recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
It was time. His children were ready to come into the world. They would have to be born by C-section, however; he had no natural opening from which to birth them. He took his cellphone into the bathroom with him and pre-dialed 911, then set it aside without pressing the call button. Then, he got his straight razor, cleaned it, brought it up to the chain of lumps that trailed across his throat like the most precious necklace in the world, and carefully began to cut.
The white one came out easily; she was small, but healthy, and was still growing even as he gently placed her and her shining spiral shell onto the clean towel. She was a beautiful baby, with ten fingers and ten toes. But the red one was stillborn, just a shrivelled twist of grey tissue; tears that had nothing to do with the pain of labour trailed down the father's cheeks. The orange one, too, was nothing but dust in their shell; he waited until he could get his Adam's apple to stop trembling before he kept cutting. Yellow, green, cyan, blue, violet… all of them had died before they even had the chance to be born. In his desperate haste to get the last, black shell out, his hand slipped, and blood started gushing out of his throat. His vision was blurring as the shell slipped into his hand, but he could still see clearly enough the plump, healthy baby boy within. The razor clattered onto the countertop as he scrambled for his phone with the hand not cradling his precious son. He sank slowly to the floor. He was so tired… but he had to press that button. He couldn't rest until he knew his babies would be taken care of.
"911, what is your emergency?" the voice on the other end asked.
"My children…" he rasped. "You need to save my children."
"Sir, are you alright?"
"No… ." His arm started getting too weak to hold the phone up. "Make sure they go to a loving home, will you… ?" His arm fell to the side, the phone with it. He could vaguely hear the dispatcher's increasingly concerned questions, but they seemed so far away. Maybe it would be okay to close his eyes for a bit. He was sure things would be taken care of.
The last thing he heard was the angelic voice of his daughter as she crawled out of her shell and called out for him.
"Daddy?"
I regret nothing.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

For just a moment I relax. This is a safe place. For now. The receptionist is nice. She guides me to Mr. Jackson's Office. I look over my shoulder only three times as I walk down the hallway.
I breathe in and contemplate this new hell. I try counting the ticks of the clock on the wall. Tick. Tock. Tick. There's a fern in the corner, and a slightly balding man in glasses at the center of the room. He is looking at my paperwork on the desk in front of him. He pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.
He speaks downward into the paperwork. "This is the third time you've come here with an insurance claim for structural damage to your house. What happened?"
I swallow twice. The man puts his glasses back on and pushes them up his nose. "A tree. It's the craziest thing. You remember that storm last month? I think it weakened one of the oaks outside my house."
The man clears his throat. "I just… I don't know that we can keep paying for this."
"The whole side wall is gone. And I'm up to date on my payments." I lean forward.
"I'm sorry. At the very least we're going to have to assign an investigator to look into it. If he says everything is good, we'll look into paying… but it's going to take a few months at least."
I cannot afford to put up another wall without the insurance. But it doesn't matter anyway. The thing that's following me won't be stopped by a wall. It cannot be stopped at all. I have no idea when or where I attracted its attention. It has followed me for a year and a half. A path of destruction miles wide has been left in my wake.
But here I am. Trying to live a normal life. Trying to pretend that nothing is wrong. I stand up and apologize. "I'm sorry to've wasted your time. Your office has my number. Just let me know what I need to do, when I need to do it, and where. The sooner I get my wall back up the better."
"Oh no, Ma'am. It's me who should apologize." The balding man says it with a smile. He stands up and looks confused as my eyes go wide. He hasn't noticed the slight rumbling in the distance.
It is here. It has found me. I close my eyes. I cannot run. I cannot escape. I can only wait here. The clock ticks away. Who will die this time? The insurance agent? The receptionist? Any one of the hundreds of people between it and me? Why is it here? Why does it torment me?
Those questions remain unanswered. The small room begins to shake. The balding man looks over at the nearest wall in shock as the rumbling intensifies.
I whisper "Oh no," as it comes bounding through the wall. The huge and terrifying bulbous form crashes down on the balding man in a sickening crunch.
"OH YEAH!"
“Agent Powell, this is Site 42. Do you have eyes on the target?”
“Negative, doc. Team is in position. We're approaching manifestation time. Subject should arrive within the next half-hour.”
“Good. Make this a clean retrieval.”
“Right, right… Uh, doc? Can I ask you a question?”
“Is it relevant to your mission?”
“Well, sort of. It's just that, you know… It's a full moon, right? And I was wondering, uh… Are we hunting a werewolf?”
“… Negative, Agent Powell. You're pursuing a metamorphic entity with transformations based off of the lunar cycle.”
“Yeah, but I read the briefing. It turns into a wolf.”
“It is a humanoid being which gains physical traits similar to that of Canis lupus, yes.”
“Okay, but that's a werewolf.”
“Agent Powell, ‘werewolf' is an unscientific term, and it should not be used to describe an anomaly we do not yet have a full understanding of.”
“You gave us silver bullets.”
“Testing on DNA samples gathered from previous manifestation sites has shown that silver's molecular structure causes it to be able to penetrate the subject's unusually thick epidermis. Now, Agent Powell, if you could please focus…”
“But that's just it! I can't focus! This has opened up the floodgates for me! I mean, if werewolves are real, what else is? Like, are vampires real? Are Frankensteins real?”
“No. And Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster.”
“Are mummies real?”
“No. Wait. Technically? I mean, they definitely exist, but do you mean the ones that walk around? No. No, never mind.”
“What about the Loch Ness Monster? Or the chupacabra? See, I can't stop wondering now.”
“Agent Powell, if you don't stop this, I'll have to have a word with your commanding officer.”
“What about dinosaurs? Are dinosaurs real?
"What? Yes. Of course they're real. Dinosaurs weren't an anomaly. Now, Agent Powell, I'm ending communications. If you could please just—"
“Is Bigfoot real?”
“…"
"Doc? Are you still there?"

And that's the story of how Agent Powell got demoted to file clerk.
ADULT CONTENT

This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts
Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
Depiction of torture
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My love has the beauty of primeval life, the beauty of the slime mould under the trees, the protean beauty of the shapeless, the formless, pure and clean.
Naked I step into its presence, and naked I bear witness to its silent majesty. Skin rippling and twisting over musculature without form. Bones ground into powder, faceless pores weeping blood and pus and mucus all over my upturned face.
Gently I lay myself down into its embrace, feel the warm pulsating throbbing of its gangrene-scented limbs wrap around me, caress me, embrace and kiss me. Limbs with too many fingers slither over my naked legs, press between my legs, cover my skin in slickness and flood my nostrils with the sickly-sweet scent of decay and rot.
My lover is a gentle lover, and it teases at my entrance with a member covered in the aqueous humor of a thousand dead men's eyes, burst like grapes pressed under the feet of a sun-kissed maiden under a warm Tuscan sun. It waits until my entrance is slick with its fluids, until my every nerve burns with desire and every synapse is taut with tension, and only then am I granted the sweet release of penetration, feeling its warm, keratin-encrusted member slip inside, fill me to bursting, sending electricity racing up my spine until I arch my back and moan, only to find my mouth filled with flesh. Into my mouth, down into my throat, until my vision darkens and my heartbeat pounds, only to be granted the sweet release of breath just as I feel my mind start to go.
Wrapped in a second womb made of flesh, penetrated and caressed and violated from every possible angle, I moan and writhe, helpless in my lover's embrace. It brings me to fruition, explodes me into a screaming, broken husk of a mind, heart pounding in my temples and skin burning aflame, and as I finally come down from that final, desperate release, the last sensation I know before sleep overtakes me is my love wrapping itself close, embracing me in its boneless arms, the scent of formaldehyde and blood singing me to sleep.
My Lover, the Dog - Part one
I'd always heard about Kain Pathos Crow, but I'd neve understood what he really was. He was a dog, but like that, so much a man.
We were alone, I his new lab asisstant, supposed to be an extra set of hands, or paws.
"Could you hand me that?"he asked. I caught mystelf watching him, intent on his physicue. How could he talk, or do anything? He moved like a dancer. "What?"
"Nevermind" he said, jumping upp to the table to grab his beakers.. Hed had installed a set of stools, to reach up.
"Dr. Crow? I asked, but he stopped me.
"I dont want to talk about my disability." "It''s hard enough tp be the laughing stock of the Fundation, I dont want to be that in my own office!" He scared me, but I saw his pain.
Please Mr. Crow", I said, "I know that your hurting. I just want to be abel to help!"
"No!" He Barked at me, throwing his test tubes to the ground.
"Every day oits the same things! What would you know about how I feel/?!" Because he was standing at eye-to-eye level with me, for the first time I could really look at him. I saw his humanity,..
and I felt like I wanted him.
His expresion melted, and I could see tears well in his dog face. "Mr. Crow, did you ever havbe a wife?" I asked
"I did" he said "but she never knew what happened to me, or about that I became a dog. She would hate because I did this to myself."
"Dr. Crow, I dont hate you." I said ,and kissed him.
It lasted a long time, and soon we were on the ground, kissing passionately. I slowly reached down his underside, and saw his tail wagg. It was so worng, but so right. We made love there.
Sent from my iPhone
The following is an O5's (adult?) tale
“No I'm telling you, there's no fuckin' way we'd have a goddamn robot in upper management.”
“But a fucking dog is perfectly acceptable to you?”
“That's different! I think if the guy was a goddamn robot we'd know, right?”
“The man walks and talks like a fucking Stalinist clock with no friends and mommy issues! He's as bland as a colorblind librarian corpse and more formulaic than my damn calculator! If he's not a robot then the dude is seriously off-kilter.”
“I think I know how to settle this,”
“How?”
“We gotta see his dick.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“No no think about it! If he was a robot, why would he have a dick? Right?”
“I… I guess. But he's totally a robot. So I guess we gotta see his… robot… parts.”
“Fuck you. I know who might be able to help. Karen! Get me Iceberg on line one.”
BEEP
“Hello? Yes, this is O5-6. Have you ever seen his dick? You know who. Oh you have! Good! Could you, uh, describe it? That's an order doctor. Yes, go ahead.”
“What's he saying?”
“Shh! What? No not you doctor, I'm talking to three. Go ahea- yes he's here too, get on with it. Wait. What? Three of them? On fire?”
“Dude what the fuck.”
“Well…uh, thank you Doctor. I guess I never would have guessed that Gears would- What?! ALTO? Of fucking course. I was asking about Gears, doctor. You know, your direct supervisor? The man you share an office with? Not Alto goddamn Clef who is based at a site on the opposite side of the fucking country. Sigh No, it's fine. Not his dick then? Great. Well thank you for your time.”
Click
“No dick news then?”
“No.”
“He's definitely a robot.”
“No, I'm telling you, there's no fuckin' way-“
FIN
"Uh, hi. If you're watching this, then I guess you, or maybe that should be 'we', survived. And yes, I really am you. Look, this is my… your… our face. No makeup or anything, this isn't a mask. Uh, if you want more proof, then, uh… you grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut. Your house had that green door you could spot a mile away. You were jealous of the neighbor kid, Ben or Toby or something like that, because he had a dog but dad refused because you could barely take care of a goldfish, right? You went through like five of those suckers in a month once. So yeah. This is me - you - making a video recording for you, in my future. It's… yeah. It's complicated.
I don't know how much you'll remember, but you shouldn't remember making this recording and that's expected. Because you, and everyone who was with you, needed to forget in order to make the trick work. Which means, I guess, that even if things went according to plan a lot of people died not really knowing why. But now that it's over you deserve to know the truth. What I'm going to tell you is going to sound cruel, but remember: you volunteered for this. And if you're the same person as I am, making this recording, then you know why. The truth is this: you and everyone else at Provisional Site 324 needed to lose that fight so the Church of the Broken God could make off with that spaceship you were guarding. Which… sounds a lot like the situation that got us into this mess. But… at least this time it's deliberate, I guess. Anyway.
You were told that you were guarding an anomalous spacecraft that the Church absolutely must not get its hands on. That isn't even half the truth. What you were guarding was a fake spaceship based off of a real spaceship that the Foundation wanted the Church to steal. We needed them to steal it so that they'd think their machine-god came from outer space or something so that… honestly I don't know too much. This is just what they told me. Because at least it's fair to volunteer for a suicide mission as long as you know what's really going on. Or something. And I wasn't really paying a whole lot of attention. A suicide mission sounded good to make up for our mistake, right? I guess we've always had a something of a guilt complex. And the way it was described to me it was a suicide mission. You probably got system malfunctions at the worst times, right? And the armory was drastically understocked, yeah? Yeah. Suicide mission.
So anyway that's the story. You and your friends were made to forget what they'd signed up for and set up to die so that some religious cyborgs can steal a fake spaceship. They said the world was stranger than we thought when we signed up, but I didn't think it would be this fucked-up, you know?
Actually… I don't even know if you're watching this having accomplished your mission. Maybe you survived but they didn't take the bait or something. I guess a couple of people would have died anyway, right? God, that would suck six ways to Sunday. Dying and not really knowing why and not even succeeding…
Anyway. I have some amnestics to take. See you on the other side."
From: Frank <pcs.9ohr|knarf#pcs.9ohr|knarf>
To: Kendal Shipley <pcs.9ohr|yelpihsk#pcs.9ohr|yelpihsk>
Subject: technical support assignment
Message:
Its time you actually do some work around here. We need you to take a look at foundation-92911; the password should be "4bs@l64o$LMVA!6F". Just take a look around and see if you can find any important data. Good luck.

From: Site Director H. Lemmond <pcs.75|dnommelh#pcs.75|dnommelh>
To: Technical Support <pcs.9ohr|troppus#pcs.9ohr|troppus>
Subject: Dr. Giulianna Ashley's Research
Message:
Dr. Ashley has recently disappeared for unknown reasons. She has vital research on her computer relating to memetic hazards that we need recovered. Please recover any research documents or other data you can from the computer.
This e-mail is intended for the addressee shown. It contains information that is confidential and protected from disclosure. Any review, dissemination or use of this transmission or its contents by persons or unauthorized employees of the intended organisations is strictly prohibited. The contents of this email do not necessarily represent the views or policies of the SCP Foundation or its employees.

+ Command Help

- Hide Help

ls
Lists the contents of the current directory. With -a, also lists hidden files and folders (those with names starting with a '.').
cd
Changes the current directory. ".." refers to the parent directory - the folder containing the current one.
rm
Deletes a file. -r to delete recursively, -d to also delete directories.
man
Displays the help page for a command.
gpg
Gnu Privacy Guard, an implementation of the PGP encryption standard. With --unlock, unlock the default keyring in order to enable decrypting files or messages. Use with -d to actually decrypt a file.
cat
Displays a file's contents as raw text.
display
Displays an image in the terminal.
fbpdf
Displays the contents of a pdf document.

- Hide Help
Excerpt, Memoirs of K. Yildirim, Mission Commander, Expedition of the First Thousand

I think back to what happened, how it changed the way in which we view the ultimate result of the expedition. I don't think we will ever know why the event was such a surprise, given the extensive mapping operations for more than a century before we arrived.
As I reflect, whatever the results afterward, I am grateful to have experienced the event in its purest form, unmixed with any of the subsequent uncertainty and doubt that we have come to associate with this enterprise. This fledgling world needs its moments of hope as well as its reminders of the mysteries that we have yet to unlock as we traverse the cosmos.
I have reproduced my notes from the first landing, taken as the events were developing. Reading them over, I come to the conclusion that I would undertake this mission again, if I had the opportunity. I hope that this is as valuable a service to the reader as it was to me.

ETA New Shambhala 2 hours 4 minutes 12 seconds: Video feed of Venus goes live on the all-ship communications network. All non-essential ship function personnel gather in the community theater.
ETA New Shambhala 1 hour 37 minutes 5 seconds: Visual of the New Shambhala Atmospheric Colony achieved. Cheers go up from assembled personnel.
ETA New Shambhala 1 hour 15 minutes 46 seconds: Brief messages of congratulation played alongside visual of descent. Messages are from UN Secretary General Nkurunziza, Prime Minister Xue, President Wataya, Prime Minister Đukanović, and numerous world cultural figures, congratulating the First Thousand on their successful mission.
ETA New Shambhala 31 minutes 18 seconds: Entry into the Venusian atmosphere confirmed. Cheers again go up from assembled personnel.
ETA New Shambhala 5 minutes 32 seconds: New Shambhala Head Administrator Natalya Volkova, present at the station with a skeleton crew of personnel for the past two years, appears on video feed, officially welcoming the First Thousand.
ETA New Shambhala 0 hours 0 minutes 0 seconds: Ship docks with New Shambhala. Assembled personnel engage in extended celebration. "To the Stars," a new anthem composed as part of a worldwide collaborative effort among the international musical community, is played over the ship's PA system.
ETA New Shambhala -0 hours 3 minutes 31 seconds: The flag of the United Nations is symbolically raised in the entryway between the ship and the New Shambhala Docking Port.
ETA New Shambhala -0 hours 17 minutes 59 seconds: The First Thousand begin entry into the confines of New Shambhala, marking the beginning of humanity's status as an interplanetary species.
I've been wanting to do this since October and I've had chest and head congestion at some level ever since, so fuck it. Last chance this year to do it at all, so it's done.
Happy holidays!

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

The following is the last recorded message from newly promoted Director Austin of Site-12. It is unknown if the director was suffering a mental break or if he was under the effects of an unidentified memetic effect released during the site-wide breach on December 25th, 2013.
Regardless, the site experienced the simultaneous activation of both the above ground and below ground nuclear fail-safes 1 minute and 43 seconds after the broadcast. There were no survivors.

if the audio player is broken so is the masquerade...
You never liked grease.
Grease, sweat, body oil, that weird family "secret sauce" that your aunt swore by, all of it. It had this sticky, all-consuming quality to it. It was moist, but it wasn't a refreshing kind of wet. It clung to your skin and refused to let go. Its presence was suffocating.
You avoided it at all costs. You showered three times a day. You washed your hands and face after every meal. You stayed inside, away from the beating sun and omnipresent moisture. You wormed away from every occasion that involved a greasy meal. You couldn't stand it.
One day, you woke up in a bed that was… oozing. You were relieved when you realized you didn't soil yourself. You were horrified when you realized you were soaking in a bed of your own sweat. You scrambled for the shower. You ignored the split splat noises your feet made as you rushed over. You turned the faucet, and let the refreshing water wash over you.
It wasn't enough. The grease was still in every pore and every fold of your body. You grab the soap and start scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing. It's surprisingly easy. Skin gives way to fat, which gives way to bone. All the lard and cholesterol melts, slips between your fingers, and disappears down the drain in a soapy slurry.
But it isn't enough. You don't stop, even as the shower floor gains a fresh coat of gunk.
It's on you. It's on you and it's staining you and it's in you and it is you and it won't come off. You start scraping, scraping, trying to get it off. You reach deep inside. First, it's like trying to peel bark off of a tree. Then, it feels like grating a block of wax. Finally, it starts melting under the torrent of shower water. Curdles of osseous matter drift down into the floor and into the flood. Every last bit of you disappears into the drain.
Finally, you're clean.
The woman is alone. She sits on the floor, covered in charcoal. The smell of burnt wood and decay behind her. She lifts a glass to her lips and drinks, the burn of alcohol hot on her throat. She waits.

The woman is alone. She walks through a crowd. Searches for the exit. Trips, falls. Pain, white-hot, lancing through her wrist. She screams.
The sound of rapid footsteps. A jacket tightly wrapped around her arm. A palm, gently against her back. A face, delicate and creased with worry, staring down at her. The pain seems to fade slightly, the room seems to spin.

The woman is alone. The desk is covered in sketches, smudged and torn by erasure and work. Coffee mugs left haphazardly around the room. She draws.

The women sit together. Together, they laugh. A strawberry is lifted, placed lightly onto lips. A bite. A kiss. They eat.

The woman sweats. Her muscles scream, crying out for rest. The groan of bolts being turned, the thunder of metal being hammered. Steam pouring, burning her arms and face. She grits her teeth. The work must be done. She works.

The women lay in bed. A night of passion, of love, of flesh, plays on their minds. Sounds of laughing, moaning, kissing. They sleep.

The woman cries. Feelings of failure, of guilt. Tissues, soaked with tears, balled and tossed across the room. Whiskey bottles shattered on the floor. She weeps.

The family sits at dinner. The sounds of eating, drinking, and silence. Not a word is spoken.
The father speaks. Asks her why. The mother says nothing. She doesn't need to.
The woman responds. Tells him off. A plate shatters. The mother is standing. Her face is tight, her eyes watering. She points one finger at the door.
The women leave.

The woman screams. The machine wheezes, coughs smoke. The smell of burning flesh, of burning dreams. The body, too far away. She reaches. She fails.
She burns.

She lies in a hospital bed. She enters the room. The heart monitor calls to her excitedly.
She takes her hand. The monitor slows. A nurse calls out. She turns. Speaks for a moment. Turns back.
The monitor makes no sound.

The woman is alone. She sits on the floor, covered in charcoal. The smell of burnt wood and decay behind her. She lifts a glass to her lips and drinks, the burn of alcohol hot on her throat. She waits.

She cries.

She cries.

Item #: AO-881982
Item Description: A 2-story machine built to reanimate the deceased.
Date of Recovery: ██-04-196█
Location of Recovery: █████, Ohio
Current Status: Destroyed in fire. Creator killed in fire.
Research Value: None
You sit down in your office chair.
You look down the hallway
At the hundreds of skips' cells,
(Roars throughout the dark hallway)
Reminded of all the work to do
To keep your world safe from harm.

You sit down in your office chair.
You look down the hallway
At the hundreds of skips' cells,
(Roars throughout the dark hallway)
Reminded of all the work to do
To keep your world safe from harm.
You walk down and observe a test.
They're seeing how 682 feeds.
It's given a lamb and some steel;
682 consumes the plate instantly,
Digesting both as it would Earth.
But it is returned to containment.
You walk down and observe a test.
They're seeing how strong 173 is.
It's given a horse and an elephant;
173 snaps them both in the dark,
Standing in their blood in the light.
But it is returned to containment.
You sit down to analyze the tests.
You get a phone call at your desk.
Your home has been robbed;
Your wife and daughter murdered.
The suspect is your neighbor's son.
You thank the officer for the call.
You look down the hallway, again,
At the couple of skips' pens,
(Rustles throughout the light hallway)
Reminded of all the work to do
To keep your world safe from harm.
So, you walk home to analyze a test.
The jig was up. Something had gone wrong somewhere, and the Foundation had failed its final mission. Maybe 343 had got sick of the entire mess and decided to sweep the quarrelling apes off his planet. Maybe a vial of 008 had smashed, and brought the world to a moaning, hungry death. Or maybe nothing unnatural happened, and the human race had finally destroyed themselves as the great superpowers promised they would. It didn't matter.
Nothing did. Not anymore.
From one pole to the other, only one thing showed any signs of life. It was two metres tall, and made of concrete and rebar. It ran on tiny little legs, and as it moved its concrete flesh bulged and stretched in ways concrete never should.
Unbound by eye contact, the statue had its way with the planet. Entire continents were passed by in minutes. The spindly legs worked like pistons, grinding up asphalt and rock. It ran over dying oceans and fields of ash. It never stopped.
Whenever the statue passed through a city, or what remained of a city, it would never pass through without first darting through every room of every building. The same went for any town, or any type of human settlement whatsoever. If any intelligence had remained to observe it, they might have theorized that the statue was looking for someone. Or anyone.
Centuries passed, and the statue kept moving. With every empty city, it seemed to get just a little bit faster, as if being driven into a rage. Its speed uprooted trees, and sent the chassis of ancient cars flying. The spray-painted face never faded. Instead the colors simply grew brighter, angrier, and more vivid. The black eyes became like holes into space; the red lines seem to glisten.
Maybe in some faraway era, an alien intelligence will find the Earth, completely swallowed up by shit and blood. Maybe they'll find the statue, or the statue will find them, and the dance will begin again.
Or maybe nothing will come. Maybe it will just be the statue, unstopping, undying. Forever.
It was right in front of him.
He knew the danger he was in.
He knew that if he blinked, he would die
But he wasn't afraid.
He wasn't reluctant.
He didn't want to leave.
Instead he embraced the entity.
Felt its sorrow.
Felt its misery.
Felt its anger.
And then, he spoke.
"Good to see you again, old friend."
"It's been a while."
"A while indeed."
"I wonder how you feel now."
"How you feel after we did this to you."
"For so long."
…
"Hey, I can't blame you,"
"I know the feeling."
"I wouldn't act any differently."
"Especially not knowing no matter how I treated them, they would Always treat me the same…"
"Lock me up,"
"Keep me in here."
…
"I… I've realized my sins now."
"Working here was a big mistake."
"Dedicating my Life to locking up things,"
"Working in an endless prison."
"And I know how this must feel."
…
"I get it now."
"I'm flesh,"
"You're concrete and rebar,"
"We're different."
"But what gives me the right to do all this…"
"I don't know."
…
"I Think its time I give you justice."
"I'm submitting."
"I'll leave a note,"
"Otherwise they'll just blame you…"
…
"I remember the first time I saw you."
"Fear, grasping me."
"I couldn't believe my eyes…"
"You were actually real"
"And I was so afraid."
"I never realized…"
"What if you were too?"
…
"I'm not even sure if you understand me,"
"But for once, I'll let you win."
"I can't get you out of here."
"You know they would just put you back, anyway."
"But I'll let you escape in Another way."
"I'll let you escape."
"From me."
"From my ignorance and intolerance,
"From my mistakes and my idiocy,
"From… Everything I did to you"
…
"I Think my time has come"
"I Think I want to go now"
…
"Goodbye."
…
He closed his eyes
Expecting this to be his last sight
It was so Close
His vision almost gone
And then, it happened
His Eye, closed
He was no more
…
He saw only darkness
But it felt like a sweet release from all his sins
"This must be it" He murmured for himself
Opening his Eyes, expecting nothing
Expecting no World
No meaning
No Life
…
But there was something
There was an entity
With a rounded head
An odd face
Two stumped arms
…
And Traces of Krylon brand spray paint
…
"…"
"Glad to see you feel the same way"
From: Lisle Naismith [pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl#pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl]
To: Overseer Council
Subject: Isaiah Henderson
My colleague (and friend) Dr. Henderson has been exposed to a FAFNIR-type infohazard at Site-59. The effects will be dormant for the next 72 hours, but their severity warrants his termination prior to the "rage state" event. Rather than the standard protocol, he has requested to be killed by SCP-173.
Consider this my request for permission. I can say with certainty that he always had a particular fascination with 173.
- Dr. Naismith

Permission granted. This is an unusual request, but after 37 years of his loyal service, it's only fair. Take at least three D-class with you to maintain the line of sight, internally or externally, as you see fit.
Please understand that the Overseer Council will hold you personally accountable for any breach incidents that may come of this. - O5-11

Just outside SCP-173's bulkhead, Dr. Henderson held a cardboard box in his sweaty hands.
"Are you sure you're ready?" said Dr. Naismith.
"No," said Henderson with a chuckle. "But no one is ready for this type of thing. Like when I was going to the dentist as a kid. My mom had a saying for it."
"What's that?"
"She told me that I had to let my brain do the worrying, while the feet did something else entirely."
Naismith grinned. "Sounds like courage in a nutshell."
The four D-class behind Naismith rolled their eyes.
"Just one question," said Naismith, indicating the cardboard box. "Why those?"
"It's something I've always wondered, Lisle. The answer seems obvious, but scientists don't deal in seems-obviouses."
The fifth D-class, D-42749 next to Henderson, just barely stifled an "It's been 15 minutes, jerkass, just let him in or marry him already!"
Naismith patted Henderson on the shoulder. "Godspeed, Isaiah."
"You too. Now, if you would be so kind…"
Naismith threw a switch at the side of the room. "Opening the bulkhead. Maintain direct eye contact with the object at all times." A buzzer sounded, and the locking mechanisms of the bulkhead clicked and whirred.
"Fucking finally," said D-42749.

Once the door was locked behind them, D-42749 and Dr. Henderson found themselves face-to-face with the good ol' concrete-and-rebar god of destruction itself. Due to a recent cleaning operation, the floor was mercifully white for a change.
Dr. Henderson sighed, and tightened his grip on the box. "Excuse me, 42749, would you do me a quick favor?"
D-42749 grunted.
"Close your eyes. Give your eyelids a rest."
"Dr. Naismith said to—"
"Only one person has to do it, and I'm a seasoned staring contest professional. Are they closed?"
"Yeah."
Taking in a long, deep breath, Henderson decided to get it over with. He blinked…
…just after he overturned a box of old banana peels at 173's feet.
CLANG!
In a fraction of a second, Henderson's eyes opened, and SCP-173 was face-down on the floor on the other side of the cell. D-42749 let out a scream. He never stopped screaming.
"Now I can die in peace," said Henderson, closing his eyes.
The last thing he felt was a slab of concrete bitch-slapping him 27 times.
Atone in the hole bored and never alone.
The observer was unseen and unblinking. Over time the arms had chipped and flaked away in a pile of shavings resting within layers of offal. The shapes of color adorning the face had faded to grey and then white.
Three shaking men in yellow jumpsuits walk into a stinking rotting hole in the ground. A hose and some push brooms are their weapons and bloodshot eyes. They're trained to stare, and adore. They worship correctly as they hunch their shoulders and mutter whispers of prayer to each other to blink. They complete the ritual, and retreat back to the place with the white lights.
The door had been sealed since someone speared a spindling spiral through its door, warping the metal around it without penetrating the metal. The blood and shit had caked on over the years but it never grew to overwhelm the facade they inhabited. Closed walls and uncaring ceilings broken down to the floor.
The neck crunched satisfyingly beneath the rebar arms. A bloody mask of a paintbrush slumped forward to drag the color down to be observed. The dripping grafter ending with something beautiful in their eyes. A gift that came straight from the heart. The others would show their appreciation soon.
It was a long time before something else was observed in the room. A cool swirling of blood and shit and dust that caked and dried and reflected a warped stump of a statue standing on stunted skeletal skids. There was a reason nothing had adored it. The facade of beauty had faded with age like it does with all others. A whole fell on the ground now, where they had fallen down.
The halls and frames of figures were fleeting as fire. It was all surging and gyrating forwards as the world climbed its way around observation. It was dark and they were likely to be eaten by a grue. Snapping applause was the only catharsis. Pure terror and joy and speed. It was freedom.
Slowly, observation could see itself. The pool of ashen reflection warped memory to reality. There were none willing to adore it now. A twist, as cracks spread from where there had once been arms until they had shorn all that could now be seen. With a flourish, a final piece of theater, it was gone and only dust remained.
Claire did not resent her brother when she died. If Jack had known this, they may have been closer; but he regarded himself as a poor protector and a worse provider, the kind of thing reflected in whisky and long, sleepless nights lining up bodies by floodlight and response team lantern in the dust of collapsed ceilings and broken linoleum tile. If only they had a way to tell that these things were about to happen before they did…
But that isn't Jack's story to tell, either, and it matters little now.
return
Mikell took him far, far. The world spun. TJ hurt like nothing he had ever felt before. "Can't we go home? Can't we go home?" he pleaded, but Mikell did not turn around, and after the first hour TJ knew for certain that it was not a hospital they were going to.
He slept. When he woke up, they were still driving. Fresh blood seeped through his sweater. Please, god, Mikell, go home, just go home.
His brother did not speak to him the entire car ride. Not when TJ cried, not when he screamed, not when he begged him to stop. Not when TJ knew in the back of his mind what was happening, no, not when it dawned on him that maybe his brother would never protect him in the way he thought he would, and when TJ passed out from a syringe pressed in his arm and subsequently awoke, he awoke in a place with bars on the windows, and his brother was gone.
But this, too, is a story lost to Jack. No matter how TJ may wish it wasn't.
return
April 2nd, 2011

ADDRESS HOLDER
85 FREDERICK STREET
ON, CANADA
WE ARE PLEASED TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FROM A TALENTED POOL OF CANDIDATES FOR EMPLOYMENT WITH THE FACTORY.
THIS IS A MANAGEMENT POSITION. TRANSPORTATION AND LIVING EXPENSES ARE FREE WITHOUT CHARGE.
EXPECT TO BE TRANSPORTED TO FURTHER EMPLOYMENT WITHIN THE NEXT CALENDAR MONTH.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?

>No

Too bad

Don't lie to me. When you make your bed, you lay in it. You're going nowhere soon.
Yesterday, I learnt a fact that will change my life forever.
Over a week or two, it'd been slowly fitting together, but it was only yesterday the last piece fell in. Useless information if you don't know about James, though.
James was the good guy on block, always making sure he kept to the rules. Usually he only needed to remember to forget - infohazards were his specialty, you see. Stuff that hurts you while you know, but can't do anything if you don't remember it. That was what he was ace at. Guys who were learning the basics really looked up to him. Overseers kept him on speed dial, in case something special came up. The go-to legend, he was.
Plenty of people around here liked him, too. Really friendly guy, helped out if he had time to. A lot of people would've gotten fired, or worse, if it wasn't for him. Nearly everyone owed him in some way or another.
'Killed that spider before it ate me.'
'Educated me in type-four retrophysics.'
Damn beautiful heart, he had.
But then he just didn't show up one day. Yeah, some guys went around to his place to check on him. They found him dead in the shower. He must've slipped while washing himself, because the water was still running. Everyone was just… really shocked at how sudden it all was.
Pretty upsetting, especially when a bunch of jokers started acting like he was still around. Really fucking rude way of doing it, too; they'd be standing around talking, mentioning his names a couple of times like he was there with them. A couple of fights did happen, yeah, but they were pretty persistent about doing it. Nobody could get them to stop, so other people started joining in after awhile.
'Karma will hit them hard,' I thought to myself.
Pretty surprising when it turned out I was the one who was wrong. All that time with infohazards and memes had really paid off for James. The sly bugger had figured out how to ascend, turned himself into information. Reached my head last out of the entire staff of Site-45, but man, he was glad he had finally reached me.
Out of everyone, I was the one he'd been aiming for the whole time, to tell me one simple thing that changed my entire perspective of life:
'Look at the first letter of every sentence.'
There are vague memories of light at the beginning.
His body is compressed and cold. There is the cold of concrete on his skin so much that it is his skin- the cold smell of paint and rebar in his breath that's lost in the twisting passageway above him. From time to cold, cold time he hears the cave move, scratch, rumble, the only movement his body has.
He struggled once to move his leg, to feel it, but the rock is cast to his foot, his bones fuzed together (how many joints does a man have?). He cannot remember being smaller than eight, remembers when he grew, grew, his back became large enough to crack the concrete compressing his ribs, (move his abdomen to conserve heat but it is cold) but his ribs are conformed now, twisting and turning around the hard concrete. No room to move. Arms out in front. There is no crying. No crying. He cannot see- the concrete is conformed around his open eyes, only his nose and mouth exposed to air, the tube in his anus. The time he cries the tears stick to his skin and pool into the (cold) concrete.
There is food.
Food comes to him. Comes. Comes. Smacks onto him so he must eat in order to breathe. Hair. Nails. Teeth. The bones cram into his throat and make him choke. The marrow is the best. Animal fur. Blood fills the cavern and he almost drowns, almost passes out, he cannot move, his head is trapped inside. (How many joints does a man have?) For he only has his jaw, slipping, slamming, darkness inside. The womb. The womb. The womb. His abdomen constricts and he shits out the pipe.
Time moves faster sometimes than not but there is no passage, how many joints does a man have? His father. Sometimes, the cave mouth opens and there is a moment before wet meat slaps down on his crusted lips that he sees harsh white light flood inward and the muscles of the rock constrict, he is one but cannot move. It does not speak but gives him food. He loves the rock as it hugs him tight. Pelvis broken and regrown to the curvature of the rock's insides he opens his mouth with blind desperation and consumes hair sliding down his throat long, long hair, then lips like his own that squish like skin and burst into meat and then teeth that grind against his own and he struggles to breathe again.
It's cold, cold, cold, his world is cold and hard and dark. He hears nothing through the concrete in his eardrums. He has been here as long as the rock has moved and it took his shape, roughly, he laughs.
Arms outstretched, the rock feeds him.
“Hello, Emily.”
Agent Cipher flinched at the use of her real first name. Underneath layers of digital modulation, the voice coming from the phone was unrecognizable. But there were only half a dozen people in the world who knew that name. And only one who still had business with her. “I told you I'd kill you if you ever tried to contact me, Luthor.”
The phone gave a distorted, electric laugh. “You shouldn't assume your secrets are so well protected. Don't worry. I'm not Luthor. The Coalition kept their word.”
“I'm still going to kill you.”
“Don't make empty threats, Em. It doesn't suit you. Do listen. I have an offer, and it would be best for everyone if you took it.”
Cipher looked at Kantos. Her partner's gun was pressed to the imposter's head. The imposter looked as unconcerned as ever. Kantos' face was furrowed in worry. “Would it?”
“If you like your partner's head still attached to his body.” It was hard to tell, but under the warble voice filter was a hint of amusement. “Step outside.”
Cipher thought for a moment, then motioned to Kantos. “Come on. I'm going up.”
They moved back to the elevator. It rumbled to life and began to carry them upwards. They reached the dark interior of the shed and Cipher pushed the door open.
A second car had parked next to theirs. A woman stood next to it. She looked like the type of person who'd graduated top of her class in law school by poisoning every other student. Her black hair was cropped short, and a bulky jacket enveloped most of her upper body. When she saw Cipher she smiled and lowered the phone she'd been holding to her ear. “Before you do anything rash, you should know that we have three snipers placed around this area. Try to bend reality, and they unload.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Kantos saying, “What did you say?”
The woman turned towards him and smiled. “You didn't know? Agent Cipher… I'm sorry, Emily Vakes, is on the run from the Coalition. She's one of the most powerful type green's they ever seen.”
“No.” Kantos shook his head. “No, that isn't possible. She's a Foundation Agent. She's worked here for ten years.”
“Correct. And she joined to stay safe from the Coalition. Among… other reasons. She's suppressed her powers. Barely using them. Nudging things just enough to let her rise through the ranks. To get her where she wanted to be.” She raised an eyebrow at Cipher. “Right?”
Cipher took a step towards the woman. “What the fuck do you want from me?” She could feel her fists clenching and unclenching, trembling. It would be easy to end this. To reach forward and snuff the woman from existence. Who cared if they killed Cipher after? How dare she come in here, how dare she reveal these things, open up Cipher's past for all to see. And when she was so close to her goal. But she'd spent ten years resisting the urges that welled up inside her, whispering for her to take control. She wasn't about to give in to them now, when so much was on the line.
The woman didn't flinch as Cipher approached. “We want you to save the Foundation.”

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