recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
Splat! Splat!
Whe… whe… where is mommypult?
Splat!
Daddypult! Where are you? It's so strange here.
Where did the walking thing go? It was so nice to me. Why was there a large bang?
Splat!
What was that big light mommypult? It took you and daddypult away.
Splat!
But don't worry mommypult and daddypult I will still splat just like you taught me to even if the things here to splat are strange.
Splat!
All the other inanimatals here don't move. It's so strange here mommypult.
Splat! Splat! Splat!
Help me daddypult there are walking things chasing me! They are too big for little me to splat.
It's dark in here mommypult. I'm scared of the dark.
I can't move daddypult. I'm all tied up.
I can't go to sleep without a story daddypult.
Where am I?
Yay! Things to splat!
Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!
Did you see me splat all those things daddypult? Are you proud of your little babypult?
I can't see the sky anymore mommypult where did it go what happened to it is it missing like you are?
I'm tied up in the dark again daddypult where are you?
Yay! More things to splat!
Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!
Please don't put me in the dark again walking things please don't what did I do wrong? I splatted those things for you I'll be good I promise do you know where daddypult and mommypult are?
No please it's dark in here.
Please.
I'll be good
I promise
Yay! If I splat these for you will you take me to daddypult and mommypult I want to see them will you please?
Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!
No please not the dark again.
Please no.
Its dark.
Walking things?
Please let me out.
Please.
When will you let me out again? You left me in the dark walking things for so long.
I want my mommypult!
Please.
I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman
I've hunted cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian
I know the laws of science are quite rigid and inflexible
Except, of course, for thaumaturgy, which makes me quite vexable
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters scientifical
Of physics and of chemistry, both simple and atomical
I've mastered all the studies of phlogiston and aetherius
I claim this in no jest, for you will find I am quite serious
I'm very good at rhetoric and disputations logical
I'm learned in our politics and matters sociological
In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian
I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman
I know of secret histories both eldritch and mythical
I've trod the paths of ancient cities Martian and Atlantical
I've faced the ghosts of fallen lords Arthurian and Indian
And fallen off Mt. Everest to turn back and begin again
I can tell authentic poltergeists from frauds and forgeries
I know the differences between bewitchments and sorceries
I hum while sleeping melodies and symphonies quite magical
And dream of terrors bordering upon ecclesiastical
I can write a peace treaty in lost tongues of an elder race
And tell you every detail of the planets found in outer space
In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian
I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman
I can tell at sight a wyvern from a wyrm or para-drake
And discern thirty-six types of real vampires from spoofs and fakes
I've studied bones and fossils angelic and dinosaurical
And resurrected horrors divine, mundane, and demonical
I've learned of progress made mechanical and scientifically
Although only up 'til the turn of the twentieth century
But no one can deny the grace of our queen most Victorial
Whose reign around the world is both glorious and eternial
There's some who say my form has been reduced to that of sluggery
(Were I not a Christian, I'd accuse them all of buggery)
But still, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian
I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman!
Memo from Dr. Samesh: The above lyrics were found handwritten in a document filed among the personal effects of SCP-1867 in his country estate, dated 4/18/1880. The document was filed along with a letter to SCP-1867 signed by composer W.S. Gilbert, dated 10/17/1882, thanking him for his "lyrical tribute" and inviting him to attend the upcoming premiere of the comic opera Iolanthe.
The text of the final verse, which appears to refer to SCP-1867's current physical status, has been written in different handwriting than the remainder of the text, in the margin at the bottom of the page, underneath a verse which has been scribbled over to the point of illegibility. Graphological analysis has confirmed that the handwriting of this later addition matches that of SCP-662-1 ("Mr. Deeds"). In Interview 662-207, Mr. Deeds refused to confirm or deny whether he had altered the original document, citing his previous employers' privacy.
Did I ever tell you the story of the Hindenburg disaster? It was quite a big deal when it happened, it was all over the news for months. And I was there when it happened. I was just a young kid back then, barely ten years old. But even now, I remember it as clearly as my first campfire.
I went there with my grandfather, your great great grandpa Charlie. We had gone down to see the great Hindenburg land in our town. Everyone in town was there. You could feel the heat of the people all around you. The stars shined as bright as could be. I saw the great airship come in.
It was big, bigger than anything I had ever seen before. It had great big red swastikas on it, redder than any I had seen before. I could see them very clearly as it came in for a landing. I asked my grandfather how anything could be that big. He didn't answer, he just took another drag on his cigarette and kept watching.
All of a sudden there was this big light from the inside of the ship. It looked like some great paper lantern suspended there in the sky. People didn't know what to make of it, they just looked on, dumb as a sheep looking into an inferno. Then all of a sudden… it bursts into flames.
You could feel the wave of heat wash over you. I can still hear the people screaming. They screamed so loudly… it seemed like all that you could hear was the screaming and the running. I wanted to run, but grandfather held me tightly. I can remember the warmness of his hand as he squeezed me.
Watching that big blimp go down was breathtaking. You could see people trying to get it under control on the ground, and people in the cabins trying to get out. It was just a terrible, terrible thing for a young kid like me to watch…I had forgotten about it till now. But this photo brings it all back.
I've got that warm fuzzy feeling.
December 22, 1998:
Lament leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and reaching for his sandwich, taking a bite. Lunch had become a private affair, especially after he learned that everyone else had chosen to take the pills. He'd included a picture of Sandlemyer's corpse—a body that in no way reflected the man who had once been—in the file for 106, setting the heavy document on the corner of his desk.
He turned his attention to 884 for a moment, glimpsing over it again and sighing, thinking back to what Sandy had said. 'Get someone inside the Insurgency…' Why the hell not? Anything was worth a try at this point.
He sighed and reached for his phone, dialing the number and rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
"Hello? Agent Strelnikov?" he asked. "I'm not sure if you remember me. Lament. We met on my first day." A pause. "Yeah, Gears' kid. I was looking for someone for a possible assignment. Deep cover." Annoyed Russian from the other end of the phone. "I know, but you're the only person I know over there, so I figured you'd know who to bother about it…"

August 10, 2007:
A smirk was worming its way over Lament's lips as he closed the file, leaning back in his chair, laughing quietly to himself. There was no one else to laugh to, after all. He looked over at Gears, hoping that the other would ask him what he was so pleased about, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping, then leaning forward, staring at him until the doctor raised his head and looked at him.
"Yes, Agent?"
"884… is closed."
He leaned back again, arms behind his head.
"Congratulations," Gears said.
"Thank you," replied Lament.
There would be no praise, nor would there be any accolades. Your feelings of reward in the Foundation were the ones you made for yourself. Doing your job, and doing it well, meant one of two things: you lived or someone else did. That was enough.
It had to be.
"Would you like half of my sandwich, sir?" Lament asked.
"No, thank you, Agent."

Lunch?

Lament nodded, taking the plastic wrapped, perpetually dry roast beef out of the brown bag on his desk. "Then if you'll excuse me, I think I might take it in the atrium. It's nearly time for Sophie's lunch break…"
Gears nodded. "Tell Dr. Light I need her report on SCP-371, when she's finished."
"I will, sir."
Lament stood, walking toward the door when Gears spoke. "And Agent?"
"Yes, sir?"
Gears stared at him for a moment. It stretched past comfort into awkwardness, and Lament found it necessary to cough, then repeat. "Yes, sir?"
"Good work."
The awkwardness became palpable.
"Thank you, sir."
Gears nodded once, and Lament— feeling an emotion he could not put into words— left the office. When he got to the atrium, he stole a kiss from Light's cheek, took the obligatory punch in the arm, and then shared the lackluster sandwich with her.
All in all, he considered it a good day.

« Interlude 6 | HUB | Epilogue »
Happy Birthday… to You.

August 18, 2007:
"I'm sorry… I really… really am…" Lament said, swallowing to keep his voice from cracking. "You're… You're like a father to me… You don't understand that I… that I just… I can't do this anymore… I've asked to be transferred to active duty. Site14."
Gears looked at him, his face blank and expressionless.
"I… Anyhow…" Lament placed a small, square package on the desk in front of the balding man. "Happy Birthday."

« Part 6 | HUB | Part 7 »
August 16, 2007:

"There's some things you don't want on your conscience."

Agent Lament stood in the mess of Site19, staring out the window and looking at the landscape, part of his mind making an effort to register that the world was, in fact, still there. That everyone was actually alive. That it had happened. His stomach was twisted in pained, difficult knots, and he really just wanted privacy. But he wasn't alone.
He could hear the two men, both low staff, talking across the mess from him. Their voices carried, but he wasn't really paying attention.
"What's that guys problem? He onna them montaukers?"
"Nah," the first one said. "He works with Gears."
The other one laughed quietly. "So? Gears seems like uh good guy."
"Good as any of 'em, ennyway."
"Well, hell, then. I'ma go ask him what his problem is…"
A sound of a slight scuffle somewhere behind Lament brought his attention back to the room. He looked at their reflection in the glass, the taller one holding the other's arm solidly in his grip.
"Don't," the first one said quickly, his voice dropping. "Lesson number one about workin' around these guys: there's some things you don't want on your conscience."

« Part 5 | HUB | Part 6 »
February 19, 2009:

Wishing he didn't remember

"He. He. He. He. Hee."
Lament sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, the laugh still echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, forcing the sound out of his head, then swinging his legs over the side and walking toward the shower.
He stepped into it, letting the cold water course over his back, feeling it slowly begin to warm as the echoing nightmare finally, slowly stopped…
He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. For a moment, he was almost certain that the porcelain of the shower wall was giving way, handprints emerging from it like a child's hand playing with their blankets. Mocking hands that would reach for his throat and squeeze the life out of him, but he wouldn't die. No. He'd live while the owners of those hands played. Played and laughed. "He. He. He. He. Hee."
As he briefly considered reaching for his sidearm on the sink, the effect faded. For a moment, he still considered reaching for it, for another purpose, and when he realized it, he slumped down the wall of the tub, sitting under the water until it had long run cold, staring weakly at the drain.
Wishing he didn't remember, but glad that he did.

« Part 4 | HUB | Part 5 »
July 5, 2004:

"Butterflies!"

It was an unholy din that surrounded the pair, people shouting and clamoring. There was a fifteen minute window when Site19 could have the yearly photo made, and currently, Dr. Glass was having a hard time getting people to listen, much less position themselves.
"C'mon, guys! Please! This shouldn't take long if you'll all just get into your places."
Lament found himself smiling. Waving at some friends as he worked toward the left of the room, moving to stand behind Gears' shoulder.
When he looked around, he saw Agatha, giving him a significant look. He looked back at her, tilting his head and shrugging, giving her one of those—'hell do you WANT me to do'—looks. She gave it to him again, and he sighed, tapping Gears' shoulder.
"Sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Agent," Gears replied without turning around.
"Smile, sir."
"And what purpose would that serve, Agent?"
He took a breath.
"Smiling would serve to put the others at ease, sir. As this is a social function for the entire site, your smiling could aid the others in the establishment of a more efficient and normalized workplace, something that I believe your own reports have called essential when dealing with the unnatural world in which we work."
It was obviously prepared. Rehearsed. Practiced.
Gears turned and looked at him. After a moment, the corners of his lips inclined in a corpse-like rictus that never touched his eyes.
"Is this sufficient?"
Lament found himself grinning now. Genuinely.
"Yes, sir."
"Everyone!" shouted Glass. "Say… Butterflies!"
"Butterfliiieeessss," said the chorus.

« Part 3 | HUB | Part 4 »
July 7, 2005:

"I heard you like… ctenophores."

"Hey!"
Lament jumped at his desk, turning and looking up at the woman. Long, lightly curling, brown hair. Constant smirk. Mirthy eyes.
"Heya, Sophie," he said, grinning as he stood. The smile came to his face easy. It always seemed to around her. "Hey, listen, I got you something…"
"Oh…? Gifts? On a first date?"
"It's just lunch!" he defended. It was a date.
"Regardless, sir. Most unbecoming." Still that smirk. God, he loved that smirk.
"Well, I couldn't pay for the meal, since we're on base, so…" He pulled out a clear, glass vial, passing it to her carefully.
"Someone told me you like… ctenophores."
She looked down at it, then up at him, her face registering a mix of shock and joy.
"Best. Date. Ever."
Hehe. It was a date.

« Part 2 | HUB | Part 3 »
August 18, 2007:

Happy Birthday to You

Lament's fingers slid over the chromium frame for a moment. It had been expensive, but the joke—which he knew wouldn't be laughed at—was worth it. His first failure for a final hurrah. He let a slight smirk slip over his lips, looking down at the picture, at the smile that looked almost abnormal, and laughed.
Lament wanted to think 'The look on his face…' or something similarly reflective, but he knew that it would be the same as it always was. Blank. Calculating.
He pulled out the wrapping paper, and slowly began folding it around the picture with a half smile, humming happy birthday.

« Part 1 | HUB | Part 2 »
You know what my favorite part of a roller coaster is? The climb. You're just inching your way up that hill, and you know that the terrible drop is coming soon. Riding with family is even better. I can see the tension building on their faces as you depart from the station. I love the clicky sound it makes as you go up and up and up and… Down…
I feel gravity let go as you plunge down the first hill. My hair is in my face, and the skin on my face is stretched back. I open your mouth and let out a big scream, and then pull into a loop - eugh, whats all this in the air? It looks all red… What is this stuff?
I don't really care anyways. We're going into the loop! Loops are the best part of any coaster. Especially when you sit in the front row. Man, the dudes in the front row aren't even putting their hands up. Everyone else does, why don't they?
The second loop is even better. It has a really sweet banked turn, so you can see everyone on the coaster going nuts. And those guys in the first row are still being sourpusses, not even lifting a hand. They aren't even… They're not cheering or anything.
No, that can't be true. It must have been a trick of the light. I'm okay, everyone is okay. People are still yelling with joy, the coaster is still on. Nobody is in danger. I'm okay. Time for the third loop of the ride, the cobra roll… Oh god.
I have to get out of here. This isn't fun anymore, I have to get off. I can hear everyone screaming, but nobody is stopping us. Maybe it will stop, maybe it will be okay… Oh god, it's another loop…
I can hear the people in the row before me crying. They're holding each other, crying and wailing… I'm not going out that way. I have to get out of this restraint. Why is it so tight?
It won't let me off.
This message is to be distributed to all Foundation personnel:
In recent weeks, we have lost a lot of good men. To those of you at stationed at Sites far away from their passings, this may come as a surprise, as containment breaches are at a quarterly low. Those of you at the Sites which have lost men know the cause: A mass epidemic of suicides is sweeping the SCP Foundation.
Before you panic, know that our top researchers and doctors have determined that this is not any sort of memetic kill hazard unleashed upon the personnel of the Foundation, nor does it have anything to do with the new set of anomalous objects whose exact properties we have yet to classify. Everything is, as of this writing, still locked up nice and tight. Near as we can tell, there are simply a lot of people working for us who have gotten depressed. As such, this notice has been sent to you in the hopes of preventing any more unnecessary losses. It is respectfully asked that you not take any further action until you finish reading.
A lot has been made of the suicides of Researcher Kermode and Doctor Shears. They aren't the only two who have chosen to take their lives in these past weeks, but they are the ones whose stories have been spread around the most. Their notes indicated, respectively, that they didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, and that they held far too much responsibility. Our psychological branches have instructed me to not refute these claims; individually, there's a lot that's bigger than us, and it's entirely possible that we may one day screw up. There is really no point in trying to sugar coat reality, even if it is for a good cause.
The problem with their arguments is that they don't see any of the good we as the Foundation do. Kermode failed to see himself as a part of something working for the greater benefit of mankind, and Shears, while sidestepping the issue, thought only of the gloom and doom the Foundation could bring upon everyone.
In contrast to what those two and many others thought before taking their lives, the situation we are in is possibly one of the best the Foundation has ever seen. We have found a record number of anomalous objects in the past year, gained enough people to more than keep up with our hiring needs, and successfully lowered containment breaches by sixty percent. If we were going to crush the world in our hands, we would have done so by now.
The very idea that committing suicide is somehow going to improve our situation is absolutely ludicrous. However, there is, once again, the fact that we simply live in a very, very grim world. It's hard to get through the day living with the knowledge we have. But you all really do need to remember, things simply are not that bad.
We are doing the right thing. We are being incredibly successful at it. We are making things better. We are actively saving lives. And we need you to keep your life protected. If you just remember that, we can nip this suicide thing in the bum, and get back to making the world a better place.
It's rare for a message from higher up to end this way, but have a nice day.
-Sgt. Lee P.
Last week, we lost Researcher Kermode. He hung himself in his office. Didn't even leave a note explaining why. Everyone thinks he broke under stress.
Well, this week, we're losing me. And I think you all deserve an explanation as to why.
I was working with Kermode on a few projects. We dug up a few… ugly things. Who could have guessed that manuscript would reveal the Foundation going back that far? Or that the fortune teller would show us the possibility of it existing far, far into the future, desperately trying to keep the human race safe even after the apocalypse. Hell, I'll admit I was shaken when we stumbled into the containment chambers even the O5s didn't know about.
Kermode killed himself because in light of all of that, all of those grand achievements that the Foundation's done and will do, he felt like nothing. Just a bug crawling across the surface of the planet, searching for a non-existent meaning. At the time, I didn't really get what had shaken him up so badly. Still didn't for the past week or so. But his death got me thinking.
I still don't see exactly what's so horrifying about being insignificant; it's something every living creature has to deal with. But our work, and the time I've had to think since his death, that's brought me to another conclusion. I'm not insignificant.
I work for the Foundation. Even if I'm only a single unit, I'm still a unit that's working with a million others, working behind the scenes to keep the world safe from impending disaster. We're all part of one great, big machine, designed specifically to keep everyone safe. We here aren't insignificant; we're the most important people on the planet.
And that terrifies me.
Has anyone really ever realized how many people we protect? How many people whose simple existence relies on us not screwing up? There's seven billion individual walking, thinking, innocent people out there who could die the very instant we make a mistake. Hell, in a few cases, a sizable chunk of the universe is relying on us to play our cards just right. Every last little thing is reliant on us, and we're continually one bad move away from ending it all.
And even if we don't screw up, look at all these new threats materializing. We've brought in close to a thousand new objects this year. What was the average beforehand? Twenty? Thirty? Something big is happening. The sheer amount of anomalies popping up tells me that we'll be needing to apply more and more pressure to the world soon. Tightening our defenses, closing up gaps, making every thing safer and safer, always applying more pressure.
We're the protectors of the world. We've got the whole planet in our hands, cupping it with a light squeeze to keep it safe. What happens on the day we squeeze a little too hard, and everything implodes?
I can't be a part of that. I need to get out, right now. Even the time it would take to apply for an amnestic is too long to live with the knowledge that our only two options are utter failure and destructive success. So that's why I'm relying on a piece of lead in my brain.
I've got to go now.
Goodbye.
dear diary
My name is Lizzy Byrn, and i am 7 years old. My mommy and daddy and me just moved in a new house in a town called Frankinberg. Mommy says that we came here becouse of daddys job and so the baby can have new room. i am excited for the baby. Mommy says his name will be tommy and we will be friends. i hope he will be my friend.
Lizzy

Dear diary,
Today when me and mommy were in the top room of the house i found a teddy bear. when i found him he started to move. he gave me a hug! i took him in my dress and hid him in the toy cabinet. i named him benny. he is my new friend.
Lizzy

dear diary
today my friend jenny came over to play with me. when i showed her benny, she said she thought it was the best toy ever! then benny went over to my crayons and drew a picture of me and jenny holding his hands. it was the cutest thing ever. then mommy came in and saw him, and she started to yell about it being un-natral. so she took him away and made jenny leave. i was sad but then later benny came back! i gave him my biggest hug and made him promise to never leave me

dear diar
today mommy had to go to the doctor. i dont know why, but daddy and the doctor said mommy will be gone for a long time now. they wont let me see mommy. i dont know where benny is he went away and now i dont know where he went. the doctor said that tommy is gone too. i want to see tommy he was supposed to be my friend
all my friends are gone

dear diary!
today i went outside while daddy was at the bar. i was out by the bench when benny was there! i picked him up and hugged and kissed and told him i loved him. it was happy. and then the best thing ever happened.
tommy was there too!!!!! he moved kind of funny and he looked like benny on the outside but i knew it was tommy. i picked them both up and took them to the toy room. tommy is all lumpy and slow, but he plays just the same as benny. i love him.
Lizzy

dear diary
today i saw that daddy was sad so i asked him why he was sad. he said that lizzy you need to stop asking so many god damn questions. i asked him if he missed tommy and he didnt say anything. so i went and showed him tommy. daddy went all weird and ran into the kitchen. he wouldnt stop crying and crying and crying. i told him that me and tommy loved him forever. he told me to go. i went to my room and held tommy for a long long time.
Lizzy

DEAR DIARY
Tody i found a new friend. his name is davey and he will be my friend forever. he is made of daddy. i dont know where daddy is but he didnt love me as much as me and tommy loved him i thought daddy loved me he told me he hated me. i dont go in the house anymore. i stay with benny. he brings me and tommy food and we have all the love we need we are a family together with love. nobody can take it away.
Will you come sit with us?
It is very cold out here, and we are very lonesome. People do not visit us very often, so we do not get to see people. We like people. Please come be with us. We would really love to hear more about you. Will you not stay?
Please don't be frightened by our appearance. We did not choose to be made this way. We had no say in the matter. All we can do is stay in this form. You see? We are touching you, and nothing bad is happening at all. Stop screaming at us.
We are not taking you anyplace dangerous, we promise. It is simply a place we take all of our new friends. We will not harm you. Please stop screaming so loudly, it is upsetting. We are lifting you up now, please stop moving around so much. It's easier that way.
Why are you still afraid? The treetop view is one that is very beautiful, and not many people see it often. See the stars, and the moon? They are beautiful this time of night. We often observe them from the ground as we contemplate things. We have much time for contemplation.
We are putting you down now. See? No harm was done to you at all. Now that you trust us, will you come visit again soon? We have not seen anyone for so long. Sometimes in the absence we practice, making the gateways to the treetops. We are so very… alone, all the time now… please let us show you the stars again….
So yeah, my name is Mister Chameleon. Also known as 'That one color guy,' 'Oh yeah, he's a mister, right?' or 'Doctor Wondertainment's afterthought.' Sometimes it can be hard to be me. After all, when all the other misters just look at you and kind of snicker, its hard to feel upbeat about yourself. Sure, I've gone to self-help seminars, bought the self esteem books by the dozen, and tuned in to every TV guru that there is. It doesn't help when as soon as you try out the techniques, people start snickering.
It's not my fault. I was made this way. I'm just made out of light. Maybe it's that I can't do the things the other misters do. I can't make you laugh, or do cool stuff with the phases of the moon. You can't take me apart and put me back together. And you sure can't take off my head to play with it or whatever you do with a severed head. I can't do any of that stuff. What do you people want from me anyways? For cryin' out loud I'm made of light!
But yeah, like I said, its hard to be the least known of the Misters. Sometimes I wonder why. Why me? I'm perfectly alright. I can change to any color you please, and I'm number one on everybody's list! Surely people should be like "Oh Mister Chameleon, he must be one cool cat, right? After all, he's number one on the list! Wow! That's amazing!" But no, instead of having just a little bit of the fanfare going to the number one person on the list, it all goes to Forget, Laugh, and Brass! Why? Laugh doesn't even do anything cool! And all Laugh does is make me feel depressed. And I mean, I can see why people like using a human tinker-toy set, all he does is complain if you use him! Not me! I would never complain about hanging out with some of you guys.
So maybe like, call me sometime or something sometime? I can really be available anytime you need me. Even if I'm like, busy or something, I'm sure I would be able to make time. After all, there isn't really a lot to do over here, y'know? I can maybe come entertain at parties and stuff? Lets just hang out sometime.
Please?
Diane was glad they had found such a nice neighborhood for the kids. She and Paul had worried about finding someplace good for them to grow up in. Some of the neighborhoods they had looked at were full of hoodlums and pushers and all sorts of nasty things. But as soon as she had stepped foot into the house at 23rd terrace, she knew the home was right for her. And now three months later, she could tell that she had definitely made the right choice. The neighbors were so kind, and everyone had everything they needed, and they shared. Sure it was a little isolated, but that just meant the community was tighter knit. It really felt like one big family.
Sometimes she thought about how life was before the community, living in that tiny apartment. It was cheaper, but the people living there were all awful. It was no place to raise a family. The gated community was also far superior to any normal neighborhood, because it kept the hoodlums out. Even though it could get boiling when the sun was out, since the gates didn't provide A/C, and sometimes sleep patterns could be messed up since the roof didn't allow any light to come in, but those were minor issues compared to drug pushers and gangs.
Why, just last week old lady Miriam down the street had a heatstroke. Sadly, she hadn't made it, but this had provided a bounty for the community as a whole. After all, when you could have a feast like the one that she left behind, you didn't have to worry about foraging for food and water. The meal Miriam had provided had given everyone on 23rd terrace with food and gristle. Sure, they would miss her valuable contributions to the community, like the way she could spot interlopers a mile away, but the food was better than the eyes. Although, the eyes were pretty tasty.
Diane shivered as she thought of the interlopers. Sure, they were mostly harmless, skulking about at the edges of the gates, but they represented a real danger to the community. If these weirdoes could get in, soon there would be the others from the old times, and then the whole neighborhood would go. That was why she was grateful for the lynchings. Some people might feel pity for the interlopers, as they hung them from the highest beams available to them, but Diane didn't. If these monsters felt like trespassing on private property, there wasn't much that could be done for them.
Diane looked up, and saw that the artificial sunlight emitters were going down. It was time for the forage. She kissed Paul goodbye, slung up her gun, and headed out into the junkyard. She and her neighbors saddled up and went in ready to kill. After all, you never know what might be here. Sometimes they found people from other communities. Once, they had shared resources with them, but they had become selfish and greedy and had to be exterminated. They had to protect their kin.
It was the neighborly thing to do.
Rain was pouring down on me from up above, pattering on the skylight of the break room as if mother nature herself had just gotten a broken heart. I could barely stand the sound. It reminded me of worse times, when the sound of the rain on glass was nothing more than the distance between me and a liquor store. Those were hard times.
The sound started getting under my skin, so I went for a walk. Most evenings it's so dark you can't tell if it's day or night, and the only comfort you might get is the buzzing of fluorescent lamps and the yellowish glows they cast across the floor. Beyond that, around here the only friends you ever get are the sound of your heart beating fast and that feeling of a chill on the back of your neck when you think you're alone.
The sound of my footsteps on the tile floor echoes like gunshots down the twisting corridor. I got a few stares from the tired Janes and grumpy Joes around every corner, but I didn't care. Nobody was gonna stop me from what I had to do. That rain! I could still hear it on the windows, and I felt my stomach sink like a cannonball in water. Somehow (and don't ask me how) I made it back to my office and sat down. My desk was littered with requests and reports, glaring up at me with their cold facts and their unending pain. I was tired. The rain still shook deep in my head and split my skull like a bolt of fire.
I drew my sidearm and laid the sleek, black weapon on the desk, a tool of death coiled and ready to strike like a venomous snake. I'd thought about the possibility of ending things before. I heard once that firing a gun is a binary choice: Either you pull the trigger or you don't. Sometimes that decision is slow. Sometimes it's a decision you make in an instant.
If nothing else, then the grave would silence this godforsaken rain.
-
Dr. Brown pulled the hat off of the corpse. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."
Agent Stevens shook his head. "This is ridiculous. How does a containment breach like this even happen?"
Brown put the hat into a box and sealed it. "He checked it out earlier for research. He got approval from three level 3's. He followed protocol, up until he put the damn thing on."
"Well, shit." He pointed at the box and glared at the doctor. "I want to make sure that thing stays locked up from now on. When I find out how the hell this happened, I'm gonna have one hell of a report. I'll be lucky if I still have a job." His eyes drifted over the dead researcher on the floor. "Then again, that might not be such a bad thing."
Back Into Hell, a Foundation poem
The howling wind steals the breath
I would have used to chant;
Boots, belt, gun, mask
My gear, my only chance
The rear doors open wider
The “go” light blinks to life
I follow my commander
Out into the sky
Plunging downward, rising panic
I still don't know what is the target
Am I falling to my death
Am I heading into hell?
The radio flares, static in my ears
Broken words not mine to hear
Clouds part, I see a landscape
I see a place that's gripped in fear
Feet find ground, my head yet spinning
Friends are screaming, rifles spitting
Things surround me, tall and dark
I feel the devil grip my heart
Some letters and number is what they say
That's all they give them for a name
Stamp them; label, date and time
These darkest nightmares from our minds
Containment is a word to me
A bureaucratic fantasy
A white coat will keep you safe
When Kevlar fails and weapons break
The task force folds, retreat is called
Not one of them is yet to fall
These things are not born of this realm
Through withering fire, they overwhelm
Engines scream over my head
I tumble down and wait for death
The bombs explode, the missiles hit
I cower and cry inside my pit
I stand up in a different world
Where fires sputter and smoke whirls
My friends are dead, I am alone with fear
From out of the darkness, more appear
I dream of this when I can sleep
After a pill and a solid drink
I still remember how I felt
When my orders arrive:
Back into hell.
Taken from the journal of Agent Baomer, commander of MTF Sigma-7
The following was flagged by Site 19's automated data filter (tagged with flags CLASSIFIED DATA, O5, SCP-682, SCP-173). As the following contains personal log data, only those with Site Administration clearance and above are cleared to view this document.
Personal audio log of Researcher Joshua "Watery" Hayes, June 7th 20██
Various banging and rustling sounds can be heard in the background. CCTV footage at this time shows Hayes retrieving a bottle of ██ █████ brand vodka from under his bunk. Questioning about this log revealed it to be imported from Hayes's homeland of New Zealand, and upon Hayes requesting that he be allowed to keep the bottle as a keepsake, it was not removed from his procession as per Site regulations.
A scuffing sound is heard, confirmed as Hayes sitting in his work space chair. Hayes then takes a drink from the bottle of vodka, and sighs.
"You know what's fucked about this world? Because I know."
"It's not the monsters that wish nothing but death upon our species, like 682. It's not that which we don't understand, 173. Hell, most of the Euclids. It's not the things that infest humanity, or use and abuse it. And no, it's not humanity itself."
"It's the things lurking among us. It's the ticking time bombs, like 231. It's the ones that can't control themselves, like 507, no matter how nice he is, poor bastard. It's the ones that can murder us all with a thought, and not even intend it, like 239."
At this point, Hayes takes another drink from the bottle of vodka, and sets the bottle down nosily.
"There's a security guard here. Runs the detail up at the main entrance. He's a great guy. Funny, pretty smart. Basically the kind of guy that nearly everyone can get along with. Today, I asked him if he wanted to have a few drinks after shift. Unwind, relax. He declined politely, saying that he would be abandoning his post. Even after I debated with him whether or not he would be abandoning his post or not, he still declined. So I gave up and went about my day."
"At the end of my shift, I was chatting with my superior. I asked her about the guard, and she gave me this funny look, then she said:"
"'He's an SCP.'"
"Gave me a number, a file and went on her way. I came back here, to my quarters and read the file. Turns out he's damn near 1000 years old. Turns out he can seal out a doorway or gateway completely with some form of forcefield. The Foundation found him at the last place he was guarding: Some old castle in Scotland."
"And that got me thinking. How many others are out there. How many people who think they are normal, who are living normal lives, with this one quirk that bothers them every once in a while are out there? How many are harmless? How many are dangerous? How many do we know about?"
"And how many of the dangerous ones know what they can do?"
Hayes chuckles at this point.
"Some fucked up world we live in."
Interview Log 1867-23
Interviewer: Dr. Adam Bernstein
Interviewed: SCP-1867
Forward: During a standard checkup interview with SCP-1867 the subject, at the request of Dr. Bernstein, was asked to elaborate on the nature of one of the items found in his collection- an ornate brass baton. The baton, while showing no overt anomalous properties, caught Dr. Bernstein's attention due to amount of dried blood still covering it. SCP-1867 complied enthusiastically.
Begin Log
Dr. Bernstein:: Good afternoon, SCP-1867.Dr. Bernstein: Very well. Theodore, I would like to ask you a few question about this [shows picture of the baton].Dr. Bernstein: Would you care to elaborate?Dr. Bernstein: Please, continue.Dr. Bernstein: Focus on the baton, please.Dr. Bernstein: Does this have anything to do with the baton?Dr. Bernstein: Why did the Prime Minister need you to get rid of this wizard?Dr. Bernstein: Carry on.Dr. Bernstein: [sighs] Focus please, SCP-1867.Dr. Bernstein: And how did the raid go?Dr. Bernstein: What did the device do to Sargent Monroe?Dr. Bernstein: So the baton is just an ordinary command baton? No thaumaturgic power to it?Dr. Bernstein: I would think so.
End Log

Footnotes
1. Known today as the Crimean War.
2. No information about this event exists in Foundation archives.
3. The Indonesian Howler Sloth is believed to be one of the previously unknown species of mammal found in Blackwood's possessions.
I stood nervously before the desk. Although I'd met the Intelligence Operations Regional Director once before, when I first transferred into the department, I'd never had to deliver a report to someone this high up the chain of command before. It was a less than pleasant experience.
Director Jameson looked up from the smart-phone she had been handling, turned it to face me, and said, "So, Agent Beard, please explain what I'm seeing here." On the screen of the phone was a large circles-and-arrows logo, with "Special Containment Protocols. How safe do you feel?" printed below it.
"Well, ma'am, I was looking for an app on my personal phone and decided to look up a few Foundation keywords as a joke. Unfortunately, as you can see, there actually was an app out there. At $14.99, it's more expensive than most apps, which we hope may have limited the number of people downloading it, but until we complete analysis of the involved databases, we won't know for certain how many copies are out there."
She placed the phone on the desk and steepled her fingers as she looked at me. "And how extensive is the breach?"
I held my hands behind my back, absently noticing that my palms were getting sweaty. "It contains heavily redacted protocols for about 450 items, mostly classified as Safe, and a couple of other internal documents, including a handful of personnel files." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "One of them is an almost fully unexpunged file on Dr. Bright."
Director Jameson's brow furrowed slightly as she briefly closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "Can these files be traced to any given Site?"
"The most likely origin of the leak is the central data hub in-" The phone buzzed, interrupting me. Director Jameson picked it up, tapped the screen a couple of times, then slid it over to me.
There was an update to the app, advertising "37 new Items! New pictures for 17 old Items! UI upgrade! New submission form to report any Items you find out in the wild!"
Director Jameson's voice grew harsh and her eyes grew cold as she said, "Coordinate with Internal Security and locate the source of this leak. I don't care if you have to crash Apple's servers, but get that app off the market immediately and locate anyone who got a copy. I want a weekly summary on your progress. Dismissed."
I picked up the phone and left the room, glad that I wasn't getting blamed for the breach. Yet, anyway. And here I thought that transferring from field intel duty would be less stressful.
This letter is to anyone who remembers that one should always take care of their fellow man.
I'm stuck in this little room surrounded by a big layer of concrete. I usually can't open the door because it locks from the other side. Sometimes people leave the door opened and I leave, but when I try to get someone to help me, nobody will pay any attention to me. I can try hitting them, knocking their stuff over, screaming at them, but they'll just keep going about their business like I don't even exist. Sometimes I try to run away, but when I get outside my head starts hurting, and then I get really tired. When I go to sleep, I wake up back in that intolerable room, locked in and forgotten. Again.
Sometimes people come into my room. We talk, and they're usually very surprised to see me. They always promise to get me help. They take lots of notes and photos so they don't forget me, but they always do. Lately, it's been a bunch of scientists in lab coats. You would think that a scientist would have a better memory then those other guys who came before them, but they forget about me like all the rest.
If you find this letter, and you come into my room, please don't leave me in there. Take me with you so we can make people see me. Make them see I exist.
Please.
Why doesn't anyone remember me?
BODY once told me                                                                                                                            

The following document was mailed to Agent Green's father, with instructions to forward it to his son, along with the message "Hast wir eine Gecoolen yet?". The sender has not been identified.

A stock image.

Item #: Fire officials say at least 8 injured as vehicle hits students outside California high school.
Object Class: A squeeze play that works two ways.
Special Containment Procedures: Md., Va. motorists warned to stay away if possible from Wilson Bridge this weekend. The Root DC Live : Things to do May 24 to June 7. UK Supreme Court backs extradition of WikiLeaks chief. UN rights council to hold special session Friday on Syrian massacre in Houla.
Description: Police in both parts of Ireland launch crackdown on prostitution, raid brothels islandwide. Capital Weather Gang : Oklahoma City pounded by severe weather Tuesday, and more on the way today. Resolution praising feds has bleak future. What California's lieutenant governor thinks of Project Glass after trying them on. Chen Guangcheng, now in U.S., poised to play role in yet another abortion debate.
Cook's scoreless streak ends with Morneau's tying double in 8th; Twins take down A's 5-4. Logmill Road project, site of fatalities, is delayed. Capital Buzz: Parature's former chief executive reprises role. Past Romney critics praise his jobs record on Sunday talk shows. French Open's defending champion, Li Na of China, adjusts to new status as title holder. A quiz on 'Coppelia,' presented by the Bolshoi Ballet at the Kennedy Center.
The high cost of savings.
Addendum: ‘More politics than faith' in bishops' religious freedom campaign? To fast or not? London Olympics forcing Muslim athletes to consider delaying Ramadan fast. Missile Defense! Where should they put the East Coast site? (A Loop contest). Who will invent the future?

I'm almost positive they're just fucking with us.- Dr. Carlisle