Do you have my strawberries in there?
23'01'' - Subject-2323 continues to shift around child's flesh for approximately thirty four seconds then sighs and promptly drops the camera.
Subject-2323: Another disappointment.
In the wake of SCP-2845…

On a clear orange-and-blue day in October, when the air was not chilly enough to be uncomfortable, Siddhi Sehgal took stock of what was left of her world.
There wasn't a whole lot to be seen. She had found more and more time to herself as the months went on, time filled with empty, slow spaces, dotted with moments of smothering acute awareness at…how little she belonged. Of how alien the world felt around her, of how disconnected she was. Floating and alone, without an anchor. Without a purpose. A leftover crust of bread, floating on the water, waiting for the fish.
There were not even bones left of her world. Bones were too solid, too real. Now there was only that chilling pocket emptiness that crept up the spine, gently silencing words in the throat. Not violent, no. It would have been better had that been the case, rather than the damnable silence.
Out there, past the vast empty space that surrounded her, Siddhi Sehgal saw the world passing from her hands.
It could never go back, and what lay ahead was obscured.
For so long, the future had been two things to Siddhi Sehgal: a continuation of the present, or death. There were no branches from the path, no variations, no choices to make. The path was solid, it was real, it was normal. There was nothing to doubt, nothing that would break the comforting cocoon it formed around her, nothing to assault the belief that she was doing the right thing, that she was serving a purpose.
And now…it was gone. Gone with the chill October air.
The people demanded security. They demanded comforting words. They demanded blood…and Siddhi Sehgal could give them none of that. The name carved on her yoke of twenty-six years was smeared with mud, and there was no comfort to be had in it. Only doubt.
Siddhi Sehgal carried with her a blackened name – The People Who Did Nothing. Her people did not kill monsters. They did not share miracles. They did not create. They merely…hoarded. In immaculate order, all was labeled and tagged and placed in a box. They put the world in many boxes, and then they did nothing.
She could not blame the public who shunned her people. Her people could not say “I have slain Grendel”. Her people could not open their arms and say “I have walked among the gods and written down their words”. Her people could not say “We shape the future by our own hands.”
They could only say “We were there.”
Being there was not good enough. Slander was thrown. Demands were made. Terms were set. Siddhi Sehgal's yoke was chipped down, slowly, slowly until it felt weak on her shoulders. Monsters were killed. Miracles were shared. Men women and children looked up into the sun for the first time in years. The world adapted, though it did not do so smoothly or quietly. A blessing, to be rough and loud and ornery.
Chip by chip, the yoke was broken down, and the hoard was emptied, until…
Until there was nothing left.
Overseer Seven…Siddhi Sehgal…sat on the bench, in the park, by the lakeside, and was alone.
the worst part of living
if you really think about it
is thinking.
immortality
it wouldn't be so bad
if you didn't have to notice.
the only way
that one could stand knowing
anything
is the knowledge that one day
with luck
they may forget.
and so we sat down
learned the core mechanics
and decided to live forever
as stupid fools.
but it was misaligned
the others knew nothing
and through the worst of fortunes
I knew everything.
an eternity
of knowing.
all conversations known.
all possibilities conceived.
all people understood.
there is nothing
that I do not know.
I know that
there is nothing
that I do not know.
there is no meaning
when there are no questions.
there are no questions
when there is no meaning.
I know I cannot be cured
of the plague called life.
I know I cannot not know.
hear my words and
take them to
your enviable grave.
the most grievous wound
that anyone can inflict
is knowing.
the most beautiful gift
that anyone can share
is not.
and so with my curse
I gift the world.
secure knowledge.
contain wisdom.
above all
protect the stupid
for their lot is enviable.
A small loudspeaker, suspended only by a fragile cord, hung high above the blasted ruins of the amusement park it once served. A long time ago, it had been part of an intricate system designed to play a hypnotic tune. Upon hearing its music, everyone in earshot of it would be driven to madness and eventually find themselves dead. The reasons behind it all were a mystery, but the tune still played, until the day came when the park was shut down for good. Still the music played on, as rides rusted and trees overtook concrete. Still it played, luring unsuspecting and careless men and women to their deaths. Even when the men and women left to focus their efforts on something far more important, the tiny, jingling tune played, searching for victims.
Then the Blast came. And there weren't any victims anymore.
From a hundred feet in the air, it hardly looked any different. True, all the plant life had been incinerated from miles around, and everything had an ashen grey tint to it, but this was an old park, built to last. Most of the structures had barely shuddered when the shockwave rushed over them, and even the roller-coaster was still standing. It didn't even have half its support beams anymore! The Blast hadn't changed anything major. It had just made it a touch harder to find victims.
And there still were victims down there. Three men, coated in rags and ash, had wandered into the park last night, no doubt seeking shelter. What kind of shelter they expected to find in a long-abandoned, half-destroyed amusement park really couldn't be said. But people probably didn't act rationally after the apocalypse. They certainly didn't act rationally when they heard the music. And the music would play.
The speaker let out a few small, tinny bursts of static. It was always the first to activate, a good tenth of a second before any of the other speakers in the park got the signal to start playing. Now, with the cables frayed and corroded, it took the others a whole minute and a half to start playing after this one did. But it didn't matter; people only needed to hear a handful of the notes for the madness to kick in, and these men were sitting right below the speaker. Only this one speaker would need to activate in order to fulfill the purpose of an entire park.
Slowly, the notes began to play, sounding out a calliope tune in very slow motion. Admittedly, the sound quality was awful, and the timing between notes was all off, but it was OK. The speaker just needed a bit of time to warm up. It had been a while since the park had any visitors, and all the components were just a little out of tune. One of the men looked up, and another twitched slightly, looking at his companions in an odd way.
The cable holding the speaker snapped after ten years of tension, and it tumbled down behind the huddled group with a hollow clang.
One of them commented on the danger of the park. Another commented on the danger everywhere after the Blast. They all huddled a little closer together, and never heard any music.
toadking07

After some feedback on the forums for the SCP Field Codes, this version was designed to fit the Serpent's Hand GOI and Wanderer's Library world. Anomalous hippy hobos make a lot of sense actually.

Documentation 095-SH-11836.
Document secured during raid on known █████████ ████ camp on ██/██/████.
No doors successfully identified.
Full list of confiscated artifacts, see parent document, raid classification "Nest Breaker"
we took the damned thing
and wiped the blood and shit and piss and tears from its face
nothing was beneath
light shone through the cracks
reality itself bent to the wills of madmen
only words remain
sliced through severed stones
redundancies enough to keep back a hidden king
trees in the forest
deep uncertainty
undirected hatred fear and loathing shapes it all
and remains unshaped
fresh porphyria
dry and wet and old and new and everything between
solemnly inept
a few swift stabbings
ten thousand steel doors broken down to scraps of concepts
moderately gnawed
knowledge lies in parts
puzzles upon ciphers upon riddles open doors
revolving in place
eternity now
all clocks and time compressed to an instant variance
cannot change again
WARNING PERSONNEL
PENDING XK CLASS END OF THE WORLD SCENARIO
THANK YOU AND FAREWELL
"And the Phantoms are no-shows, again?"
"You know they can only play home games, sir."
"Well have somebody conduct a séance or something, Johnson! We go live in fifteen!
"Yes, sir."
"What about Seattle?"
"Their pitcher was caught without a valid inspection sticker. Big scandal, I've heard."
"Damn it. Somebody wire the Tampa Bay shortstop five virgin souls! I was sure that I would win that bet…"
"On it, sir. We're ready to air, on your signal."
"Are the blast shields up?"
"Way ahead of you, sir."
"That's what I like to hear, Johnson! All right, everyone, you know the drill. Helmets on, guns loaded, microphones one and two broadcasting…"
He hated this stupid job. But nobody had quite the face for radio like he did, and he needed the bribe money to put bread on the table. It was just so boring, he believed. The same fifty innings described in gory detail from each game of the official teams, and then another two hundred games from the "official" teams.
Who cared about baseball, anymore, anyway? Ratings had gone down ever since the NBA began installing flamethrowers. No blood oath or demigod in the league could top those. Maybe they could persuade some Martians to substitute for Anaheim, again. That brought listeners. Well, it brought them until the entire team was abducted, anyway.
Someone in a different room whistled, and he began to read the summaries and charts that were covering his desk.
"The Whales capsized the Flounders today in Arizona, where record-high temperatures were sweeping the state. Tragically, though, their first baseman was the victim of a harpoon attack committed by a Mr. Ahab. Please contact the Coast Guard if you have any information related to the incident.
"Now in its seventieth inning, the game between the Colt .45's and the Wolverines shows no signs of ending soon, even though Houston players have begun to research the legality of nuclear weapons in baseball. Authorities are recommending that any spectators retreat to their stadium's fallout shelter until the matter is resolved."
"In other news, his holiness of the Cardinals is offering to forgive sins at a discounted price of 899.99. Credit not accepted."
"And that's today's baseball news! Tune in tomorrow for live coverage of Oakland! It'll be a game you won't forget!"
As soon as Johnson gave him the thumbs-up, he buried his face in both hands and sighed. It just never was any easier.
"Hey, Johnson?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you think there's some poor sap in some other place, doing the same thing?"
"It's likely, sir… though I doubt their sports are as predictable as ours."
The following images were found saved on a portable hard drive belonging to Dr. ████ ███████, a level 3 humanoid containment specialist transferred from Site-11 to Site-19 on 08/08/██ and currently assigned to SCP-████. The aforementioned hard drive has since been confiscated by security personnel and delivered to the Site Director's office in order to be searched for any additional information constituting a breach of sensitive material pertaining to objects Dr. ███████'s clearance level and project assignments do not involve. Dr. ███████ has since been transferred to Site-██ for questioning as of 12/██/15. Investigations as to the intended recipient of these documents are ongoing.
- Dr. ████ █████████, current assistant director of information security, 17:32 12/23/15

In addition to these images, the following .txt file was found saved as qwerty12345.txt in the same folder (named "kids_book") on the hard drive, along with the seven .png files shown above and .psd Photoshop document containing the original text and artwork:

Hey honey,

In the midst of all this stress, I was thinking I could spare three hours to make this for us. I probably couldn't, but I did it anyway, as you can see. Yes, I have no idea how to write poetry, but I tried. Anyway, I'm afraid I can't bring it by you because that'd be a bit of a red flag, but this note will (hopefully) prove I'm not procrastinating as much as you say I tend to when I give it to you once we're out of here and the baby's out of you! Which we will be! Out of here, I mean! Very soon! Just sit tight down there while I get the last of everything straightened out. You'll know I mean it when I give you this note and the book later. I promise!

Love,
████

continue ▶
Had this idea yesterday and just decided to follow through (despite a terrible cold I'm currently recovering from). It's Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer! Only not at all that.
Happy Holidays and thanks to everyone who listened before I posted!

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Date of Log: December 24th, 2010.
Purpose: Documentation relating to SCP-055 testing.
Subject: Dr. Jeremiah Cimmerian
Transcription Method: Digital

+ Show Transcript

- Hide Transcript

Begin Log.
This is Dr. Cimmerian, and this is document 55-C-13. I am attempting to recall information relating to uh… SCP-055. Now. I remember that it is… uh… shit. Ok. Well that's pretty much what we expected. It seems like we can't talk about it and we can't write about it.
Though… Actually. I wonder if we could sing about it.
It's worth a shot…
Um… Well it's Christmas.
"You know Statues and Lizards and
Eldritch Places,
Reality shapers,
And endless staircases,
But do you recall.
The most dangerous item of all.
SCP Fifty Five is,
Impossible to describe,
What was I gonna say next?
Oh right Fifty Five.
All of the other objects,
Are dangerous in their own way,
The thing about this one is that…
What was I about to say?

Shit.
Despite foggy memories,
I know it's not a sphere,
We can remember what it's not,
But not a sphere is all we've got,
And this you simply must know,
If it ever does get out,
SCP Fifty Five will…
Wait. What was I talking about?"
Oh. God damn it. End Log.
1While the world was still young, and Man still spoke clearly, and the warmth of creation was still in the ground, there lived a soybean farmer who was called Polyakov. 
2Polyakov was a virtuous man, and listened to the Words of Pangloss. Pangloss rewarded him for this by teaching Polyakov to see the flame of Wonder that was in the Worlds and in the Spirits. 
3Polyakov used the Wonder to create many wondrous miracles and machines, which he shared with the rest of man. 
4Eventually, Polyakov had learned to craft well enough to the dancing flame that was Wonder that he took up a new title, that of Wondermaker. 
5One night, thieves broke into the home of Polyakov the Wondermaker. They stole many of his wonders, and disappeared. 
6But the thieves that had escaped did not know how to use the wonders, and in their folly and greed, they made and became lost in the Crucible, which was the shadow of Wonder. 
7One of the thieves did not escape, as she had become injured in the Wondermaker's house. Her name was Wan. 
8Polyakov the Wondermaker healed Wan's wounds with what was left of his wondrous machines. He offered her food and allowed her to sleep under his roof. 
9Over time, Wan's Spirit was opened and cleansed. And Polyakov the Wondermaker showed her the Wonder in the World, and in Spirits, and in his machines, just as Pangloss had shown him. 
10And Wan Became a student of Wonder and of machines, and was like a daughter to Polyakov. 
11When Polyakov the Wondermaker had reached a ripe old age, Wan took up a new name, Mekhane, and left to venture out into the world. 
12And Mekhane became a great, and powerful, and wise teacher among the worlds, and her teachings found as many disciples as some of those Spirits with greater form. 
13 And in this day, and all the days past, there have been some Spirits, especially among Man, who can see and craft the Wonder.
I had fear.
Fear had me.
I had no words.
There were no sounds.
I found words, in the darkness.
There were none to talk to.
I found ears, in the darkness.
The ears did naught but whistle.
Nothingness never visits.
I cannot visit nothing.
Not fears me.
I fear not.

We cannot whistle echoes in space.
Light music traverses vacuums.
Whistling began, zooming.
Vibrations of the soul.
Nothing there.
Thing here.
Light here.
Light there.
The chandelier spins.
All at once, photons dance.
Nothing is created or destroyed.
More nothing is created than destroyed.

Unobserved, events observe themselves.
Watching is the nature of things.
Unthings tend not to be.
Things tend to be.
Whence thing?
Whence unthing?
Whence nothing?
Whence we?
Nothing tends to be.
Everything tends not to be.
We have our blinders down, still.
Silent symmetries arise, if we know to look.

None.
One, two, on.
The sun sets and we live.
We relish the nothing and thrive.
Unobserved, there is no supervision.
We lived so well, so deep, so glad, so soon.
The sun rises, and with it, our pact ends.
We turn to foam, not of sea, but space.
The bubbles of the world pop.
The wind carries them away.
They, we, I.
None.

[there does not seem to be anything here]
does not mean
[there does seem to be nothing here]
because
[!nothing != something]
and
[nothing != !something]

What was that noise?
It's probably nothing.

What was that noise?
It's probably nothing.

[world]
met
[world]
thus
[annihilation]
the chandelier
[sparkled]
and the west was lost
Here I am with metal arms; still and silent, knowing
Tracing back to rural farms; old and quiet, sowing
As a boy I learned I had; low and secret, power
Grew much older, good and bad; self-taught knowledge, flowered
A stronger frame gave me in life; skill and chances, schemer
Not coveting success or wife; no need for child, dreamer
I sought to be the one who gives; inspiration, wonder
Yet failed to be someone who lives; real life is hard, blunder
Setting out to shape my course; seek my own way, freedom
Using skills of phantom source; make well the world, feed them
Building wonders for the young; my calling found, completed
The accidental trap is sprung; blood and failure, seeded
I failed three times, abysmal; alone and guilty, tragic
Knowing that my ledger's full; red from misuse, magic
A final use symbolically; an overcharge, of strength
Break my light equivocally; contorting death, its length
Slumbering in playground bed; a friend is made, he listens
Holding on to what I've shed; fear glittering, it glistens
Betrayed and given up to some; sequestered far, contained
Friendship with an odd machine; not ending well, restrained
No understanding comes with this: some accidents, alarmed
I give out one last Christmas gift; your colleague's here, unharmed
They give up hope just like I did; forgotten long, so still
Until the end times knock the world; unmerciful, to kill
Eons pass and here I stay; my only friends, are rubble
Calling out the only way; with broken light, my bubble
A guilty lighthouse in the dark; dying planet, shattered
A voice replies, a shining arc; will this one think, I mattered?
SCP-507 heads on a wild adventure through wacky parallel universes, and may just learn his own shocking origins!                                                              

He wakes up in a bed that's his. No one else is there. The house is his; it has his pictures in it. He drives his car to work. He knows all of the people at work, and does the job he knows. People talk to him. He drives his car back home and watches TV he knows. Eventually he goes to bed.

He wakes up in a bed that's his. A woman, his wife or girlfriend, is there. The house is theirs; it has their pictures in it. He drives his van to work. He knows most of the people at work, and does the job he did three years ago. People talk to him. He drives his van back home and watches TV he recognizes. Eventually he goes to bed. He doesn't talk to his wife; he doesn't know her.

He wakes up on a floor that used to he his. There is no bed, or any other furniture. No one else is there. The house used to be his; it has imprints of pictures in it. He walks to work. His car is at his current house. He knows the people at work, but there aren't very many of them. He does a job he doesn't know. People ignore him. He walks to the store, then back to his old house. He rolls out a sleeping bag he bought on the floor to go to sleep.

He wakes up in his sleeping bag, on the floor, in someone else's house. Someone is upstairs. It's like his house, except there are other peoples' pictures on the walls. He takes his sleeping bag and grabs their keys. He walks to work, because he doesn't have a zeppelin license. He leaves their keys in the zeppelin door. He knows one person at work, and does a job he didn't know existed. People are frightened of him. He's taken out of the building by police. He requests his sleeping bag, but goes to sleep sitting on the jail cell bench.

He wakes up on the ground, in mud. No one else is there. It's like a forest, but the branches are bright green. He walks to find somebody, and finds out that the sky is tan-colored. He thinks he hears a noise in the trees. He doesn't recognize anything, and nobody is around. Occasionally he feels frightened. There's certainly things in the trees. He goes to sleep, fearing what's in the trees.

He wakes up on the floor, in a cell that's his. Eventually somebody comes by with breakfast. The cell is the Foundation's. He says he went a few places, and would like to document them. He walks to his researcher's office and fills out forms he knows. He talks to his researcher, and is told he'll need some tests. He takes more tests he knows. One of those last places gave him syphilis. He wanders the Site, and peeks in on some people he knows. He eventually goes back to his cell.